Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Percy Jackson wakes up to the sounds of an unfamiliar ocean lapping against a gentle shore. 

If he keeps his eyes closed he can pretend it's the ocean he's lived next to his entire life. Good ol’ New York Harbor. But the facade doesn’t last long. There's a power pulsating underneath the current that Percy's never felt before. It's wild. Rageful. Visceral. 

It pulls him out of the last dregs of his slumber– calling out to him like a long lost friend. And, when the tide brushes against his bare feet and checkered pajama pants, it sends a jolt of power through him like lightning. Within a blink of an eye, he's standing up with sand crunching underneath his feet. 

What in Hades was that? 

Percy's always been stronger when he touches water, yeah. But never like this. Power pulsates through him, pushing and pulling like the tides. It's incredible. He flexes his hand and the water replied with enthusiasm.

This is new.

And the power is all too intoxicating. The energy buzzing under his skin almost makes him feel drunk. And trust Percy– he's been very drunk before. Most of the demigods at camp have. (Not Annabeth though, Wise Girl had always been a stickler for the rules.) One doesn't get a prophecy that they might die at sixteen, and not try a few underaged vices. 

It takes all of his willpower to draw back. He takes a few steps away from the water, further onto the beach. Even as he distances himself though, he can feel it calling out to him like a Siren's song, and whispering for him to dive into it, become it, love it .

(This is where you belong– where are you going little demigod– come here– you’ll be safe in my arms–) 

Percy shudders. 

He then takes a look around him. 

The sixteen-year-old notes the pristine beaches and the startling lack of pollution. Along the coast is a forest of trees, and in the distance are the shadowy shapes of stone structures rising from the leaves. 

This definitely isn't New York. 

Percy sighs and places his hand on his hips. He definitely remembers going to bed in his cabin last night. But, this isn't the first time he's woken up in a new place and halfway around the world. At least this time he still has his memories. Thanks again, Hera.

(There's a shiver in the air before him.)

Shoot, Annabeth is going to wake up to him missing again. 

His heart swoops at the thought. She's going to be so upset. It's been relatively a short amount of time since they've escaped Tarturus together and since then she– and admittedly, Percy too– has been a bit clingy. 

He had to get permission for Annabeth to sleep in his cabin. Since they both woke up from their nightmares (death, golden dust, blood–) screaming each other's names, it saved them both the trip of stumbling out of their respective cabins in the middle of the night just to check if the other is alive and breathing. It also saved Annabeth's cabinmates from being woken up at odd hours. 

When Percy had confided in Mr. D during a rare vulnerable moment at camp, the god of insanity had looked at him sadly with violet and golden swirling eyes. He had said that the night terrors were normal and would die away with time. 

That had been weeks ago. 

They persisted. 

Percy runs a hand through his hair and sighs as he stares at the buildings off in the distance. Well, there was no time to waste. 

There had to be a reason that he was sent here. If he's lucky maybe it would be something small? A small retrieval quest or something. 

He dismisses the small cynical laugh in the back of his mind that asks when has he ever been lucky?

He marches into the woods.  

Hopefully he'll be back home before the end of the week. 

Guards welcome Percy as he approaches the tall wooden, iron reinforced gates. And by welcome– he means they point spears at his throat. 

He knows that he should be more worried about the obvious sharp objects aimed towards his flesh, but he can’t help but take notice of the stark difference between their clothing.

They wear armor like in camp, but their under clothes are definitely not modern. They wore what looked to be chitons made from tan, rough fabric.  Meanwhile Percy is still in his checked pajama pants and a dark t-shirt designed with top-hat wearing fishes. 

He grimaces. 

“Halt there–the–attack,” One of the guards says in a mixture of slurred words that Percy doesn’t quite understand. But he can read in between the lines. It’s only when he speaks that he realizes that they’re both not speaking English. 

“I bring no harm,” Percy says, the Ancient Greek tasting sweet on his tongue. He raises his hands in the air in a placating manner. 

(From behind him, leagues away, he can still hear the ocean croon at him, beckoning and pulling at him to return.) 

The guards look at each other, expressions dropping from angry to resigned. They sigh at each other, not lowering their weapons, “ Greek.” 

Well, that’s just offensive. 

“What trickery is this?” One guard asks, switching to a version of Ancient Greek that Percy at least understands. They must have been speaking something else before. 

Quietly he wonders just where he has ended up. Even on the Sea of Monsters Circe had spoken a mixture between English and Ancient Greek. Here though, they speak it flawlessly. With their armor? It’s plain odd. 

“No trick,” Percy says. “Just lost.” 

The guard to the left barks out a sharp laugh. “You will have us believe that? A strangely dressed Greek coming to Troy claiming to be lost?” 

Wait a second– Troy. As in…Trojan? 

All the pieces click into place. Their armor. The language. The hostility in their voice towards Greeks. 

(A wisp of laughter echoes behind him, smelling like salt and waves. The sea beckons him again.) 

Oh no. 

There’s no way he’s gone back in time. That’s impossible, isn’t it? He’s never heard of that happening to any other demigod before. Wouldn’t this cause some sort of paradox? What if he steps on a butterfly– like in the stories Annabeth told him– and somehow wipes out the human race? 

Not for the first time, Percy wishes Annabeth was here. She’d probably be able to come up with a plan that wouldn’t completely disrupt the time stream. She’d keep him from stepping on any butterflies. 

But she isn’t here. 

And Percy has a spear aimed straight at his throat. 

He swallows. “It’s the truth. I’m a traveler from lands away, that is why I am dressed strangely. Yes, I am Greek from my father, but I am not from Greece.” 

“And where exactly is this land you hail from?” The guard on the right asks. 

“You wouldn’t know of it–” Percy tries. 

The guards scoff, and Percy’s stomach drops. “Any Greek would have stayed far away from Troy during the war. You cannot even lie–” 

“He’s telling the truth!” A voice speaks up behind him. 

( The ocean stops laughing behind him, falling quiet, before their pleas for him to return turn frantic in the peripherals of his thoughts. They are interrupted by the feeling of being plucked away from mind, like fingers trailing across the strings of a violin. )

A young guard makes his way to the front of the gates. He’s wearing the same clothing as them, but his armor is looser and is less used. He has brown curls and eyes that shimmered a sky blue. 

He turns to Percy, and something behind his eyes gleam with a feeling that Percy can’t place, but is all too familiar. 

The new guard’s mouth quickly flashes upwards before it drops. “You’re not from Greece?” He asks. Percy denies him, and the guard nods. “I’ll take him to see our leader–” 

“Hold it right there–!” “A Greek enter Troy–?” The two other guards object at once, their voices overlapping.  Their cries die out as the new guard shoots them a glare. 

“What are we if we can not handle one unarmed Greek?” The new guard asks, his brows furrowing. “Are we cowards enough to be scared of one man? Grab hold of your wits again, for it seems you have them go.” 

His words seem to hold power over the two as they stand up straighter with his words. Taller. Prouder. They nod at his commands. “We’re very sorry Lord Anatolius, we won’t let it happen again.” 

Percy feels his heartbeat quicken. (Anatolious– come on – really– a name meaning sunrise– it’s so obvious) 

The new guard– Anatolious– looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Follow me.” The demigod clearly hesitates, but the man snorts at his indecision. “Surely if you’re brave enough to walk up to Troy’s doorstep in the middle of a war, then you’re brave enough to follow one soldier. Come. I won’t let anything untoward happen to you until we see the commander.” 

The ‘what happens after that’ is noticeably unmentioned. 

Why did the fates have to drop him off here of all places? How was he supposed to know that he was basically waltzing up to Ancient Troy? This is just the first place he spotted–

Annabeth would have known. Or Nico. 

If they were here…Percy stops that train of thought as he enters the gates behind Anatolious. He can feel the guards' stares follow him until he’s out of sight. 

There’s no point in wondering what he would’ve done with his friends. He has to focus on his current situation. 

Which is apparently entering an ancient city. 

Anatolious takes him into a camp. Tents and makeshift buildings are propped up on the outer edges of the field surrounding the town. Up ahead Percy can make out more walls protecting the inner city. 

Dang. No wonder they had to trick their way inside with a wooden horse. These walls are impressive. 

( Both the pluckings of violins and the song of the ocean preen proudly in his mind.) 

As they trek through a winding dirt path, the brown haired guard curiously glances Percy's way every so often, his eyes flickering between him and the road. 

Percy grimaces. “If you want to ask me something, you can simply ask.” 

“Before…you said that your father is Greek,” An unspoken question lingers in the air. Percy nods. Some soldiers around them perk up and take notice of him as they walk by. 

“Yes. It’s no wonder they stopped me. I’ve been told I look just like him.” At his words, Anatolious jerks to a stop. He turns to him, his eyes searching his face before widening. 

Recognition flashes on his face.

“And your father–” He grimaces and his eyes glance back towards the gate they just entered, towards the beach. “Does he know you’re here?” 

A sea breeze brushes over them gently. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” He shrugs his shoulders, unaware if the meaning of the action is still conveyed in older times. Percy smiles, his teeth hinting at something sharp. “But I have a feeling he’ll find out.” 

( The ocean laughs and stops it’s pulling. The fingers plucking them away freeze, letting them go.) 

“That’s,” Anatolious breathes deeply through his nose, “ Interesting.”

“Yes, but don’t worry. You said nothing would happen to me on our way to the commander didn’t you?” Percy gestures in front of them, “Lead the way, Lord Anatolious.” His words emphasize the man’s name, letting his true knowledge slip.

They both know just who the other is. Who admits it first though is still a guess.

They continue their trek, but Anatolious draws back and walks beside him instead of in front of him like before, a hand grips his knife protectively. From the corner of his vision, Percy could almost swear he sees the man ’ s eyes flash a swirling gold. 

Men lounging around the camp stop what they are doing as they come closer. A few up ahead stop sharpening their weapons and stand to step into their path. Anatolious slows, one hand reaching up to grip Percy’s shoulder, stopping him. If Percy didn't know better, he'd say Anatolious looks furious. He squeezes Percy’s shoulder reassuringly before he drops it. 

The sea breeze grows stronger through the trees and fields, rustling the leaves and grass. Storm clouds start to grow overhead in the distance. When they block out the sun, Anatolious's face visibly darkens. 

“What do we have here?” One asks, looking Percy up and down. A slimy feeling crawls over his skin, and Percy has to resist the urge to shudder. 

“Leave him alone, he’s with me.” Anatolious argues. His voice carries the power that Percy knows he has, but the men around them don't seem to hear the melodic undertones, the song notes that ring out between his voice. 

They don’t take the warning he so graciously gives him. 

For the first time, Percy wonders why Apollo has taken the form of a Trojan soldier. From what he remembers reading with Annabeth, the god hadn’t hid during the original war. Instead he had stood proud with his bow against Poseidon. He had lost the encounter– of course. But he hadn’t been hiding as a mortal.

However, he’s disguised himself as homeless Fred before, so it’s not really that far from the realm of belief. 

Anatolious confronts the other soldiers. “Do you have a problem with that?” 

“He’s obviously Greek–” A man spat onto the ground. Gross. “--What’s he doing here?” 

“That’s for the commander to decide,” And there he is again, mentioning a commander. Percy wonders who it is. Maybe another demigod? He hadn’t studied much of the Trojan side of the war. Not when the Greeks had won–

Wait a second. Percy freezes. He’s at Troy. The losing side. Was he going to die? He doesn’t remember any victors coming out from Troy. It had been ransacked and desecrated. 

Holy shit, Percy has to get out of here. And fast. He should have taken his chances with the ocean. 

( Not too late– little demigod– come back– it's safe here.) 

The storm clouds rumble overhead, the earth trembling so slightly that no one other than him or Anatolious notices.  

Earth–Shaker. Poseidon. 

(The ocean distantly shouts in glee.) 

‘ Father?’ Percy prays in his mind, being answered with a following rumble. Well, that complicates things more. Especially since this Posideon has no idea who he is. Will he know that Percy is his son at first glance? Or will Percy has to convince him? 

Hades, he hopes he doesn’t have to convince him. Percy can’t imagine a universe where Posideon looks at him and doesn’t claim him as his– 

Anatolious shifts his feet at the barely quaking ground, his eyes frantically shooting over to look at Percy. He’s takes a more vehement step in front of him, pulling out his knife. “I said that he’s with me! Out of the way.” 

“Why should we when can just take care of him now?” One tries to cajole. 

A few men grunt their agreement. They circle around him, predators overlooking their prey. Percy can see the bloodlust in their eyes. 

He pats his pockets and his heart sinks–

Riptide isn't there. 

(Not that it matters. These are mortals. Celestial bronze wouldn't hurt them.)

He still feels completely naked without his pen in his pocket. 

Anatolious looks between the men. “I promised I would grant him safety until he’s seen the commander. Have you all never been to war before? Are you all that green behind the ears? Don’t you know how much information a prisoner can have?” 

They snap out of their bloodlust. 

Anatolious mutters something underneath his breath about, “...no wonder we’re losing.” 

A second passes as the men think amongst themselves, then they step aside, allowing them space to pass. Anatolious grabs his arm and drags Percy between them, keeping him close. 

“So your father–”

“Definitely know’s I’m here, yeah.” 

“Excellent,” Anatoliou’s smile strains. His voice sounds like he thinks it’s anything but. 

Before they get any further into the camp, he’s dragged between two large tents, with crates and barrels of supplies blocking their view. Anatolious’s knife still remains in his hand. 

Even though it isn’t pointed at Percy, he takes the thinly veiled threat for what it is. 

“Why did you come here?” Apollo asks– and it is Apollo now. No hint of his mortal disguise remains. His eyes swirl with molten gold, his voice takes a melodic quality, and his hair shines a golden blonde. 

A part of Percy wants to reach out and poke it.

“You’re asking that now?” Percy questions as the storm continues to grow overhead. The sun is now completely blocked by thick gray clouds. 

The wind smells of salt and a promise. 

“I didn’t know you were Posideon’s kid!” Apollo strains. “What were you thinking? Walking into a Trojan camp?” 

“To be honest, I had no clue this was Troy of all places. It’s just where I washed up.” Apollo is the god of truth– there’s no way that Percy is going to try to lie his way out of this. He’s not that much of an idiot. Nor that good of an actor. 

“You said that at the gate,” Apollo pauses. His eyebrows furrow in contemplation. “That you washed up here.” 

Percy gives a bone-deep sigh. “Trust me, Lord Apollo, I am just as confused as you are.” 

“You know who I am,” Eyes blink and they’re a sky blue again. His head tilts, and Percy can’t help but think how similar he looks like his sacred animal. The mischievous glint in his eye is deceptively raven–like. Apollo takes a fluid step forward, tapping his own chin with the flat side of his knife. “Yet you truly didn’t know where you were. You are a very interesting creature.” 

There's a pause. Apollo then lets out a mirthful sound that’s a mix of a chirp and a laugh. “The fates sent you here!” 

That’s also what Percy thought, but he isn’t quite sure he likes the way that Apollo sounds pointing it out. 

“Why would they do that?” Percy asks. Apollo shakes his curls with a smile. 

“Don’t you see? We needed a warrior like you,” There’s a glow to Apollo’s eyes. Percy would take a step back, but there's no room. “I see it now. You’re the answer to our problems. The counterpart to Achilles. I see there are tinges of iron skin on you, little godling.”  

No. No. That isn’t possible. Percy frowns. His curse of Achilles had been washed away when he crossed into the Roman camp. 

Hera had said so. 

The sun god must have seen his disbelief, because he clicks his tongue in a bird like manner. 

“May I?” Apollo asks, cupping Percy’s hand in his. His touch is so warm that it almost burns. He brings his knife to the pad of his hand. Percy jerkily nods. 

The knife digs downward– 

–the earth shakes more than before, knocking over a crate. Voices shout in the distance–

–the tip of the blade glances off his skin. 

Percy stares at it in horror. Apollo’s grin sharpens. His hand sneaks down to encircle his wrist. 

“No, that’s–” The ground feels as if it were swallowing him. “That’s supposed to have gone away. It was gone! Why–?” His voice cuts off as he clicks his teeth shut. 

“The Greeks have always had an unfair advantage,” Apollo answers, still gently yet firmly holding Percy’s wrist as he slips his knife back into his sheath. Suddenly, the god’s glow is too blinding (too sun-like) to look at. Percy blinks and averts his eyes. “Balance is always restored in the end, the fates know this.” 

“That’s not how it’s supposed to go though,” Percy cries in abject sorrow. 

“How it is supposed to go?” Apollo laughs high and light. “Who are we to say what will be so when obviously the fates have decided?” 

“It just is,” Percy breathes sharply, heart pumping fast. Is this what a heart attack feels like? Because Percy is too young for a heart attack. 

“Have you’ve Seen?” Apollo asks, lips forming an ‘o’ shape. Then he shakes his head. “Nevermind that. We'll speak of it later.” Oh Hades, there's going to be a later. Percy is never leaving now. “You need to breathe now, little demigod.”

“I–” Percy chokes. 

( The ocean panics, it calls out to him faster than musical hands can pluck them away, though it tries.)

(Not safe out there little demigod– return here– please come back.)

“ You need to breathe,” Apollo stresses. His eyes worriedly flicker to the sky. “Come on now. In for five–”

Percy inhales.

“--Out for ten.” 

Percy exhales. They do that three more times until Percy finally has his breathing under control. The hand that isn't holding his wrist draws small circles on his shoulder comfortingly.

It takes a few seconds to realize that Apollo is speaking. 

“--it isn't everyday a god would help–” His voice comes in and out of focus. “--should smite you for not listening– honestly– pay attention!”

Percy snaps out of his stupor. The sun god scowls at him. Sky blue eyes roll in disbelief. “We're going to have to work on that.”

“No we’re not!” Percy gasps. “I didn't even mean to come here– I just washed up on the shore– I don't want to fight another war–” The words tumble one after another. Apollo's hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look at him. His eyes narrow. 

“The fates dropped you here. That means you’re ours. If they had wanted you with the Greeks that is where you would have awoken.” His eyes dilate, the pupil becoming round and full. “Don't try and fight me on this. You won't like the consequences.” 

“I won't–” Percy breath hitches. “I won't fight against my father. You can't make me.” Apollo raises an eyebrow. Percy doubles down. “I'll fall on my own sword before I fight family.”

There's no clap of thunder of a promise made to the River Styx, but it hangs in the air heavy all the same.

Apollo's grin is a dark, mocking thing. “You leave the talking to Uncle to me.” His head tilts. “I think we'll find we now have some …common ground. Now come along!” Apollo drags him back into the open, his mortal form rippling back over him. “We can't keep the commander waiting!” 

They arrive in the heart of the camp.

Not once during their walk over does Apollo let go of his wrist, despite the puzzled looks soldiers send them. His grip keeps firm even as they approach the largest tent, as if he were afraid Percy would make a break for it.

He's not wrong. Percy would. But that doesn't mean Percy has to like it.

Apollo opens the flap to the command tent and strides inside without missing a beat. It’s full of three men, but as soon as the door closes behind him, Apollo points at two of them. “You– and you– out!” 

“You’re not in a place to command us boy,” One of the larger men, with long dark black hair and a bushy beard says. Percy feels a hint of fear inside him at the tone of voice he takes. Does he have a death wish? Percy tries to step away from Apollo, but his grip is still firm.

He nervously glances at him. Apollo’s eyes shine, and this time Percy is sure it isn’t a trick of the light. 

“I wasn't asking,” Apollo sneers, voice lilting in a melodic tone. 

The change is immediate.  

The two men’s expressions melt into blankness, and they quickly bow their heads and leave the tent. The remaining man rolled his eyes at the display. He is a bulky and intimidating figure with hair as black as the night, and eyes that had a fire lit behind them. The air around him seemed charged.

( A bow being strung– a sword being drawn– the tidal waves drawing back  in preparation.) 

A burning starts to buzz under his skin. 

Percy would recognize him anywhere. “Lord Ares,” He breathes. 

Oh, so that is who the commander is. That’s worse than it being another demigod.  Shoot, shoot, shoot. Why did it have to be the one war god that hated him the most? He dips his head into a bow. 

Normally, Percy would greet the god by their favorite form of communication– flicking him the bird. But he doubts the god would understand the modern gesture for what it is, nor would it be appreciated if he did. 

The fact this is Ancient Greece starts to dawn on him.  These aren’t the gods he knows. This isn’t the war god that he faced at the age of twelve. This is one that is younger, more wild, and in the prime of his power. Someone who will not hesitate to smite him. 

Apollo squawks in offense beside him. 

“You recognized him immediately, yet you did not recognize me?” 

I did recognize you– Percy wants to say, but holds his tongue.

“Apollo,” Ares growls out in his gravely voice. He ignores Percy completely. Fine by him, really. The last thing Percy wants is another god's attention. “What is this?”

“ Who is this, you mean,” Apollo corrects, a mist runs over him as his mortal disguise disappears. Golden swirling eyes stare at him delightfully. “And he, brother mine, is the answer to our little demigod problem!” 

Ares stares at him distrustfully.

For once, Percy doesn't even blame him. He'd be suspicious too. A random person showing up in the middle of a war?

The earth shakes again. 

Are's eyes go wide. His form shifts. Tusks appear and disappear at the corners of his mouth in a second. He places a hand on the table to support himself. Little flags on the maps fall over.

The air charges again. 

( Arrow poised to fire, sword swinging in an arc, the waves cresting with foam) 

Fury wells up inside Percy like an overflowing river. He's felt this before, but he can't help the anger that bubbles up. The grip around his wrist is too suffocating– too tight. He starts to struggle. 

“Stop it Ares, he's going to hurt himself!” Apollo orders, drawing Percy close in a mockery of a hug. One arm encircles his back. It cages him in. Percy puts his free hand on the god's chest and pushes. 

“Apollo, what the fuck was that–?” Ares' eyes comically widen and focus on Percy. “Whose child…?”

A nervous laugh escapes Apollo as he keeps the struggling demigod in his arms. “Funny story that–” 

Rain pelts down against the tent.

Ares eyes flicker from Percy to the top of the tent. “You didn’t.” 

“We did!” Apollo has the absolute gall to cheer. Neither Percy nor Ares are enthused at his expression. The sun god’s face drops into a pout. “Oh come Ares, finders-keepers, now we have a mortal champion to face Achilles.” 

“ We,” Ares gestures a finger between the both of them, “Didn’t do anything. This is all you. Throw that thing back into the ocean where it belongs.” 

“Thing–?!” “Back to the ocean–?!” Percy and Apollo both protest at once. 

( Yes. Come back to me little demigod. Back here. Back home.) 

“He’s going to bring us nothing but trouble,” Are’s nose scrunches up distastefully. “I can already tell.” 

Again, Percy feels as if he should be offended. But he brings a valid point.

Since when had Ares been the responsible one? 

Apollo’s frown deepens as he hauls Percy up further into his arms like he was holding some type of disgruntled cat instead of a squirming teenager. His eyes narrow in a challenge. “He’s going to bring the Trojan army glory.” 

Ares scoffs, but Apollo presses on. “Look, they have a son of a sea deity with iron skin. We now have a son of a sea deity with iron skin! The fates wouldn’t have led him to us if he were not to be useful. We’re fighting a losing battle! Most of the soldiers can’t stand seconds against Achilles when he cannot be pierced. We’re sending soldiers to the slaughter. So if this little cousin of ours could even buy us some time… well. I think it’s worth a shot.”

“This brat has iron skin?” Ares blinks. His eyes focus on Percy. The boy stops squirming, vaguely uncomfortable. 

“Should I have led with that?” Apollo asks sheepishly. 

“You think?” Ares growls stalking closer. He grabs Percy’s arm that Apollo is holding and inspects it further. He lets out a contemplative hum. Are’s calloused fingers feel rough on his skin, and he’s totally aware that he is being appraised as a tool and not a soldier. 

A shiver runs down his spine at the thought. 

Percy resumes his squirming. “Let me go! I don’t want to be here!” All of his protests go unheard. 

“Hold still,” Apollo murmurs. “Don’t you want honor? Glory? For legends to know your name?” 

“No!” Percy sharply says. “I already have that, thank you!” 

Apollo looks down at him disbelievingly. But Ares nods as if it’s perfectly reasonable. When Apollo sends him a questioningly look, he answers. 

Ares taps a scar on Percy’s hand. Percy freezes. 

“Pit Scorpion,” Ares says, eyes flashing with a fire behind them. “A worthy opponent. Most people would have died from a wound like that.” 

Percy almost had. The memory of Luke’s betrayal still stings despite all the years that have passed. Had the river not been there…Percy shudders.

The god of war’s hands move upwards and lightly run along the white streak of his hair, “From holding up a large object–” Hands trail and poke his collarbone, “From a harpy–” Are’s eyes grow softer as he glances at a scar on his arm. “From a–”
“We get it! I’ve fought a lot of monsters!” Percy snaps, not enjoying being poked and prodded. Are’s eyes lose their softness, and instead a dark, sparkling gleam enters them. He looks hungry. Percy blinks and Ares form morphs. Tusks are prominent, jutting out from a maniacal grin. Eyes shine red as they take in the patchwork of skin in front of him. Reds and oranges swirl in his irises, and a black diadem lays softly on top of his head. 

“ Too many monsters, kid.” Ares says, not at all sounding sad about the fact. For the first time of that night, they lock eyes. “How young were you when you first held a sword?” 

Apollo tightens his grip as if warning him from lying. Not that he would of course, he knows better than to tick off the gods when he’s literally in between two of them. He’s a smart mouth. But he isn’t that much of a smart mouth. 

“Twelve,” Percy answers. 

The air around Ares shimmers like heat waves radiating off a sidewalk. “I take back what I said Apollo.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes,” Ares agrees, a pleased grumble rumbling through his chest, his tusks shining. “You’ve found us a great champion.”

There’s something in their eyes that Percy doesn’t like. A shared understanding passes between them.  

Our weapon. Apollo’s eyes scream. 

We found him. Are’s agrees. 

The man chuffs. A noise that Percy’s never heard before. He bites back the crooning call that instantly almost makes its way out of his throat. Vocalization– as he learned it in Atlantis– is for the inner circle of family. Not outsiders. 

Apollo responds with a bird-like click. 

“So, young warrior, if you already have glory.” Ares muses. “What is it that you want?” 

“We could offer gold,” Apollo suggests with a soft smile. “Jewels? Perhaps a beautiful woman to wife?” 

Percy gapes at them. “No! Absolutely not! Besides, I have a girl I’m courting already.”

“You must want something–” Ares starts.

“-- Every mortal does.” Apollo finishes. 

“I want my father!” 

Just as soon as the words leave Percy’s mouth the rains speed up, torrenting into the tents, almost knocking them over. The two gods both curse and Ares readies his sword. 

“Can you get him inside the inner wall before he shows up–?” Ares asks over the rain. Shows up? Could it be–? Hope kindles in Percy’s chest. 

“We have to hurry!” Apollo curses, pulling Percy closer and away from Ares. His arms tighten around Percy to the point it almost hurts. Not matter how much he struggles though, there is no give in Apollo’s arms. The sun god takes a step towards the door.
There’s another tremor that rumbles through the ground. 

A flash of lightning brightens the tent. 

There’s a deep, echoing growl. 

“Too late.” 

Dark blue, almost black eyes swirl like the depths of the ocean. 

Poseidon stands at the other end of the tent. 

Wind billows around him and he wears a deep blue chiton with pearl jewelry draping across him. Green and black scales crawl up his arms and legs, ending just below his jaw. The trident in Posideon’s hands threateningly point towards the two gods holding his son. 

A rattling noise fills the tent as Posideon takes a step forward. 

“Lord Uncle, this isn’t what it looks like–” 

However, Percy doesn’t care to let Apollo finish, squirming and shooting out his free arm towards his father. They lock eyes. Sea green stares into dark ocean blues. Percy cries out as Posideon takes a halting step forward. 

“Dad, please!” 

Instantly scaled arms are across the room and between him and Apollo, prying them apart until Percy is solely in his arms. Percy can’t help the sigh of relief he feels as Apollo loses his grip on him. Poseidon’s eyes glow dangerously at the two sulking gods in front of him. 

A protective hand reaches out and tucks a curl of black hair behind Percy’s ears. Percy leans over and rests his head in the crook of his neck. He's finally safe. 

The other two wouldn't dare to smite him now when he's in the arms of the god of the ocean. 

Poseidon’s voice is calm and soft. 

“What is your name?” He asks gently. 

Percy blinks. “Perseus, but everyone calls me Percy.” 

The god of the sea’s smile is sharp and full of fanged teeth, “Destroyer.” He speaks the name as if he’s testing it. “Yes, it fits you nicely.” 

“Uncle, we were only trying to–” 

“Silence!” Poseidon shouts. Immediately, Apollo and Ares kneel down in front of him, their heads bowed. They share a look. 

Percy pretends he doesn’t hear the grumbled voice Are’s whispers to Apollo, “This is your fault.” There’s a grunt and the sound of an elbow being jabbed into someone’s ribs. 

“Idiots,” Poseidon sneers, hefting Percy so his knees are hooked over his bicep and he’s sitting on one arm. He looks at him softly. “You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t quite remember conceiving you.” 

“That’s okay,” Percy answers. He flutters his eyes down low and tries not to look smug at the shocked look the other two are giving him. “You’re here now.” 

Poseidon gives a trill that Percy immediately gives back. The sea god’s eyes widen, and he looks at Percy like his future father would eventually. As if he held all the stars in his hands. 

It's that moment that Percy can feel something between them shift, a bond snapping into place. 

Percy makes himself a reminder to thank Triton when he gets back. His older brother had drilled him on all merfolk vocalizations. “Just in case,” He had said. 

“My son,” Poseidon whispers, no, claims. If it were modern day Percy has no doubt a trident would be hovering over his head right about now.

A part of Percy is relieved. He had been worried that his father wouldn’t claim him, that being from an unknown mother would cause there to be a rift. Another part though worries. He’s in Posideon’s arms now. Safer than many other demigods ever would be. But, he’s still in Ancient Greece. 

(He still has no clue how he’s going to get home.) 

“Where are you from?” Poseidon asks, lowering Percy gently to the floor. He stands as his father tugs at his clothing with a scrunched up nose. “And why are you wearing rags? Has no one properly outfitted you for your status?” He glares at the two kneeling gods at the last line. Neither make a sound. 

“I’m from lands to the west. These are my sleeping clothes,” Percy explains with a sigh. “I fell asleep in my bed and woke up on the shores of the beach a few hours ago.” 

Poseidon makes a sound of noncommittal hum, as if that were a normal occurrence that could happen to anyone. 

Apollo finally raises his head, looking between the two of them curiously. “It’s a sign by the fates Uncle.” 

There’s another rattling noise. “Did I give you permission to speak?” 

Apollo immediately ducks his head back down. 

“However, I do think you’re right.” Poseidon says. “Though I loathe to admit it.” 

A kernel of anxiety forms in Percy’s chest. “But, father–” 

“No, call me the other word you used.” 

Everyone stilled. Are’s jaw drops. 

Percy tilts his head. “Dad?” 

“That’s the one,” Poseidon smiles, shark teeth gleaming. Eyes look fondly at him. “None of my other children take such an informal tone with me. I think that I might like it. We’ll see.” 

Then his father sighs, placing his hands on Percy's shoulders. “ Perseus,” Poseidon pauses. “ Percy. Your arrival has been noticed by the council by the time you stepped up to the gates.” Percy does not like where this is going. Ares and Apollo have the audacity to look hopeful. “It’s not often that the fates have sent not one– but two demigods to war.” 

“Two demigods?” Apollo asks. “There was another one? Were they sent to the Greek encampment?” 

Poseidon nods, for once not scolding Apollo for speaking. “A daughter of Athena.” 

Oh, no, this is what it must be like to have a heart attack. Percy’s heart rabbits inside of his chest. Underlying the overencompassing fear though is a sliver of hope. 

She had been sleeping right next to him. Had he accidentally dragged her here? Is she in trouble? 

(He doesn’t have to do this alone?) 

“Annabeth’s here?” Percy breathes. 

Poseidon’s eyes widen and then narrow just as quickly. The unspoken question lingers in the air between them; I didn’t say her name. 

Well, shit. 

“Athena, our lovely sister of war, has a child?” Apollo looks disgusted. 

“How can this be?” Ares asks, standing. “She broke her vow?” 

“She did not. I’ll explain that at a later date,” Poseidon says, not looking away from Percy. “How do you know of the child of Athena?” 

Percy decides to politely ignore the accusatory tone in Posideon’s voice. “We’re friends. We grew up together.”

Apollo pauses, and like before when they were alone, his pupil’s dilate. He tilts his head, clicking with his tongue, and rises elegantly from his knees. His smile is predatory. And though Ares and Posideon look confused at his sudden glee, Percy has a gut feeling he knows exactly what Apollo is about to say. 

“You said you had a girl you were courting earlier.” 

Percy closes his eyes. 

When he opens them Posideon is looking at him appalled. 

“No–”  Disbelief fills the word, just a tad short from being horrified.  “Perseus, tell me he's wrong.”

But that would be a lie. And Apollo would be able to see through it instantly.

“We're friends,” Percy stresses. The sun god beside him snickers. 

“Is that what we are calling it in present times?” Apollo asks with a laugh. “Then I have a couple of friends of my own in this camp.”

Percy frowns at the implications, “That's disgusting.”

“Careful there little demigod,” Apollo frowns, eyes flashing a molten gold. 

Posideon cuts him off, shooting Apollo a glare before looking back at his son. “How could this have happened? How did we let such a thing occur?” 

For a second, Percy forgets that this is the height of the Posideon’s and Athena’s rivalry. There had been the contest in Athens– multiple fights– there’s no way that Poseidon is on good terms with Athena. And that distrust would naturally extend to her daughter as well. 

Apollo’s eyes gleam as he strides up to the two, leaning close to Posideon. An image flashes in Percy’s mind of a little raven, whispering in his father’s ear. “They grew up together, he said. Do you think Athena arranged this?” 

Abyss eyes flash a toxic seafoam blue. 

“That’s not–” But Poseidon isn’t listening to Percy. The seed of an idea is being planted in his head. The young demigod can see the thoughts churning in his mind. He's not quite in their ploy yet, but he is thinking about it. 

Ares takes a step forward as well, his lips pulling into their own smile. 

“It would have been a cunning plan. To ensnare your help by having your children growing close.” Ares murmurs as if he were talking to himself. Then he shakes his head. “Would you have denied him to go to Greece if he asked to be close to a friend?” 

The rain pours even harder outside. Poseidon reaches up and rubs a hand along his jaw, but Apollo isn’t done. 

“They’re courting each other. What if this is just one more Helen in this game?” 

“That’s not it!” Percy argues. “We met before we even knew who my father was.” 

A strangled sound comes mockingly from Apollo’s mouth. “You poor thing. She had you in her clutches for that long?” 

Poseidon’s eyes widen and look over to him with nothing short of pity. 

“Annabeth isn’t manipulative. She wouldn't involve me in any of her mother's plans without telling me.” Percy snaps. “We’re friends regardless of our parents, not because of them.” 

“Oh, I am sure,” Apollo lets out a saccharine croon. “I am positive that you two had no intention of being pieces to her game. I can tell that you’re telling the truth. But, just because you two are not aware of her plans, does not mean they are not there.” 

“Annabeth would have known, she would have– She is one of the smartest people you’ll ever know.” Percy says. 

“So, she’s a strategist.” Are’s smile turns a bit sharper. “And you know the way she thinks.” 

Percy inwardly curses. If Ares hadn’t wanted him on their side, he definitely did now. Knowing how an enemy strategist thinks? That's the kind of insight that could make or break a war.

“That's besides the point.”

“Is it?” Ares raises an eyebrow, eyes still hungrily gleaming at him. 

( Swords clash in midair followed by the scent of iron.)

(Oh, our little warrior–)

Posideon looks between them and raises a hand, “Enough! I’ve heard all that I needed to hear.”

“But Dad–”

“No, son. Forgive me Perseus, but you are forbidden from seeing her until we know for sure of her intentions.” 

“I'll run away!” Percy threatens, cringing at how much he sounds like a child. “You can't hold me here!” 

Posideon's nostrils flare. “You dare to defy your fathers orders?” 

Behind him Apollo and Ares blanche. The sun god shakes his head at Percy, while Ares grits his teeth. 

He makes the executive decision to ignore them both. 

“I dare!” Percy fumes. “The sea doesn’t like to be restrained, father.” He crosses his arms.

Apollo's face falls and he silently mouths, ‘ You are insane.’

“The child does not mean his words Uncle,” Ares says just short of a plea. 

“No, I do!” 

“Shhhhhhhhhh,” Apollo walks beside him and places a finger to his own lips, signalling silence. “You're tired. It's been a long day and you've woken up in a strange new place.”

At his words, Poseidon's shoulders slump from their tense position. He takes on a slightly worried expression. 

“Like this is the first time–” Apollo cuts him off by slinging an arm around his shoulder. 

“He's very tired,” The god of the sun and medicine says. “And iron deficient–” He stops and drops his facade to genuinely look at Percy. “--And he has malnutrition. Wait, child, when was the last time you ate?”

Percy has to think about his answer. Tarturus didn't have food. And it hadn't been that long since they climbed out of the pit. His stomach is still adjusting to a normal eating schedule, according to Will, at least.

He shrugs. 

Posideon gapes. “If he stays here, will you help him heal?” 

Apollo nods. Before Percy can protest, Apollo places a single finger on his forehead. His eyes shift from blue into a glowing molten gold. “Get some rest Perseus.We three have much to discuss.”

A warm sensation washes over him and the world starts to fade to black. Before he passes out completely, the feeling of two familiar arms catch him before he hits the floor, and he has one last remaining thought.

‘ Hold on just a little more Wise Girl– I’ll be there as fast as I can.’ 

Chapter Text

A few hours earlier

Annabeth wakes up to a bright, warm light shining on her face. 

Which is odd, considering she distinctly remembers going to bed inside a cabin. She swears that if this is Connor pulling a prank again, she’s going to hang him above the lava pool until he apologizes. 

She groans and rolls over on the dirt floor–

Cicadas screech in the canopy around her. 

Wait a second. It isn’t summer. They shouldn’t be out yet.  

Annabeth bolts up, looking around as her adrenaline kicks in. She’s still in her pajamas from the night before, and she’s horrified that nobody had thought to at least give her any of her equipment–

She nudges something on the ground with her foot, and when she looks, there’s her invisibility cap right beside her. 

‘ Well– most of my equipment–’ She amends, reaching over and grabbing it. She scrambles to her feet, and tries to piece together where she might have landed. 

She's not in New York, is she?

From the trees alone, she’s guessing somewhere in the Mediterranean. But there are no buildings for her to cement her guess. 

( The wind is blowing north– The sun is setting in the west– Her thoughts quicken– A sound of a clock chimes somewhere else.) 

She grumbles, getting up and dusting off her pants. She takes a few steps and grimaces at the rocks and sticks poking into her as she walks. She never naturally developed callouses on her feet, unlike her hands. She usually had her boots on before she went on a quest. 

Grimacing, she continues at a slower pace. This is going to take a while. 

“ Next time I get a wish–” If there is a next time, “I’m going to ask for a shrinkable bag that never leaves my pocket. Percy can’t be the only one who has a magical item that returns to them.” 

Really, it’s unfair. 

The trees thin out and the rocks become craggy and uneven. They’re slightly more bearable to walk on than the branchy forest floor though, so she’s thankful, even if it means she has to climb more. Climbing up a large, white stone that reminds her of Zeus’s Fist at camp, she uses the height for a better vantage point. 

The ocean calmly glistens in the distance. 

She sits there for a second, enjoying the sea breeze washing away the summer heat. She wishes Percy was here with her. 

She wonders if this was what it had been like when he had been captured by Hera. He must have been so confused–

Annabeth sighs. Then she turns and notices something else in the opposite direction. 

Gray smoke billows in small columns near the edges of the forest. Biting her lip, she weighs her options. It could be monsters. (It almost always is.) Or it could be people. Neither are any less lethal than the other. 

‘ There must be some reason I was sent here specifically though,’ Annabeth thinks to herself. ‘Something only I can do.’ 

She climbs back down the rock. Then grabbing her invisibility cap, she slips it on. At least she’ll have that advantage. 

Invisible, yet cautious, she makes her way towards where she saw smoke. Hopefully whatever is there is her key to getting back home.  

There are dozens of armed guards in Greek armor patrolling the edges of the camp. 

With invisibility it’s all too easy to sneak by them. 

Maybe even too easy. Not for the first time since she saw the camp she wonders if this entire place isn’t a trap. 

‘A trap specifically for you? Cut it out– arrogance comes before a fall.’ She warns herself, axing that idea in her mind. 

Okay, not a trap for her then. But maybe for someone else? You could never be too careful. Especially since everyone here is speaking Ancient Greek, which is setting off a thousand red alarms in her head. 

The only people that Annabeth is aware of that speaks Ancient Greek in numerous numbers are demigods and well– the Ancient Greeks. 

One is much more likely than the other. 

Except if these soldiers were demigods…well, wouldn’t she have known it by now? They seem completely mortal in the way they talk, the way they never seem to recognize that they’re being watched. Even as she sits up on a rock, as still and quiet as an owl, watching intently at a brigade strolling past, they suspect nothing.

It’s dull. Honestly. 

Annabeth thought she was going to have a hard time sneaking into the camp. A challenge. She guesses she should be thankful for her blessings while she has them. She sends a quiet prayer up to Hermes, thanking him for her not being caught. 

( Two eyes on Olympus pause in their travels– turning painfully slow towards the Greek encampment. The next wind that blows through smells of feathers and honey.) 

She makes her way into the heart of the camp, ducking into alleys as soldiers pass. They smell awful. As if they haven’t had a bath in days. There’s a sound of someone stepping beside her, but when she turns, nobody is there. 

( ‘Oh well, isn’t this precious?’ Feathers brush over her head.) 

She waits in a nearby alley as a few taller, more broad men pass, and grimaces as she hears them making awful comments about some women working near the creek. A shiver runs down her spine. 

Suddenly, she’s much more thankful that she can’t be seen. 

Now, the camp seems unsafe for more reasons than just their swords. She shudders, yet keeps going. 

She sneaks back out once the coast is clear, doing her best to keep her footsteps from leaving prints in the dirt. She keeps near the rock outcroppings where she won’t leave signs of her travels. After ten minutes of walking, she nears the outside of a giant canvas battle tent. When she gets close she hears the raising of voices. 

“Are you insane?!” The deep voice shouts out in alarm. She slips close to the tent, near a crate, where hopefully nobody will run into her. There’s a sound of someone crouching next to her, but when she looks– the space is empty. 

Huh. Once is a coincidence. But twice?

Could it be…? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Shaking her head, she listens back into the conversation. 

Another voice speaks, but it’s calm, steady. “Probably. 

Tell me who around here can claim sanity? Besides, I think there is perhaps… merit… in the idea.” 

“Like the Trojans would actually fall for it.” The previous voice huffs, before its followed by the sound of chugging wine. Annabeth’s heart quickens at the words. Trojans? Like…Ancient Troy? Like the Illiad–kind-of-Troy. 

“Oh no,” She whispers accidentally out loud. 

( Feathers and a cloak brush over her shoulders, muffling the sound, yet they seem to agree with her.) 

“Did you hear something?” The angry voice asks. Shadows move in the tent as someone stands up. 

“Yes, the yapping of an insolent dog, who won’t leave my presence.” There the rustle of cloth and a yawn. “Please Agamenom. I tire. Leave me be.” 

“Fine! But don’t think I’ll vote in favor of this plan Odysseus has schemed up. We are Greeks, we face our problems head on! As the way it should be.” There’s a stomping noise and the shadow moves out of the tent. Annabeth waits as still as an owl, her eyes quickly catching the closest movement. For a brief second she sees a  glance of brown hair. 

“He’s such a pain,” The other voice drones mournfully. A few minutes later, it transforms into a bout of loud snores. 

(‘Where are you going little godling?’  Hawk feathers ask, half in curiosity and half in glee.) 

Annabeth shivers slightly and stands up. Securing her hat tighter on her head, she moves away from that tent. This camp seems to be split up into multiple different colored tents, all with different armies. Bands with symbols on them divide them. Some wearing ancient runes of one house, and one to the other. 

( Thoughts quicken– Memories divulge– Annabeth picks out a book in her mind’s library, decision coming to a precipice.) 

She feels the feathers rustling in one direction, and ducks towards them and behind a cart. Just in time for a man to stumble around the corner and stagger into the place she was once standing. Feeling more confident of her situation, she sends a thanks up to Hermes. 

An echoey giggle breathes in the air. 

She goes further into a camp with a foreign symbol she can’t place. The men here are dressed better than the last portion of the camp. Their weapons are more sturdy, their armor better taken care of, and  there are a few minstrels that play around a campfire as men cheer and clap to their songs. 

Annabeth pauses to watch one. 

Is he…playing a lyre? 

“Holy shit–” Annabeth breathes. “I’m in Greece.” 

The closest soldier to her, looks behind him, right at Annabeth’s invisible form. “What was tha–?” He slurs.

The blonde soldier next to him throws an arm around him, and cackles, “I called ya’ an old nanny, ya’ idiot.” 

The soldier’s confusion turns into a drunken grin. “Say that again–” 

She leaves the scene. 

There’s another tent that is smaller than the last large tent that she eavesdropped next to, but it was still larger than any of the ones surrounding it. She hears only the scratching noise of a quill inside. 

Quietly, she debates if it’s worth sneaking in. 

‘ They’ll notice if I open the door–’ 

( A laugh rings out then stops suddenly– the flap of feathers–)

A gust of wind blows harshly, whipping the canvas of the tent, and blowing open the tent flaps. Before she can change her mind, she sneaks inside. 

(‘Wait– that wasn’t me!’) 

It’s warm inside the tent, and despite the sun just starting to set, there are candles already burning. A figure sits at a table, hunched over some documents. He scratches at them with a quill, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s a short yet stockily built man, with thick, shoulder–length brown hair and calculating brown eyes. He wears a medium, white chiton, with a blue and golden chlamys, pinned at the shoulder with a silver pin of an owl. 

Something about him seems familiar, though Annabeth is sure she’s never seem him before. 

She takes one step into the tent. 

The man’s head shoots up, staring straight at Annabeth. 

She sharply inhales. Holding very still, she watches as the man straightens his shoulders, a warm smile curling on his lips. His eyes shine in the flickering candle light. 

“Show yourself,” He says in a deep timbre of a voice. There’s a chuckle as he lightly tilts his head, eyes scanning the room. “I know you’re watching me.” His eyes flicker back to Annabeth, and they scrunch up at the corners. He repeats it again. “ Show yourself.” 

Internally, Annabeth debates on what to do. 

“Do you think I would not recognize you?” He asks, crossing his arms pridefully as if he’s won something. “You could just say ‘hello,’ you know, it would never hurt.” 

Biting her lip, she makes a decision. “Hello.” She says. She hesitates, but takes off her cap. His eyes widen as his lips part slightly. 

“It’s rare of you to wear disguises when we are alone,” He pauses. “ Athena. Especially with clothes so… strange.” 

Annabeth frown deepens. “That’s not my name.” 

“Oh?” He asks, leaning his chin on his palm. “Tell me then, what are we calling ourselves now?” 

“I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.” Annabeth says. She quickly glances around the room for anything she can use as an improvised weapon. However besides some rugs, old chests, and a few strewn papers, she can’t see anything that could be of use. 

Time to come up with another plan as he talks. 

“You know my name,” He laughs. “Why are you insisting we play this game? We’ve played it before.” 

She sharply inhales. Well. She had tried to be honest. “Let’s say I don’t know your name. What hints would you give me to guess it?” 

He picks up his quill and runs the feather along the desk. “Fine, fine, we can play. Here’s three hints: A king. A plow. A secret.” 

Immediately her mind fills in the blanks. There had only been one king that pretended to be mad with a plow so he would not have to go to war. 

“Odysseus,” Annabeth says. 

Oh no, no, no. She’s not just in Ancient Greece. Annabeth is in the middle or close to the end of the Trojan War. She feels the blood drain from her face as she takes a step back, her heart quickening. 

(She scrambles through the library of her mind– flicking through books and past plans to see if any would fit here.) 

“Now, let me guess your name. I’ll take three hints, since it is only fair.” Odysseus smiles, grin too sharp. 

“You won’t be able to guess it,” Annabeth replies. Odysseus rolls the hand that’s holding his quill, as if saying, try me. Fine then. She had warned him. “An owl. Invisibility. A daughter.” 

At the last word he scrunches his nose. “Athena, you don’t have a daughter.” 

“I’m not Athena.” 

Odysseus drops his quill. He lowers his hands and looks puzzled. “Then who–?” 

“I told you that you wouldn’t be able to guess my name,” Annabeth says, taking a step back. She should probably leave. Preferably far away. Where she isn’t likely to get killed or sacrificed simply for being a woman. Or her mothers child. Or any other reason they might pull from thin air. “And you’re also wrong about another thing.” 

“What’s that?” Odysseus asks standing up, one hand moving towards his side. Towards a hidden weapon?

“Athena does have a daughter.” 

A flash of blinding light fills the tent. 

Annabeth covers her eyes to shield herself from it. 

( Hawk feathers brush over her  as an owl spreads her wings.) 

When the light dies down, Annabeth blinks away tears as a woman stands in the room with them. A woman that– even in millennia past– Annabeth would recognize anywhere. She wore armor unlike in the present day. There is also a shifting form behind her usual visage that isn’t usually there. 

Eyes flicker between being gray like her own, and yellow with a rounded pupil like an owl. 

Odysseus recovers quicker than Annabeth does. 

“Athena, what is this?” He asks, drawing a hidden knife. Aha! Annabeth knew he was going for a weapon. Her mother doesn’t answer, tilting her head at Annabeth quizzingly. She takes one step closer. Annabeth takes one step back. 

“I don’t remember having a daughter,” Athena says, her voice warbling at the end. “Nor do I ever remember breaking my vow.” 

“M’lady, she must be lying!” 

“She should be– but she’s not.” Athena muses. Big eyes blink. “Are you?” Annabeth shakes her head, not trusting her voice to speak. “Yes, you are my daughter. I can tell. How did this happen?” Her hand reaches out and trails talons down her cheek gently. They don’t scratch her, like Annabeth fears, and for once they seem almost…loving. 

But, Annabeth knows deep in her heart, that her mother is anything but that. 

( Hawk feathers rustle in the distance in shock, before flying away into the clouds.) 

“So much like me,” Athena breathes. If she didn’t know better she would say that the warrior goddess almost sounded in awe. “What is your name little owlet?” 

“My name is Annabeth,” She answers, knowing better than to lie to her own mother. “And you didn’t break your vow. I was born from your thoughts, like Zeus, but with a mortal.” 

A joyous laugh bubbles out of the goddess, big owl eyes scrunching up delightfully. She let’s out a crooning sound as she places both of her hands to cup Annabeth’s face. “Oh, how precious.” 

Precious? Has her mother gone insane? Was younger Athena always so affectionate? For as long as Annabeth could remember, her mother was colder. She was more likely to ignore her than to hold her in her arms like this. Of course, she knew that her mother loved her. But, Athena showed her love in a cryptic ways– in invisibility caps, in quests, and in summers without speaking. 

“The very first demigod of Athena,” Odysseus gasps. He turns towards her mother. “M’lady how could you not tell me?” 

“I did not know,” Athena offers truthfully. “But I intend on making up for the lack of knowledge. 

“Little godling, I’m sorry I did not recognize you,” Odysseus says, moving around his desk, and dropping to one knee. 

“Don’t kneel for me!” Annabeth says. 

Athena smiles, lips sharp and titled. “No, he is right to do so. You are half-god. How could he not?” It’s too much. Annabeth suddenly feels as if the room is too small. Like their gazes are too bright. She swallows. “Besides, Odysseus is one of my chosen warriors. He is duty bound to serve me.” 

“And that protection extends to you as well,” Odysseus finishes. “Is that why you’re at our encampment? Do you need our help?” 

“To be truthful, I woke up here.” She admits, looking back at her mother. “I slept in my bed and then awoke on the rocky mountainside near camp.” 

Her mother stills, bringing her hands in front of her. “The fates must have brought you here on a quest then?” 

Annabeth nods. 

“It is unlikely that you awoke near a war settlement if it was not where you needed to be.” Athena reasonably says. “Though it is difficult since you are my daughter instead of a son.” 

Say what now? 

Odysseus makes a noise of agreement. “We could’ve used another warrior. However, her quest won’t be on the battlefield with the men. Maybe another strategist?” 

“If she was born of my thoughts then she must be intelligent.” 

Athena always has a plan, after all. 

“You can’t be sure of that, I might take after one of your other domains.” Annabeth counters. Odysseus makes a face as if that wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. 

“Well are you?” Athena asks, hiding a smile. 

She huffs. “Yes.” 

“It’s settled then, you will help the Archean army strategize for the war until we discover your quest.” Athena says. “I have no doubt that you will make me prou–” 

“No.” 

Oh shit. She said that out loud. Percy is rubbing off on her. When she gets back in time she's going to have to have a talk with him about that. Maybe they could take etiquette classes or something together?

Both turn and look at her surprised. Well, there's no backing out of it now. She digs her heels into the ground and takes a deep breath. “I do not mean to be disrespectful mother, but my entire life there has been nothing I wanted to do more than make you proud.” 

“Annabeth,” Athena breathes. 

“But I recently have learned that I don’t want that anymore. To live up to others expectations of me, or their own meaning of glory.” Annabeth says, the memories of all her past quests swelling up at once. Manhattan. Minerva. Tarturus. “I want to make myself proud.” 

A beat. 

“I see–” Athena says, holding herself straight. Annabeth shivers, but doesn’t balk under the weight of her mother’s stare. “--Has anyone ever made you feel as if you couldn’t make me proud?” 

‘ You’ Annabeth wants to rage. Wants to scream into her face. For all the quests. Wars. It had never been enough, until it was, and by then, Annabeth hadn’t even cared anymore. It hadn’t been worth the cost– the lives lost. 

Athena reaches out a hand, as if to touch her, but stops last moment. She withdraws it. “You’ve fought before.” 

“Yes,” Annabeth answers. 

“And that… before… it had been devoted to me?” Athena asks. 

She jerks her head into a nod. “It had always been.” 

Hands reach out again, lightly being placed on her shoulders. It almost burns. The weight of them feels almost as heavy as holding up the sky. She wants Athena to let go immediately. She wants her to stay like that forever. “I’ve been told before that I had always been more proud of potential than actual accomplishments.” 

Odysseus coughs into his elbow behind her. Athena shoots him a glare, but he is already looking away at one of his wooden chests, idly playing with a rug with his sandal. 

“My child” Athena begins, “You’re very presence is a miracle. You’ve already made me proud.” 

Annabeth feels her heart stutter. Is this real? Did she fall into an alternate timeline? One where her mother actually knows how to communicate? 

“After all, you have such potential as the first of my offspring.” Ah, there it is. Athena is happy that she’s shown up on the shore. That the fates chose her to be in a war. She’s proud to finally have a little soldier with her own ichor flowing through her veins. She’s holding her to a higher standard. 

She wonders how much of Troy she’d have to destroy in order to win this version of her mother’s approval. The entire city? Would she have to run through Hector himself? Become like Diomedes and shoot through Aphrodite’s wrist? 

Annabeth squares her shoulders, rolling them slightly to shrug off her mother’s hands. “Understood.” 

A ghost of a smile appears on Athena’s lips. “I’m glad.”

“You know, simply being one of Athena’s chosen is to have her pride,” Odysseus encourages, but his eyes look past them towards the door. Annabeth has no doubt that Odysseus is perhaps one of the few people to know the true weight of Athena’s expectations. How tiring of a load that a goddess’s pride could wear on a soldier. “Speaking of, M’lady, if I could have your ear for this new plan of mine?” 

“Yes Odysseu–” Athena pauses and tilts her head as if she’s listening to something they can’t hear. The goddess frowns. “I’m being summoned to Olympus. My child will help you.” She turns to Annabeth. “Consider this a part of the quest that the fates have sent you on. Please stay close to Odysseus and help him strategize. It can be…difficult to be a woman in such a place.” She then turns back to Odysseus, “Keep her safe. That’s an order.” 

“Of–”

( Owl feathers take off in invisible flight.)

“--course. And she’s gone.” Odysseus huffs. He runs a hand through his hair.“She does that more times than I care to admit. She’s not one for good–byes.” 

“Or hellos.” 

“Or hellos.” He agrees with a laugh. “At least you didn’t seem to inherit that from her. I apologize again for mistaking you for your mother. I promise I’m usually much more eloquent than that.” 

“Does she randomly just appear in your tent? You had made it seem… expected. ” 

“My tent, my castle, my forest, my entire childhood.” He snorts. “I think sometimes she’s watching me when I wake up in the morning, but I have yet to prove it.” He motions towards the table. “Before we plan, let us go fetch Diomedes. I have an inkling of an idea that he might be able to help us with this quest of yours.” 

“Diomedes of Argos?” Annabeth asks breathlessly. 

“You’ve heard of him? Guess the word of our exploits has spread throughout the years. After all you were able to name me off of three words alone.” Odysseus smiles, chest puffing a bit at her words.  “Tell me, have they told you of our war efforts so far?” 

Annabeth, who has read the Iliad and Odyssey more times than she can count, guiltlessly smiles. “I’ve heard a few tales.” The grown man practically preens at her confirmation, and it takes all of her willpower not to face palm. No thirty year old man should be this happy about a sixteen year old girl saying she’s heard of his war stories. But she guesses that soldiers are all the same, regardless of the time period. 

Odysseus motions for her to come closer as he steps next to one of his wooden chest, he throws it open and starts rummaging through bundles of fabric in there. He scowls at it. “Pardon me, but unlike Achilles, I did not think to come equipped with any woman’s clothes.” He looks at all the articles in the open chest as if they were personally offending him. “I thought I might have something to tide you over until I can have one of our seamstresses see you, but we might need to make a quick visit to the women working by the river before we see Diomedes.” 

“I can see how my clothes would, umm, stand out.” Annabeth nods. “Had I known I would wake up on the shores of Greece, I would have been more properly outfitted.” 

“I was going to hold my tongue, but those are such strange garments you wear,” Odysseus says rising from his trunk. Something glints in his eye as he inspects her. “Does everyone from your village dress the same? You all must spend a fortune on dye.” 

“You could say that,” She says, not quite sure how to explain the lessening of dye prices due to artificial making practices. The last thing she wants to do is plant ideas in Odysseus’s mind that might alter the future. 

Logically, she knows that the fates sent her here for a reason. But she isn’t sure what that reason is. She needs an oracle and a prophecy. But she doubts there are any oracles just waiting on standby for the army. 

Odysseus moves towards the door, but before he opens it, he gestures to Annabeth’s hat. “You might want to wear that until we get you some proper clothing. The less attention we draw to ourselves the better.” 

Thunder rolls in the distance, drawing both of their attention. 

His expression tightens, but when he turns to address Annabeth she is already invisible. He sighs. 

“Daughter of Athena, indeed.” 

It’s Odysseus fault that it takes forever to find Diomedes. 

When they arrived to the river, Annabeth tapped Odysseus' shoulder and whispered to him that she should borrow one of the spare washer woman's uniforms. Many of the women at the camp washed all of the army men's uniforms as it was deemed, ‘woman’s work.’ They often got dirty themselves doing it. They wouldn’t miss one pair, and it would help her blend in easier. 

But the man had openly scoffed at the idea. 

“I am not dressing the daughter of Athena in commoner’s clothing.” Odysseus had said sounding scandalized. 

It’s partly Annabeth’s mistake that she had forgotten that Odysseus is a king, and as such is used to more… elegant clothing on noble ladies. Which– according to her companion– she now is. 

By the time Odysseus had found a seamstress and had instructed her to come to his tent after dinner– Annabeth was dressed in a nicely fit, blue chiton with a white and gold himation wrapped around her waist and shoulder. Odysseus had taken his owl pin and clipped it onto her shoulder with a smile. 

“If anyone asks, you are my niece,” He said, making sure her himation fit properly. “Any insult towards you is an insult towards me and my house.”

Just to be safe though, Annabeth continued to wear her cap until they found Diomede’s tent and found the man inside. 

Taking it off just as the tent door closed after them is worth it when the man shouts. 

“Athena?” Diomedes balks. 

( Lightning strikes on top of the ocean, dark clouds roll in, promising a future of rain.)

He’s a taller man than Odysseus with tan scarred skin, curly black hair and beautiful green eyes. A starburst shaped scar decorates his left cheek, but he still seems young despite it. 

He bows low. “I’m sorry M’lady I was not expecting you so quickly after you helped me during the funeral games a few days ago.” With that, he looks smugly at Odysseus. “It had been a great help. I hope my wins have brought you honor.” 

Immediately the smile is wiped off Odysseus. 

“You would have brought our lady more honor had you not mistaken someone else as her!” Odysseus says, stepping beside Annabeth and proudly placing his hands on her shoulders. 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn't you also…?”

Odysseus squeezes her shoulders gently in a silent plea to stay silent.  Looking between them, she internally shrugs. If she remembers correctly, there had been arguments in later writings that said the two of them had fought over who was Athena’s favorite. Though it wasn't completely shown in the original Illiad. She guesses she can confirm that now. 

It isn't as if their little feud affected her after all, so it wouldn't hurt to stay out of it. 

“She appeared out of thin air and has Athena's eyes,” Diomedes argues. Odysseus scoffs. “Tell me who you think it is then.”

“Why, her daughter, of course.” 

Diomedes deadpans. “You are joking?” Odysseus shakes his head with a grin. “Ody, Athena has no children. She would never break her vow of maidenhood.”

“Of course, Lady Athena would never break her vow! How could you suggest such a thing?”

Ugh, Annabeth can't take this much hypocrisy. Even if the man had been kind to her so far. She pinches his hand, which he reflexively draws back and shakes. Stepping forward she draws one leg behind the other and bows. “It's nice to meet you, my name is Annabeth. I'm a demigod born from my mother's thoughts instead of by mortal means.”

Diomedes nods then glares at Odysseus, “And you fell for this?” 

“Athena confirmed it herself,” Odysseus says, frowning deeper. “Watch your tone!” 

Diomedes' eyes widen. “This is the truth?” He faces Annabeth and bows lightly. “I am sorry m'lady. I meant no disrespect–”

Annabeth waves a hand dismissively. “It's fine. I would have been worried for the state of the army had you not been skeptical. There are always traps of this nature in war.” 

Diomedes rises from his bow with a smug gleam in his eye that he shoots Odysseus' way. 

Ugh, men.

“Lady Annabeth–”

“Just Annabeth is fine.”

Diomedes makes a confused face but doesn't address her request, “If hospitality hasn't already been offered to you, I would love to extend an offer to house you in my encampment.”

Odysseus responds immediately, "I've already offered hospitality towards her, thank you very much. Lady Athena has given me the job to protect her.” 

“And you have done a wonderful job friend, but surely the others will be paranoid that a random girl is staying there, appearing from nowhere?”

“I've already claimed her as my niece!” There's something unspoken in his words that Annabeth doesn't catch. She knows that offering hospitality is a big thing in this era. It's considered a great honor to host and provide for important guests. But Annabeth isn't sure that she's someone they should be fighting over that right for. 

Unless, it is just to win my mother's favor? Right, that made sense. She wonders if she should go ahead and burst their bubbles that Athena probably wouldn't care who has her as long as she is able to do her job correctly. 

At the same time though…she pauses…it does sort of look as if they are having fun. 

Both men have their chest puffed out in pride and, despite Odysseus curt words earlier, a smile is slowly working its way back onto both of the men's faces. 

It reminds her of how she acts with her siblings at camp. Especially when they get into contests. 

“Your niece? You think they'll believe your niece just showed up overnight from Ithaca?"

“Its not that far of a sail!” 

“My wife had sent supplies a few days ago,” Diomedes rubs a hand along his jaw. “It would not be too far of a stretch to say that she was aboard the ship and that she's my sister coming to visit.”

“Oh please, you look nothing like her.” 

“And you do?” 

Yeah, it was cute, but Annabeth is over it. “Would it really be that more advantageous to be Diomedes' sister than your niece?” She asks Odysseus seriously. “I am sorry, but I'm not as familiar with your customs since I come from different lands.” 

Odysseus takes a second to contemplate it before sighing, “It would make sense for the time of your arrival, but we all well know that Diomedes does not have a sister such as yourself. You would've been courted here by half of the younger generals already were that the truth. It's too risky.” 

Annabeth thinks, then snaps. “Argos is close to Sparta is it not? Would it not be that much of a stretch of the truth to assume your wife, Penelope could have sent her niece from her homeland on a close ship to help aid you in the war?” 

“That–” Diomedes pauses. “That could work.”

“Daughter of Athena,” Odysseus says brilliantly. 

“Lord Diomedes, thank you again for your gracious offer to provide hospitality to me. It is very much welcome. However, there are perhaps some other matters you could help me with?” 

“Say the word.”

“I know that this request probably can’t be fulfilled. But, I was sent here by the fates for reasons that are unknown to me. If there were an oracle I could consult and receive a prophecy, it might make my path more clear to me. However, I know that this is probably not possible, as most oracles tend to live in more secluded areas.” 

He pauses. “That is true. I am sorry m’lady, but as you feared there are no such oracles near here. This is also partly to Apollo taking an active stance with the Trojans. Even were there an oracle close, he’d probably not allow such a visit.” 

Annabeth nods. “Secondly, I would like some armor.” 

Odysseus laughs and shakes his head, but Diomedes, to her pleasant surprise, agrees. This causes the older man to stop. “Oh you cannot be serious. M’lady why would you need armor? You surely don’t plan to go to war with the men.” 

Annabeth gives Odysseus a disappointed look, the same one that she had perfected from growing up near the Stoll brothers. It works like a charm. The man turns sheepish and ducks his head slightly. 

“It’s not proper,” He tries to explain. 

“Ody, since when have you ever seen Lady Athena without armor? Surely, we would grace her daughter with the same privileges.” Diomedes says. 

And well– if Diomedes hadn’t already endeared himself to Annabeth, this would have done the trick. 

“Propiety is for times without war,” She encourages. “It would be best for me not to be caught unawares when some defense could be the difference and save my life.” 

For all his previous rejections, this makes Odysseus pause. 

He’s the type that you need to apply logic with– Annabeth realizes. 

“That’s acceptable,” He says, “But it should be I supplying the armor since you are under my flag.” 

Annabeth nips that in the bud before it can begin. 

“Well okay, but then Diomedes could supply me with a sword. I much rather have one than a spear.” 

“I shall have one prepared for you in a moment then,” Diomedes agrees. Odysseus looks for a second like he is about to argue, but Annabeth sends her another one of her stares, and he quietly agrees. 

“And to think, after all this time, our side should receive support from a child of Athena,” Diomedes grins. “Those Trojans will never see it coming.” 

“Yes it is–” 

Rain pelts down against the tent in a torrent of water and wind. The onslaught comes by so fast and out of nowhere that it immediately makes Annabeth weary. 

‘ There’s no way this is natural. Who pissed off Percy’s father now?’

Whoever it was, Annabeth hopes they make amends soon. It never bodes well for anyone when Poseidon is angered. She’s learned that from first-hand experience through her quests. 

( The sea calls out for someone in the distance, but it’s echoing croon is too unfamiliar to recognize who it asks for.)

“I hadn’t thought there would be a storm today,” Odysseus remarks, settling in on a pile of furs and rugs near a low table in the tent. “That means we have some time to discuss matters. Diomedes if you would– I have this idea of you and me going to spy in Troy–” 

Annabeth sits down next to the table, resting her arms on it, and watching the candle in the middle flicker. The two’s voices become calm background noise in the rain, and she listens just enough to input her advice should they need it. 

For now Annabeth is content to let time pass around her as she organizes her thoughts. It finally catches up to her that she’s actually in a meeting for the Trojan War. A part of her fangirls. There’s so much she wants to know. Ancient practices, how they lived, what their architecture looked like in its prime, she wants to know it all. 

She could also change things if she wanted. She knows enough of their history to know what plans failed and worked. She could mold things by her own hands. Shape the future into one more profitable for them. 

However, the more she drifts them off course from their histories, the less reliable her knowledge would be. 

She doesn’t know what the fates sent her here for either. 

There’s no way they decided to simply send her to Ancient Greece on a whim. They always had a plan. They wouldn’t mess with the fabric they’ve already created unless it was important. 

Rain continues to pour outside. Her eyes flicker up to the top and frowns. 

Percy would have enjoyed listening to the rain in a tent like this. 

She hopes that he’s doing okay. He’s probably freaking out just like she had when he had disappeared from Hera’s scheme. Except this time, they weren’t separated just across the country, but by the time as well. Her boyfriend wouldn’t be born for thousands of years. 

‘Don’t worry Seaweed Brain,’ she thinks as she feels her eyes start to droop. She vaguely recognizes the feeling of a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders as she leans against the table. ‘I’ll be home soon.’ 

Chapter Text

Percy’s dreams lead him to Olympus. 

He knows this mountain anywhere. He's walked its steps multiple times. However, it’s different from the Olympus he’s used to. The pathways are the same, but they’re neater and greener. Plants flourish at every nook and cranny, overspilling onto the cobbled streets. Dryads and nymphs laugh from the gardens and fountains, shyly ducking away when they catch a glimpse of him. 

From the position of the sun, he realizes that it’s either the next day or a couple of hours in the past. 

Thankfully, he still recognizes the path to the council room, and he manages to slip inside without any of the arguing gods noticing him. 

He stands in the corner and waves to Hestia, who is tending the fire in the middle. She looks at him curiously, but smiles and waves back. 

His father is in his usual throne, yelling at Zeus. 

Oh, how little things change over thousands of years. 

Not all the council members are there. In fact, most of them aren’t. The only ones that are holding counsel are Hermes, Athena, Zeus, Hera, and Posideon. 

Hermes sits on his throne with his knees pulled up, almost looking guilty. His blue eyes flicker between Athena and Zeus, before finding the floor interesting.

Seeing him is a punch in the gut.

Luke. 

Hermes looks just like his son, donning a form much younger than what he usually wears in Percy’s time. All that’s missing is the scar on his cheek. And then it would be like he was still here with them. 

He wears a chlamys with wings and people running embroidered on it. Leather running sandals idly trailing along the edge of his throne. His eyes eventually finds Percy’s and his eyebrows furrow slightly. 

‘Please help no one else notice me,’ Percy begs in his mind. 

‘How did you even arrive here little godling? This is a private meeting.’ Herme’s voice echoes back. 

Percy tries to do his best impression of a baby seal, wobbling his lip and widening his eyes. Hermes flinches and immediately turns his head to look back at the squabbling gods. 

“You broke your vow?!” Zeus roared at Athena. Besides the clothes, the two looked almost identical to how they did in modern times. Just younger. 

Athena, Percy notices, has less worried lines. 

“I did not break my vow! I promise it on the River Styx!” Athena bellows. Thunder crashes behind them. 

“Then tell us, how did you come to be with a daughter?” Hera interjects. Though her tone is serious, she looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else. 

“She was born from my thoughts, like my own birth!” Athena proudly says. “And I will not have her legacy tainted with the idea that her conception was the result of a broken oath.”

They're fighting over Annabeth. 

Percy balls his hands into fists.

Poseidon tilts his head as if he’s listening to another conversation. “If that is the case then I see no reason why we are still here.” He flashes away when Zeus waves a hand at him. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Athena shoots a glare at Hermes, who taps his fingers together in false innocence. Percy would know that face anywhere. Connor and Travis had worn that face whenever they were caught pulling a prank. 

( Fire cackling, warmth, the smell of fresh bread being broken–) 

Hestia appears beside Percy. She smiles at him and rests a warm hand on his cheek, which he allows, bending over so she can reach him. 

“It’s time for you to go now little godling,” Hestia says. “May the rest of your dreams be sweet.” 

She kisses his forehead and the world around him shifts. 

The boy lets out a content sigh in his sleep, turning to burrow his head into a pile of furs. 

Apollo watches him with a curious eye. 

He’s never seen a demigod quite like this one. He’s loud– like all the others– but he doesn’t insistently screech on and on about honor or glory or having his name remembered. He is fierce and strong, yet does not boast about his accomplishments. He’s his father's son, and looks at Poseidon with more care than Apollo has ever seen on a child of the sea. 

He’s quite the puzzle. 

The sun god can’t quite tell whether he loves or despises the demigod yet. 

Ares sharpens his sword from nearby, looking at the demigod as Apollo is, just as torn between adoration and hate. 

Only the sea god shows no conflict in his feelings, looking at his son with soft, loving eyes. Poseidon lounges next to him, and runs a hand through his black curls. 

“Aphrodite is coming soon,” Ares says, as he runs his whetstone along his blade. 

Get ready. His eyes flash in warning to Apollo. 

“Oh good, she’ll want to hear about our latest champion,” Apollo smirks. A buzzing static charges through the air and Poseidon lets out a rattling noise that should not be able to chill Apollo straight to the bone, but does. 

By Hades! He thought they were over this!

“It is still undecided if I let my son near this war. He’s young.” Poseidon snarls. “Look at him. How old could he be? Twenty? Thirty? He is not another Achilles or king that is here to honor their alliance. He has no stake in this war. Tell me why I shouldn’t drag him to Atlantis this instant? I’ve already been gracious giving you so much of our time already, when I could have been planning a coronation.” 

Apollo wonders what Posideon would do if he told him that his son is clearly a teenager. Tempting. It would be more fun to see how long it takes him to find out though, so Apollo holds his tongue. 

“You would make him a prince?” Ares breathes. He pauses in his sharpening. His hands shakily put down the whetstone. Apollo cannot tell if the trembles in his hands are from surprise or excitement. 

What is he planning? Apollo narrows his eyes at the war god. Why does he look as if he were issued a challenge?

“He has enough scars for me to know that he’s already found glory and honor. It is his right.” Poseidon says, his hand possessively curling over the boy’s head. His eyes grow softer as he looks at his son. “Amphrite and Triton would love him immediately.” 

Apollo isn’t quite so sure about that. But he isn’t going to say anything to the Uncle that could wipe them out in an instant. 

“He’s so strange,” Ares says. “He’s dressed like no person I’ve seen before.” 

“He said those were his sleeping clothes, and they’re soft enough that I would want a pair.” Apollo admires. “But, the dyes seem off. Who is his mortal mother that they could make such expensive designs for clothes so odd?” 

Apollo continues, tilting his head, brows furrowing. “He spoke to me before I came into the tent about something strange as well.” He wants to reach out and touch the boy’s forehead and see if he could glean some of his memories and try to See. But again— not doing that with Posideon sitting right there. “He said that his landing here isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Like he knew the outcome of the war.” 

“You think he’s an oracle?” Posideon asks. 

“You did hold the domain of prophecy before I. If he were to gain the power from anyone else besides me, it would be you.” 

“So the little godling not only has iron skin, but can See?” Ares smile grows sharper, more excited. His eyes glimmer as they flicker back to the sleeping child. “And you still expect that he isn’t supposed to be here? He’s a warrior. Through and through. I can see my domain running through him–” 

“He is my son.” Poseidon emphasizes. 

The war god snorts. “That is true. Anyone could tell he is a son of the sea. However, if you didn’t want me to have a claim to him then he shouldn’t have let a sword be placed in his hands at the age of twelve.” 

Poseidon disappears and a reappears next to Ares in an instant, eyes glowing a toxic seafoam blue as his trident slightly digs into the flesh of Ares neck. “Had I known he existed before today then he would’ve had much more placed in his hands than just a sword.” 

Ares eyes the trident distastefully. 

Apollo ignores them. (Ares got himself into that mess, he can get himself out.) Instead, he looks at the sleeping child and muses about what the boy had said by the tents. 

There's a flicker of an image before the boy. Something made of promises and scales, of fangs and webbed fingers. Yet it is gone just as fast as it appeared. Almost is it is an image leaking out before its time. 

“Another war, huh?” He muses. 

Both Poseidon and Ares look at him quizzingly. Flashes of something else tinges at the edge of Apollo’s vision. Not quite a prophecy. But a sliver of something sneaks through his Sight. 

( Swords clashing. Children laughing and playing. A camp. Percy looks over to him, his voice mouthing Apollo’s name in friendship.) 

Oh wait– no that was a prophecy?

Wasn't it?

Apollo hums. 

Past and present war in his mind, but he waves it away before he gets a headache.

“What did you say about another war?” Ares asks, eyes hungrily looking at Apollo. Red and yellow swirl together in a molten fire that overcomes most of Are’s gaze. Tusks flash in a pleased grin. 

“Perseus has said that. I don’t want to fight another war.” Apollo murmurs. Their reactions are exactly what the sun god expects them to be. 

“My son has fought in war already?” Poseidon gapes.

Ares' smile grows even sharper. “I told you that he is a warrior.” 

“He will be a prince!” Poseidon growls.

“If you think he'll be happy with a soft life made of silk cushions and luxuries, you're fooling yourself. He'll feel shackled by wealth.” Ares snorts. “He is made of blood and battle. I can hear the clanging of swords he's faced in his past. It’s music. Some could rival even my own. I wonder how'd he fare against my blade–” 

“You will leave my son alone.” Posideon commands. His voice takes on the sound of waves. He lets out a clicking sound, and Percy immediately tosses in his sleep. The boy makes a chirp that sounds hurt, that has Posideon instantly swivelling his head towards him. 

He lets out a similar chirp. “Mine.”

Ares doesn't say another word, but his eyes linger on the demigod. Ours. 

“Perhaps there is a way we can convince you to let him stay here a little while longer? To return to you eventually, of course.” A new silky voice says, entering the tent. The image of Aphrodite shifts into a creature of fins and beauty. Ares wolfishly whistles and she transforms into a warrior with blood smeared on her lips. Just as fast she shifts to foam, music, and a blinding pearlish white. 

“What are you proposing?” Posideon asks.

Aphrodite grins. “May I offer you a deal?”

Percy stirs from his slumber to a finger poking his cheek. 

He lightly bats it away with his hand, curling up into a ball and shifting to his side. There’s a huff, then the finger returns. 

“Connor, I swear–” Percy mutters. “The one time I get good sleep.”  

There’s a shifting of feathers. “Who’s Connor?” 

Percy’s eyes shoot open and he scrambles back, furs and blankets falling off him. 

Apollo sits on his knees next to him and stares with amusement. “Have good dreams?” 

For once? Yes. There had been the throne room– but it had shifted into something pleasant halfway through. Normally he’d dream about Tarturus– of monsters and blood and poisons. Anything else is a pleasant surprise. 

Percy sniffs. “Better than usual. Where are the others?” He asks, sliding off the pallet he was laying down on and raising to his feet. Apollo form shifts into something with black feathers, molten golden skin, and crystal golden eyes, before Percy blinks it away. 

The air around them grows heavy, as if the atmosphere is gaining weight. Percy coughs. Apollo tilts his head bird-like. 

“They’re…around. What do you usually dream about?” 

Wouldn’t you like to know weatherboy? Percy thinks and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Apollo’s eyebrows raise expectantly. The boy snorts. “What you can ignore my questions, but I can’t ignore yours?” 

“That’s…” Apollo blinks, brows creasing. “That’s how that usually works, yes. I am a god, in case you have forgotten.” 

The air around them grows just a bit heavier. 

Percy lazily smiles as he looks at the pile of clothing left next to his bed. “Are you going to smite me for it?” 

“Debating it,” Apollo muses. Despite his words, his lips quirk up a bit into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Your father would be mightily pissed if I did so though. Probably not worth the trouble.” 

He looks at Percy strangely. His eyes trail invisible lines down his arm as if there is something there that Percy can’t see. 

“Probably,” Percy agrees, unfolding a light blue chiton that had a darker waves embroidered on it. “Fancy.”

“Well, as made clear to us yesterday, you are a prince.” Apollo says standing up as well. “How you managed to get Poseidon of all people wrapped around his little finger so fast though, is beyond me.” 

“I’ve been told my sass is endearing,” Percy mumbles, shucking off his shirt casually. He ignores how Apollo’s eyes trace over the scars of his body. How they linger around his ribs. He doesn’t take any time to throw the chiton on. 

Out of all of his cousins, he likes Apollo enough, but he definitely isn’t going to end up as one of his myths. No, thank you. “Don’t you have people to go bother?” 

Apollo scrunches up his nose. “That ‘probably’ is dwindling.” 

Something catches in his chest. Percy coughs. 

Yeah, Percy most likely shouldn’t push him any more. It’s hard to remember that this Apollo isn’t the one that he had bonded with at Camp Half-blood. That Apollo is a good dad. Almost akin to a friend. This Apollo isn’t the man who helped Will around the infirmary or taught Kayla how to shoot her first bullseye. Percy frowns at the memory, his stomach hollowing. 

The man’s eyes flash gold– glowing in the sunlight of the tent. 

“Do we know each other?” Apollo suddenly breathes, raising from his knees and taking a step closer to him, getting close to invading his personal space. Heat increases in the tent. “For the second time now… I thought I saw…” He pauses, his head tilting quizzingly. “I could have swore that I saw us interacting, but you were younger than you are now. By a few good years.” 

An invisible hand grips Percy’s heart and squeezes. 

Oh, this is going to be tricky. He can’t exactly blurt out that they’ve haven't met before. Apollo is the god of truth and can spot a lie a mile away. He’ll know. Then Percy will have to explain the time travelling thing, and something in his gut tells him that doing so would bring disastrous consequences. 

( A feminine hand crafted of rushing water slowly trails along his jaw, keeping it shut.) 

He swallows. 

“Where were we in your visions?” Percy asks, fastening the cord around his chiton. 

“At some type of camp? Or at least…I think it was?” His eyes grow hazy, as if they were looking somewhere else. “There was an…archery range. You were there along with some demigods who resembled me. You all were wearing strange clothing…” Apollo frowns. “But I don’t remember having any children that I haven't claimed at the current moment…They couldn’t have been mine, right?” 

“Have you ever been to a camp like that?” 

“Well– no.” 

“Then we haven’t met there, have we?” Percy asks. He finishes getting dressed, shucking off his pants, now that his chiton is secured. He keeps his underwear on though. Just because everyone else is freeballing it out in Ancient Greece doesn’t mean he has to. 

Apollo hums and looks up at the ceiling, his eyes still glazed over. Molten gold cascades down his eyes like a falling shower of fireworks. It overtakes the blue. “You’re a curious little demigod.” 

It’s getting uncomfortable in the tent. Heat is increasing. Air pressure is weighing down on him. And he’s taking shallower breaths. 

He shakily shrugs. “I’ve been called worse things.” 

Apollo blinks lazily out of his stupor.

“Perseus…just…tell me this.” He purses his lips. “You and this… daughter of Athena. Neither of your parents knew about you.” He intertwines his fingers together nervously. “Which is aggravating…but not for the reason I want to know.” He sighs. His next words come out hastily and slightly jumbled. “Do I have any children out there where you are from?” 

“I–” Percy is cut off, by Apollo looking at him with a serious expression. 

“ Perseus, ” Apollo hesitates. “Please.” 

Well shit. How is Percy supposed to combat that type of sincerity? 

“As far as I’m aware of? I know of no Apollo children that are alive right now.” Percy answers, just a beat from honesty. 

Apollo relaxes, his shoulders dropping. When his eyes meet Percy’s, it’s full of gratitude. Though he never expects the words to be spoken out loud. 

The gods rarely give thanks. Especially to mortals.

Then suddenly–

Percy–

– can’t –

– breathe. 

He collapses onto the floor, falling on his knees before the god. He gasps. All the air around the room is sweltering. 

“You’re hiding something from me.” Apollo says, leaning down and running a hand through Percy’s hair. It burns. It doesn’t sear his skin, Achille’s Curse protecting him slightly, but it inflames the muscles underneath. He could feel the heat in his blood rise, feeling as if it’s about to boil. 

“Wha–” Percy’s voice comes out in hacking coughs. 

“It’s such a shame I can’t kill you.” Apollo’s voice sounds mournful. 

His words shoot through Percy like an arrow. What brought this on? Weren't they okay? They were joking earlier–

His lungs stutter. 

“Most people know than to hide things from me, but you’re very efficient at it.” Apollo’s molten eyes sear into his. It's like looking straight at the sun when you’re a kid, before you know any better. Black spots dot around his vision. He blinks rapidly to try and stop the pain. Apollo's hand trails down to his jaw tightly gripping it. 

“How talented the Son of Poseidon is,” Apollo sneers. “At weaving half-truthed lies.” It burns. It burns. It burns. It burns. The taste of rot and sickness touches the edge of his tongue, as if he just walked into a medic’s tent filled with heavily wounded soldiers. “Do you take me a fool?” 

No. Percy tries to say, but he can’t form the words on his tongue. He can’t fight back. He can’t do anything. He can’t even beg. 

“Do you think I’m so much of an idiot that I would listen to you ask questions, skirt around the truth, and let you get away with it?” Each word hurts as if he’s banging against Percy’s ear with each one. “I know that you’re lying. And even if I don’t know how you’re making it sound truthful, I can see it in your soulless little eyes.” 

The hands gripping his jaw becomes even more painful. 

But it is not as painful as holding up the sky. 

Percy grimaces and spits in front of him a glob of something red. 

“Do you know why I’m keeping you alive, you filthy little–” Apollo closes his eyes and sneers, showing his teeth. “You are going to help us in the war. You are going to help Troy keep from falling. You are going to be perfect.” He pushes Percy until he’s on the floor, his back hitting the canvas tent at a painful angle. A rock digs into his back. “I don’t care what pains I have to drag you through. But you are going to help me.” 

The emotions in Apollos eyes are confusing. He needs to read them. He needs to know why the god is so upset about this. He needs to diffuse this before he accidentally kills Percy. 

A well of power rises up from inside him. The same one that came when he cracked in Tarturus. When he stares into the sun god’s eyes, that well of water pushes against Percy’s skin painfully. As if it were water trying to burst from a tiny crack in a pipe.

( Hands reach out to cover the hole in a disparaging patchwork of a job.)

Then Percy sees. 

There are thick string-like bonds cutting into Apollo. Digging into his skin. Pulling him towards a direction that Percy can just barely see a silhouette there at the other end. It pains his eyes, and hurts looking at. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing or what to make of it. But when he reaches out and grabs it– suddenly he does. 

( Kisses on a forehead in the dead of night. Watching a leaving back in worry. Desperate hands trying to protect, to keep safe. Platonic laughter of camaraderie. Breaking bread, with one hand belonging to the sun, and the other full of callouses and ink stains. A love that one swears to the other, a knight to a king.) 

“You’re in love?” Percy coughs, feeling a liquid slowly filling his mouth. 

Apollo jolts back. 

His form snaps into his regular form. 

Percy gasp, and turns over, dry heaving into the floor as suddenly the air returns to normal. He grasps at the ground, still seeing Apollo’s outline in aftershocks of blue when he closes his eyes. 

“Shut it,” Apollo’s voice rings around him and hisses. “You have no idea what you speak of.” 

But Percy does. He has no clue how, but he does. 

Apollo loves somebody at this camp, and they are close to dying. The fates have their eyes on his string, scissors already poised to cut. And he’s desperate to save them. 

Percy shakes his head, still not being able to speak. He coughs up the liquid in his mouth, grimacing at the copper taste and the splatter of red on the ground. “Aren’t you–” Cough. “Supposed to be helping me–” He gasps. “--Get better?” 

There’s a silence.

A sigh. 

A hand places itself on on his back, and Percy shivers as it’s right about his mortal spot. Warmth fills him, but this time it doesn’t burn. Instead it stitches holes, mends tears, and soothes burns. His mouth becomes less coppery. 

“Honestly, little godling,” Apollo says chidingly. “How did your bones and muscles even get so brittle in the first place?” 

Tarturus. No food. No water. Just endless fighting. It’s what it does. 

Apollo heals the aftereffects of hurting Percy, and when he stands he feels just as he had this morning. When he turns and faces Apollo, he can’t help it, but he flinches. His brain registers him as a threat now, and each time his eyes trail up to his, his ADHD kicks in ready to fight. 

But–

Acting like he’s afraid…Cowering at the will of him…The thought drags nails inside Percy’s mind. Apollo would like it, after that little display. He wants Percy to fear him enough to do a good job at fighting the war. 

Had he gotten to Percy a few years ago…it would’ve worked. 

“Now then,” He straightens his back with a satisfying ‘pop.’ “I’m starving.”

He walks away from Apollo, not even glancing at him towards the edge of the tent. When he finally puts a hand on the flap to draw it back, then, he finally looks at the sun god. 

“Does your camp have breakfast? I’ve been told by one of my healer friends I need to increase my meals in small amounts.” 

When Percy goes back to the future, the entirety of Apollo’s cabin will know if he’s somehow deviated from his meal plan. Especially Will. And he’d rather not get on the boy’s bad side. Last time Nico had tried to leave the infirmary before Will gave permission, he had tied the boy to a chair and somehow convinced Hades to keep him from shadow travelling. 

And they call me over powerful. Percy snorts. 

Laughter is what got him through the last wars. He has a feeling he’s going to rely on it heavily as a coping mechanism for the next few days. Dionysus is going to love their therapy sessions when he gets back to his timeline.

“Your healer friends are right.” Apollo says, walking towards the door and motioning Percy to follow. Acting as if the last few minutes never happened. His eyes are normal. There is no molten gold. No narrowed pupils. His smile even appears friendly, if you couldn’t see the fakeness of it all. It screams wrong, wrong, wrong. “You’re malnourished. Most likely from not eating properly. Do you know how important it is to get the right amount of food? Because there are some serious side effects–” 

Percy hesitantly follows him out of the tent, as Apollo shifts to his mortal form, and lets the sun god’s lecture wash over him.

They find breakfast, a type of barley porridge, in a large pot by a campfire. 

Apollo, still going by Anatolious while near mortals, watches him with raven sharp eyes, making sure he eats every drop of his portion. He has to scrape his bowl clean before the sun god is satisfied and agrees to show him around camp. 

It’s a huge place. 

Apollo shows him the training fields, the river, the main tents, and the top sections of the wall that they defend. While, on tour at the top, Percy looks for places that would be easy to climb. Just in case he gets the chance to escape. Apollo hurries him along during that section. After an hour of walking, they show up at a private training ground that Apollo off-handedly mentions belongs to Hector. 

In the field, Ares is sparring someone that Percy hasn’t seen yet. He's lithe and fast, but against Ares, all of his movements seem slow and sluggish. Another man sits under the shade of a tarp, and waves at Apollo when he catches sight of them. The two approach him. 

“Lord Anatolius! We were afraid you'd miss the show. Who is this?” The man asks. Percy vaguely recognizes him as one of the commanders that Apollo had ordered out yesterday. 

“Hector, this is Perseus, he will be staying with us for the current time.” Apollo smiles, placing a hand on his chest and bowing slightly. 

Percy doesn't think he's ever seen Apollo bow at someone besides the Big Three. 

Also– why is Apollo looking at Hector like that?

The sun brightens for a second as Hector nods back at Apollo, turning towards Percy. His eyes are warm, yet analyzing. Percy feels as if every inch of him is being scrutinized. 

Something scratches at the back of Percy's thoughts, and he can't shake off the feeling that he's met this man before. 

Hector must not find what he’s looking for. He sighs. “Have you brought me another Paris?” 

“I resent that!” The man facing Ares calls outs. There’s a clang of metal clashing. 

It’s followed by a gruff, “Pay attention!” 

Apollo laughs obnoxiously. “No, this one is more than a pretty face.” 

Percy turns to study the battle. Ares is obviously holding back, but he is still wiping the floor with him. Servants gather on the edge of the field with supplies ready in case something goes wrong. 

“I should certainly hope so,” Hector rubs a hand along his jaw. “Paris’s good looks may be enough to catch the enemies off guard, but it would be nice to have some firepower.” 

His voice is laced with sarcasm, and Percy can read in between the lines of his words and translate them to their modern meaning– It’s a good thing that Paris is pretty. 

He snorts. 

Apollo looks at him, an awaiting look glinting in his eye, as if he is expecting Percy to do something. Percy glares back. Reaching out, the sun god squeezes his shoulder. (Underneath Percy's skin, the muscles start to softly burn.) What does he want? Does he want Percy to speak to him or something?  Then again, hadn't there been something in the Illiad about Hector being a prince? 

Fuck. He wishes he actually paid more attention to the Illiad when Annabeth read it to him. 

Resigned, Percy mentally sighs. 

“I can serve in all the ways I can for a while,” Percy says, bowing as well, glaring at Apollo as he does so. “How little that may be.” 

Hector’s eyes lower in disappointment. 

“He’s being modest, my prince.” Apollo cuts in, shooting a glare back at him. “Perseus here has iron skin like Achilles.” 

Hector shoots up in his chair. It's as if a breeze of new life had invigorated him. His mouth parts and his eyes widen in awe. He looks between them. “Honestly? Truly?” 

“He doesn't jest,” Ares says, coming over as a nearby servant brings him a cool, damp towel. He runs it along his face as he stares at the three. “He’s a warrior. And though I have yet to see his skill, I suspect he’s a fine one.” 

The man who had been facing Ares, Paris, trudges over to the sidelines, flopping down on the grass. A servant also gives him a towel, but they also bring bandages and a bowl of what looks like barely. Paris groans as he stretches his stiff muscles over his head. 

As he eats the barely concoction, Percy can't help but get a glimpse of him. 

Hector had been right, Percy guesses, he could be described as attractive. That knowledge couldn't lessen the fleeting anger in his chest though. 

Paris is someone that Percy knows all too well. And as he watches the man whine on the grass, his anger is quickly followed by disgust. Everyone at camp knew about Paris. He's the one who gave the golden apple to Aphrodite, the one who convinced Helen to leave Troy. 

Paris looks up with glistening skin, straight teeth and remarks something to Ares. 

Percy's hands ball into fists. 

This pitiful man is the one who started the Trojan War?

(The ocean draws back in anger. Dark abyss eyes take notice with surprise. Adoration fills the sea breeze that blows through the camp afterward.) 

Prince Hector looks down at Percy's clenched fists, with eyes full of regret, and the teenager relaxes them. It's not smart to show anger in front of the people he's meant to serve. But how could he stay peaceful when he faces a man whose selfish wishes started the war that costs hundreds of lives? 

Hector stands up, breaking him from his anger. “Well, no time like the present!” The prince claps his hands together. “Andor, would you like to rest?” 

Ares, Andor apparently, shook his head. It’s only been a few seconds after sparring, but he looks refreshed. Eager even. His eyes gleam hungrily as he stares at Percy. The teen’s stomach squirms at the sight. 

That can’t be good. 

“Excellent, Perseus, if you wouldn’t mind sparring with Andor here. He’s one of our top warriors. He's almost like a spirit on the battlefield. It's truly something to see. Facing him would help us determine your skill level. Don’t worry, nobody expects you to win.” 

Ares would probably preen at the praise, had he not been staring so intently at Percy. Ares tilts his head, and for a flash all Percy can see is molten red eyes with tusks and teeth grinning.

The air around them feels charged. As if static is clinging to their bodies.  

Oh yeah, sure, throw him in the ring to fight the god of war. That’s a fair fight. 

(Suddenly he’s twelve again, with a backpack too heavy and a sword too big in his hands.) 

Percy frowns but nods at his request. “I’ll need a weapon.” 

“We have plenty of sparring blades by the rack, choose your pick,” Hector says motioning towards a wall. 

There are several weapons lined up. Percy ignores the spears and staves. They had never fit his style, unlike Clarisse. His eyes linger on the swords, and he picks them up, testing their weight. It’s not until the fourth one he picks one up that he finds a weight familiar to Riptide. 

“Will he hurry–” There’s a sound of a smack. Percy turns around to see Ares disdainfully glaring at Paris. 

Serves him right. 

“A warriors weapon is an extension of themself, and can’t be chosen lightly.” Ares growled at him. “Have I not drilled that into your head yet?” 

“Well– I–” 

“Paris?” 

“Yes?” 

“Run laps,” Ares snaps. The man whines pitifully but stands up and starts to slowly jog out of the field.

Percy walks into the center of the field swinging his sword experimentally. It’s a dulled blade. Even if an accident were to occur, it wouldn’t draw blood. Not that he had to worry about that…facing Ares. He doubts the god would let any of the mortals see his golden ichor, managing that Percy even pull offs wounding him in the first place. 

Ares strides into the center of the field. 

An image flashes across Percy’s mind of a boar getting ready to charge at its prey. The war god approaches him. 

“I’ve been waiting for this,” He says, low enough that the others probably couldn’t hear him. 

“You have?” Percy asks curiously, raising an eyebrow.  

Ares nods, his smile showing all teeth. “You’ve faced many different monsters.” He moves so close to Percy that they’re almost standing chest to chest. He has to crane his neck up to meet the god’s burning eyes. “Was it luck that got you out of it? Or skill?” 

Percy blinks. 

Ares feet shift on the grass. His hand white knuckles the hilt of his sword. He wonders if this is the last sight that many soldiers have seen throughout the years. Ares looking down at them, blood lust sparking the air. 

“You said–” Ares inhales a breath– excited. “You’ve fought a war before?” 

“Two.” 

His smile gets impossibly wider. “How old?” He asks close to a whisper. 

“Twelve,” Percy answers. There’s a distinct feeling that he shouldn’t lie about this to Ares. And honestly, he’s willing to postpone their spar by talking. He’s not looking forward to the inevitable beat down. “Sixteen.” 

Ares blinks. “Recently?” 

Percy nods. 

“Do you know–” Ares pauses, thinking about his words. A rare sight. “--The others have champions?” 

How is that relevant to the situation? Percy nods confused. 

“Apollo has Hector,” His eyes glance over to the two who are chatting amicably under the shade. “And Paris, I presume. Though he falls more under Aphrodite's realm.” 

He leans closer as if whispering a secret. “And we all know about Athena with her two favored Greeks. She thinks she’s being subtle.” 

He moves back, eyeing the god of war wearily. “Are you subtle?” 

“I think that the both of us, Perseus–” Ares says, stepping back as his feet shift into a fighting stance. He raises his blade. Percy raises his in kind, as Ares smiles. “--Are anything but elusive.”

Then he swings. 

Percy sees the move coming and immediately parries. 

Behind his sword, Ares becomes the picture of determination. Their blades only touch for a few seconds before Ares is drawing back, blade already arching towards his side. 

Percy ducks. Then he– for the first time in their spar– swings first. 

Their blades meet again. 

The noise around them grows silent. Apollo’s and Hectors whispers die out. All Percy can think of is the battle in front of him. Parry left. Parry right. Duck. Jump. 

He rolls to the side aiming up and at Are’s feet. 

“You fight dirty,” Ares cackles. 

“Is there such a thing during war?” Percy asks in a huff. 

He’s tiring, quickly. Shit. Ares doesn’t hesitate to put a large force behind each blow. Were Percy not a demigod, the blade would have long flown from his hand. 

‘ This would be a much more fair fight near the water–’ Percy thinks as he circles Ares. They both have a brief pause as they think through their next move. He feels the river coursing power near him, but it’s leagues away. 

“How long has he lasted–?”

“A minute–?” 

It’s almost like a dance between the two. Ares isn’t facing Percy at all of his skill. But, that wouldn’t have been a fair fight. And Percy knows that Ares likes his challenges to last a while. 

(He had when Percy was a kid at least.) 

Percy’s breaths start coming out as ragged as he moves. Sweat beads down his face and drips onto his chiton. 

There’s a water source nearby– his powers prompt him– but he ignores the pull. He hasn’t used that since Tarturus, and he isn’t going to start now. 

( Hector's blood thrums from meters away. All it would take is one pull–)

His powers stretch through him, almost as if his skin is too tight. It’s been that way since he and Annabeth had fallen down, like a shell he’s outgrown. 

He needs to end this quickly. 

But how–? Percy closes his eyes. 

( A trickle of power pulling at him, the sound of cool ripples–) 

A power pulls at him from nearby. A basin of water he hadn't seen before that they used to cool their towels. From the corner of his eye, he can see a panting Paris cupping his hands to drink from it. 

Oh, they’re going to be ticked. 

‘Sorry, not sorry, my dude,’ Percy thinks as he reaches out a hand–

–his power pulls taught against his skin–

–The water responds. 

Across the field the water shoots, even the bit from Paris’s hand. Drenching the front of his clothes. Percy doesn’t wait to see his reaction though, guiding the water. It hits Ares in the center of his chest at full force. The man stumbles back. 

The war god’s eyes widen a bit, and Percy makes his move, tucking close between the water and his sword and aiming towards his opponent’s throat. As expected, the blunt metal does nothing when it clashes against Are’s jugular. 

They both pause. The water falls around them in a gentle shower. 

Percy gasps, and at the last second, falls to his knees. He rests his forehead against his sword as he inhales large chunks of air. He’s almost afraid to look up. 

When Percy had beaten Ares as a child, it had been because he underestimated him, and Ares had been furious for it. 

Will this Ares look at him the same way? Full of disgust and rage? A piece of spit gets caught in his throat and he coughs. He’s a mess and worn out. Percy hasn’t been pushed that hard since Tarturus and the war. 

A hand lightly rests ontop of his head. 

When Percy tilts his head up, Ares isn’t looking at him. He’s staring away, across the distance towards Apollo. 

There’s an unspoken order in the air. 

His fingers lightly scratch the boy’s hair. 

“You can control water,” He finally says. 

Percy coughs again, “Yes.” 

A pause. The hand remains a firm weight on top of his head. 

“There are some things we can improve on,” Ares notes, not sounding at all disappointed. Percy nods and the hand removes itself. 

A small part of Percy misses the warmth. He smothers that part of himself though, as he gasps and looks towards the sky. Fuck. He’s exhausted. He can feel all of his powers surging against his skin from not using them the past few weeks. 

( Blood thumps from across the way, pushing towards him–) 

He lowers his head towards the ground as black spots dance through his vision. Distantly, he realizes that he’s bleeding from a shallow cut on his arm. When had Ares landed that? 

He can hear Ares walking away from him in the grass.

Schink. Percy turns just in time to see Ares sheathe his blade and a straw dummy in the training field falls down, cut perfectly in half.  

“Are you okay?” A weathered, calloused hand reaches down in front of him. Perseus blinks languidly. He clasps the hand and lets it pull him up. 

“I feel as if all my bones are made of pudding,” He laughs. 

Hector’s smile is warm. “You put on a good show there. Where did you learn to train like that?” 

“Oh, you know,” Percy grins as he raises one of his ankles and rotates it. “From a few trainers.” 

It feels wrong to call Chiron, the son of Kronos, as a mere trainer. But it’s not wrong. He turns around to look for Apollo, but both he and Ares are gone. 

Hector steadies him as he leans a bit. “You’ve more than proven yourself with that stunt, any place in the army is yours, if you would have it.” 

“You would offer a permanent place in you army? To me? A stranger?” Percy asks, his head still rushing from the exercise. “That doesn't seem smart.” 

It feels nice.

Hector's laugh is boisterous and infectious, pulling  a grin from Percy. 

“Well, I certainly do not wish for the Greeks to have you,” Hector admits. “What do you need right now?” 

“Water?” Percy asks. 

Hector makes a sign for his servants. Holding the boy steady, they start to walk towards the edge of the field. “I know that it is much to ask for,” Hector starts. “To fight in a war that isn’t yours.” 

They walk peacefully side by side. It’s calm. A gentle wind pleasantly blows against Percy’s flushed skin. He can hear his blood thump through his ears. 

“If my father has it his way though, it will be my war.” Percy admits. 

“Ah yes, who is your godly father? I suspect one of the sea,” Hector looks over at the empty water tank. 

( The sea croons in his ear, a possessive whisper that calls out to him.) 

“My father is Poseidon,” Percy admits. 

Hector, for the most part, accepts this answer. Yet Percy can tell that something about it unsettles him. That’s to be expected though, considering who his father is, and what previous children of his have done. 

Percy thinks back to Theseus and shudders. 

“So, this isn’t your war,” Hector echoes. “Then why are you here? Surely, there are other fronts you might fight for.” 

“My father commands it of me,” Percy says. “He would chase me down if I were to leave.” 

The light in Hector’s eyes dwindles. “A pity. Warriors who fight with their heart behind them are some of the strongest. It feels wrong to ask loyalty from someone who does not wish to be here.” He sighs, the two move towards the shade as a servant places a bronze chalice full of spring water in Percy’s hands. 

“Thank you,” He tells the servant, who faintly blushes and scurries away. A few seconds later, the servant glances back at him, almost in awe. 

Hector watches the interaction, his face unchanging. “You are… strange. For a demigod.”

“What do demigods act like?” 

Percy drains the rest of his chalice, and Hector motions for another one. “They're often loud and prideful. They boast of their achievements and act as if everything were theirs to take.”

“Sounds awful.” 

“They often times are,” Hector almost whispers. His eyes flicker over to Paris who is yelling at a servant to bring him fresh clothes. Once again, he looks mournful. “Were it up to me, there would be no war at all.” 

Percy blinks. It's not the answer he was expecting. 

“You don’t…want the war?” Percy asks. “What about honor? And glory?” And all those other things that people these days are obsessed about?

“Where is the honor when my people die to a hand that cannot be killed?” Hector closes his eyes in pain. “Where is the glory if a prince can not save his kingdom?” 

Oh. Oh shit. Memories resurface that he had forgotten.

(Fingers that feel like Annabeth's pluck out a book in the library of Percy's mind.) 

All those nights of Annabeth lecturing him come back in full swing. It's one thing to know that Hector, this Hector, is the prince of Troy. It's another to hear him speak and realize that he's the ruler of a nation that is going to be ransacked.  

Percy’s stomach sinks. 

How had he died again? Percy had remembered that it had been Athena’s fault somehow–

Hector shakes his head, his black hair swishing. He doesn’t look like a prince. Not to Percy anyways. He wore the same type of chiton as Paris or Apollo’s mortal form. His sandals were covered in grass and dirt. And there are cuts and bruises along his arms from fighting.

He looks like any other warrior. 

Something dangerous crosses Percy’s mind right then. A speck of something he’d seen in others like Jason. 

This is the type of person that men are willing to follow. Percy frowns. That he’d want to follow. 

Not for the first time, Percy wishes that he hadn’t been separated from Annabeth. In fact, he curses at the fates for sending them back in the first place. 

(There’s a smug snip in the air. The wind dies out around them.) 

“If you’d like to,” Hector offers “I’d like to have you help some of the newer recruits footwork. It was nearly flawless when you fought Andor. And there are not many who could fight that well with a blade.” 

Training? Now that Percy could do. That had been his favorite part of returning to camp in the summers. 

“They might have trouble listening to one so young,” Hector says. “But don’t go easy on them.” 

“Oh, I won’t your highness.” Percy says unsure, wondering if he’s using the proper terms. 

Hector’s smile is fond. “Please, my friends call me Hector.” He claps Percy on the shoulder. “And I have a feeling that we’ll be good friends.” 

He then makes a motion to follow him and walks across the field. “Now, we’ve seen your prowess with a sword. Let us see what skill you have in archery!” 

Percy almost chokes. “I have absolutely none! It would be a crime to hand me a bow.” 

“So humble!” Hector laughs. “Just as before, aye?” 

“No, I really mean it. I’ve been barred from archery lessons in the past. I’ve had a few skilled warriors tell me that I am unteachable.” 

The prince of Troy looks at him disbelievingly. “Nobody is unteachable if given the proper instruction.” 

Oh no. He’s not going to believe him until he sees it, huh? Well, Percy had tried to warn him. He shoots up a quick apology to Artemis and Apollo. 

I’m so sorry that my lack of skill is almost a mockery of your craft. 

( Musical fingers pluck at his attention in jest. Laughter floats by like a lyre. Another hand, plucks at his attention like a bow string, curious and waiting.) 

He hopes he doesn’t have to see Ares or Apollo after this. They’re never going to let him live this down. 

Against his better judgement, Percy follows Hector to the archery field. 

Chapter Text

Please go back and read the trigger warnings for this chapter, if you have not already. <3 

“How is someone so proficient with a sword, that horrendous with a bow?” Paris shrieks in part laughter and mockery. He stares at Percy from where he lounges under the shade of a tree. He’s changed out of his soaked chiton, and has a simple grey himation wrapped around his waist and shoulder, leaving most of his chest bare. 

Percy had hoped at some point during their disastrous session, the arrow might accidentally stray and pierce him. 

But alas– no such luck. 

Apollo stands to the side, having shown up in the middle of the demonstration, and looks appalled. When Percy passes him, to put up his bow back on its rack, the sun god shoots him a wide-eyed look. 

“I thought what you prayed to me had been a joke. ” Apollo accuses. 

Percy shrugs half-heartedly. “Even with my distaste for you all, I know better than to joke with a god in prayer.” Well…He knows better than to do that in this time . 

“I wish you had been joking. Perseus the arrow didn’t even go in the same direction .” Apollo runs both his hands through his hair. His next words are whispered. “I’m the god of archery. And even I didn’t know that an arrow could do that.” 

“Well, you know how the saying goes…even an old dog can learn new tricks.” 

“First of all, I have never heard of that saying in my life,” Apollo pouts. 

Percy raises an eyebrow at him just as Hector approaches him. 

He looks worn out, exhausted, and mildly horrified. “So before– you were not being humble.” 

Percy could feel the fangs in his mouth sharpen in joy. His smile is pointed. Hector sighs, and places a hand on his shoulder. “For the rest of the Trojan Army, I do believe that I can plead for all of us when I say, please.” He stresses the last word. “ Stay away from archery.” 

Funny, that’s exactly what Chiron had said after his first archery lesson at camp. 

Oh, how little things really do change throughout the years. 

“I will do my best!” Percy says. Then, he narrows his eyes at Paris as a servant brings him a bronze chalice full of what seems like wine. Hector follows his gaze and saddens. 

The man closes his eyes in pure exhaustion. Apollo’s expression drops at the sight. The sun gods hands twitch forward as if keeping himself from cupping the man's face. 

“Considering the circumstances, I do not blame many for hating my half-brother.” Hector admits, opening his tired eyes. “It is hardly fair to ask for you to enjoy his presence when his follies have caused so many pain. But must you wear your disdain for him so publicly?” 

“Men have died because of him,” Percy says. He looks down at the grass as a light wind blows through. “But others do not have the freedom to voice such opinions. So I do it for them.” 

“That is true,” Apollo muses. “Most soldiers or servants would be punished heavily for acting disrespectful towards a prince. Even if it is Paris.” 

“I’m sorry Lord Anatolious, but I wasn’t speaking about the men.” 

They all go quiet as his words sink in. 

“Ah, maybe it would help you to know that despite rumors, the Queen of Sparta, she is quite treasured here–” 

“A gilded cage doesn’t stop it from being a cage.” Percy shuts that down quickly. It doesn’t matter if Helen is being treated like Aphrodite herself. It doesn’t stop the fact that most accounts show that she isn’t here willingly. 

There had been a few accounts that had said that Helen had gone to Troy with Paris on her own accord. But even in those accounts, Aphrodite had enchanted her to like Paris. That still isn’t free will. 

The group around them stay quiet as Percy shakes his head. “Is there anything else you need from me?” 

Hector shakes his head, and Percy stalks through the field towards camp. Apollo doesn’t follow him, staying behind to talk more with Hector. 

Free of all his babysitters, Percy heads towards the river. 

The water is crystalline clear despite being so close to a town. There were a few pollutants, but nowhere near the amount that modern rivers faced. As he settles next to the riverside, he slips his feet into the water. A small stream slips up and heals his aches from the day, and one sliver of water completely washes away his cut. 

A few feet away a nereid peeks her head out of the water, staring at him curiously. 

Percy smiles at her and waves. “Is this your river?” 

She nods, raising further out of the water. 

“It’s a beautiful one,” He says, “Don’t let me bother you.” 

“You’re strange…for a demigod.” She creeps closer. 

Oh, if Percy had a drachma every time he heard that. 

“Are any other demigods bothering you?” He asks seriously. 

Despite the circumstances, Percy is glad that he can still listen to people in his father’s court. This had always been his favorite part of being his father’s son. Helping out sea creatures, cleaning out water ways, and being a sympathetic ear. Those little acts had made everything seem worth it at the end of the day. 

She shakes her head. “Further up the land though, my sister's stream delves from my own. It goes down towards another coast, and she’s been having some issues at the Greek encampment there.” 

He frowns. “What kind of issues?” 

“Men chasing her and our other sisters, my prince,” She frog blinks. “You are a prince of the sea, are you not?” 

“I am,” Percy admits. Rage swells up inside him. He clenches his fist in the grass. “I cannot leave camp or else I would help. I am sorry.” 

Soon though– if he escapes.

“Why are you sorry for things you have no control over?” The nereid asks. 

Because he feels as if he should be able to help. Some of his people are in pain. How could he sit by silently and watch that happen? 

“Because I am,” He simply says. She swims over and folds her arms on the bank, hoisting herself half out of the water. Her smile is full of sharp teeth. “If any men from this camp bother you, please do not hesitate to tell me.” 

“I will tell you, my lord.” She nodded. “Why, may I ask, can you not leave the city?” 

Should he tell her? It’s not as if it could hurt. He pauses. Then sighs, leaning back on one of his hands, as the evening sun washes over him. “My father wishes for me to fight for this encampment since my…” Shoot they didn’t do girlfriends in Ancient Greece did they? The closest word they had would be…Eh. Sorry Annabeth. “My lover.” He tastes the words on his tongue. It sounds wrong. “She’s in the Greek encampment.” 

The nereid gasps, placing her hand in front of her lips. “Oh how tragic!” She leans in. Her big eyes frog blink again. 

Nereids and their propensity to gossip. Percy almost rolls his eyes. They’re almost as bad as the dolphins. 

“I miss her very much, and long to see her,” Percy laments, kicking his feet a bit. Is he playing it up a bit? Well… maybe. But it is rooted in the truth. He does miss Annabeth. But it’s only been two days, they’ve gone much longer without seeing each other on their own quests. What is really worrying him is– “If you say that your nereids are being mistreated by Greek soldiers though…I worry if she is okay. What if she is being mistreated as well?” 

The nereid looks at him as if she’s the one that’s about to start crying. “How awful. To be separated from someone you care for so deeply and not know if they’re in pain.” 

Percy nods, tilting his head to the side as his hair falls a bit over his eyes. “It has just now made me realize that I am not there to protect her if she needs it. She’s a strong woman, and can protect herself. That’s one of the reasons we’re so close. But, I wish I could at least know she is well.” 

“This absolutely cannot stand,” The nereid warbles. Percy clicks back to her in mer speech in response. “Oh! My Prince! Why don’t I go to my sisters and have them check up on her? We could see if she is being mistreated then.” 

“You would do that for me?” Percy asks in surprise. “But wouldn’t that be going against my father? Our lord of the seas? I would not want you to get in trouble.” 

“Ah, in that case, we will be sneaky about it. Do not worry my prince. My sisters and I can be discreet. We’ll bring word of your lover to you.” She says. 

“What is your name?” He asks. 

“Menodora,” Moon’s gift. It’s a pretty name. Percy smiles. 

“In that case, can you give her another message from me?” 

Menodora nods and Percy leans over to whisper something into her ear. When she splashes back into the water and leaves up the river, he waves her goodbye. She’s risking a lot for him. If Posideon finds out that he’s going behind his back… well. 

What are the odds of that happening?  

Percy’s time alone ends at dinner. 

He’s sitting in the grass, nursing another bowl of barley, when he hears someone drop next to him. He turns to see red eyes narrowed in disgust at his bowl. 

Ares chuffs in annoyance. “You need meat.” 

“Hello to you too,” Percy sasses. 

“You won’t be beating your malnutrition with grains alone,” Ares rumbles, eyes narrowing down at him. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Percy gestures at all the other milling soldiers with his spoon, who are now giving him a wide berth. “They’re all eating the same thing.” He brings another bite of gruel up to his mouth and tries not to make a face at it. “Why do you care anyways?” 

The man huffs unimpressed. “Do not act ignorant little godling, you know why we want you in this camp.” 

Percy snorts. “Yeah to be your little match up against Achilles. Not that anybody asked me what I wanted.” He rolls his eyes and goes to take another, admittedly tasteless, bite. But a hand grips his wrist, hard enough to bruise.

Ares stands up, tugging him along. “Hey I was–” The bowl falls from his hand as the god of war leads him in another direction. A growl reverberates the air, and Percy snaps his mouth shut. 

As they grow closer to the gates of Troy, Percy can’t help but wonder if this is where it all ends. (Has his mouth finally gotten him killed?) If Ares murdered him, he would be on Posideon’s shit list for a while, yeah, but they’d get over it. It isn’t as if the two haven’t ever fought before. 

They march through the gates. 

( Musical strings pluck in surprise and confusion.) 

“Where are we going?” Percy asks. Where is his funeral going to be? 

Ares doesn’t answer, pulling him deeper into the forest and away from the ocean. The waves call out to him, even so far away he can hear its wild plea. His head tilts in its direction, and in response Ares pulls him closer. 

“Keep walking,” He frowns. 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

“Not today.” And well, Ares is many things. But, Percy has never known him as the type to pull tricks. He lets his guard down a bit as they stand under a grove of trees. 

“Does Apollo know I’m out of the city?” Percy raises an eyebrow. 

Ares shoots him a look that seems to ask, do I look like I care? “You need proper food for when you face the son of Thetis.” 

“About that,” Percy pauses. “Nobody ever told me how I’m supposed to defeat him? Doesn’t it seem almost pointless to have two people who can’t be pierced facing each other?” 

The war god snorts and drops Percy’s wrist. Absentmindedly, he rubs at it. “While nobody will say a word against you ending that brat’s life, your goal is not to defeat him. It’s to keep him distracted from the fight. The more time you fight against him, the less troops that will fall to his blade.” 

“So it’s a game of endurance.” 

Ares nods. “Endurance that you will not have by eating barely day in and day out. Most soldiers usually supplement their own food by hunting. But considering you are not allowed out of the city on behest of your father’s orders…well–” He motions to himself. 

A visible shudder runs down his spine. 

Wait– hunt as in kill his own food? It’s not as if Percy hasn’t thought about it before, but usually when he’s in a bind, he scrounges up money for McDonalds. He doubts he’ll find a cheeseburger out here in the woods.

Ares eyes narrow on him. “You should be grateful mortal. It is not everyday that one gets to hunt with a god.” 

Instantly the demigod’s mouth tastes sour. Well, time to rip the band aid off. 

“I never have hunted before.” 

There’s a pause. 

Ares blinks, eyes wide. “Say that again?”

Percy scowls. “It’s not as if I’ve had a father to teach me how to hunt. I’ve mostly scavenged in the ocean.” 

“To reiterate, you’ve never hunted on land?” 

“Clams are tasty enough for me.” 

Ares frowns, tusks gleaming as he snarled. He mutters something that Percy can’t decipher. “No choice then. I’ll have to show you.”  

“We could fish?” Percy offers. A spear lands in front of him on the ground. “Or not.”

“Every man should know how to obtain his own food.” Ares nose scrunches at the thought. “Where were you taught that they would teach you swordsmanship but not this?” 

Despite knowing it wasn’t a skill that they needed to learn in modern times, Percy can’t help but feel defensive on the camp's behalf. “My trainers were perfectly adequate!” 

“Apparently not,” Ares grunts. He waits until Percy picks up the spear. It’s awkward in his hands. This had been more of an Ares cabin weapon than a Poseidon weapon. But, if he squints, he could act as if it’s a trident? “We will have to start with the basics– let me show you–” 

It’s a long and grueling time. 

Ares makes him practice handling a spear for an hour before they actually get moving in the forest. They wait low in the foliage until they stumble upon a deer. It’s sad. But Percy makes sure to end it’s life quick so it doesn’t suffer. 

It’s a disgusting job to clean the animal. 

(There's so much blood. The job makes Percy tempted to use his powers just to lift all the blood away cleanly and efficiently, but Ares stands over him as he does it, and he's not willing to risk people knowing about that.) 

An even worse task is to skin the deer and learn the basics of tanning. By the time it’s over Percy never wants to do it again. 

I am so sorry Bambi’s mom. He thinks when the deer is finished. After Percy cuts the meat, they roast it on a spit above a fire. The rest of the deer Ares salts and leaves to dry. 

“Here,” Ares says, showing Percy a packet made of leaves in his hand. He passes it to him. Opening it up, a mound of little herbs and spices greet him. 

“What kind of seasonings are these?” Percy asks as he hands it back to Ares. The man sprinkles it over the meat. 

Percy doesn’t think he’s smiled once during this entire field trip. 

“A blend that the Hunters of Artemis usually keep on them.” Ares notes. He then looks at Percy and rolls his eyes. “Do not look so disgruntled, I was given the recipe as a gift for winning a tournament a while back. Artemis may hate men, but she isn’t so proud that she does not know when to call her loss.” 

Despite the guts, blood and gore, it’s a good meal. And, as much as Percy hates to admit it, it’s an informative lesson. Of course, Percy hopes that he never has to hunt again in his entire life, but he can admit that it could provide useful in the future. Were he stuck in another situation like this one where McDonalds is suddenly not available. 

“This is really good,” Percy says as he finishes a roasted skewer of meat that Ares hands him. 

“You should be eating meals like this at least a few times a week,” Ares grumbles, cutting himself a share. 

Per habit, Percy takes a portion off his skewer and throws it in the fire. 

Ares eyes flash in warning. “What in Hades name–” 

“An offering,” Percy says owlishly. “For my father?” 

“Was your father the one that took you on this hunt?” The black haired man growled. His form shifts into something molten, then back just as fast. 

“No, but you’re already eating a portion,” Percy adds. “Seems kinda counterintuitive?” 

Ares crosses his arm and Percy has to push down the urge to scream. Of course the war god wants more recognition. He rolls his eyes. “Fine, is there anything you want?” 

The man sits back down, eyes gleaming. It’s only at his satisfied smirk, the first one he’s seen all day, that Percy realizes how much of an utter fool he is. 

He should've known better than to put himself in debt to a god. 

“I can’t give up Annabeth, before you ask.” 

Ares smirk drops. 

“I could care less of what kind of lover you take. But it would be a hassle to have you heart broken if she manages to die in the war.” 

“Aww Ares, don’t tell me that you care.” Percy sasses, finishing off his skewer. 

“I will stab you. Multiple times.” Well, it isn’t a no. He continues. “Most warriors become useless or lose their wits after their heart breaks. I fear for whatever madness will befall Achilles if his dearest Patroclus dies. Those two are so intertwined at the hip, it’s a miracle they were not born as joined twins.” 

Percy almost snorts at the mental image. Then he freezes. “In truth, if Annabeth were to die–” He closes his eyes briefly. The blood inside him tinges warm.  “No, I am not going to think about that.” Then he chuckles. “Although, you all should be more worried if the opposite were true. ‘Beth wouldn’t hesitate to tear down every stone from Troy’s walls if I died. And she’s figure out how to do that. Her brain is scarily hot.” 

( A giant ocean wave crashes on the beach, whispers following it.) 

(Little demigod– you will not die–) 

Ares raises an eyebrow at his last statement, but Percy waves his hand dismissively. “Forget about that, you were deciding what you wanted?” 

“I think I shall wait to decide,” Ares grins as he stands up. He waves his hand and the fire and everything along with it disappears. The only thing that is left is the salted, dried deer meat, packaged off to the side. The war god wraps it in a bundle of a giant leaf and hands it to Percy. 

Percy frowns at his answer. It’s not wise to let favors towards gods remain unsaid or unresolved. Now, Ares can use it whenever he wants for whatever reason, and Percy will have to indulge him. Knowing from the smirk he wears, Ares knows it too. 

He takes the pack. “Thank you Lord Ares for the hunt.” 

Just as the gods never say ‘thank you,’ they say ‘you’re welcome’ just as much. 

Ares grunts, “Come along then, your father is requesting your presence.” 

Poseidon is waiting for them back at camp. 

As soon as the sea good spots Percy, Ares disappears in a blink of an eye. 

“Did you have fun?” Poseidon asks as if Percy had just finished a day of school and not a scarring field trip. Percy hoists up the pack of deer meat in his hands. 

“Ares taught me how to hunt,” He says as his father reaches down and ruffles his hair. 

“You know the ocean has plenty for you?” Poseidon asks confused. “Why hunt on land when clams are tasty enough?” 

“That’s what I said!” Percy breathes, a grin growing on his face. Then he pauses. “So what are you doing here? Do you need anything?”

“Do I have to need something in order to visit my son?” 

That’s how it usually goes. Percy frowns. “No?”  

Poseidon’s smile becomes tight and strained. He looks off to the side. “Excellent. Let’s move to your tent then.” 

“I don’t have a tent?” Percy questions. He had slept in the commanders tent, but had been moved to Apollo’s mortal disguise’s tent before he awoke. Or at least. He had assumed it had been his tent, considering he was the first person he saw this morning. 

Poseidon’s expression becomes more genuine as he places a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “You have one now.” He guides the boy through the camp until they come across a large blue tent with wave details embroidered in the canvas.

It’s almost as large as the battle command tents. And those could easily fit fifteen or more soldiers in them. Percy blinks up in surprise. “This is for me?” 

“Well, I had wanted to built you a section of a castle that was attached to Troy’s own. But Apollo had warned me that such luxuries would make you hated amongst the men you’ll battle beside.” Poseidon says pridefully. He motions to the door and Percy slips inside. It’s spacious with a pallet with soft bedding and pillows in the corner. 

There are chairs and even a few tables. Different types of furs cover the floor and some of the desks. An bronze candle holder hangs down from parts of the top. And, a dark wardrobe sits in the corner that Percy has a sinking suspicion will be filled with clothes and supplies. 

“This is too much,” Percy says, aware that almost all the other troops are living in tents way smaller than this one. Poseidon snorts. 

“No, this is being modest,” Poseidon says. “You’re a prince. The others need to recognize your station.” There’s almost feels as if there's a story behind his words. 

It would be an uphill battle to fight with his father, so Percy just silently accepts he will not be getting his way. In the end, it’s just a tent. It’s not as if Poseidon is preparing him a room in Atlantis. 

Besides, soon him and Annabeth will be gone and someone else can probably use it. 

“There is another gift for you.” Poseidon coughs politely and motions towards the bed. On top is long package wrapped in linen. “Apollo had said you took a considerable amount of time choosing the  weight of a good practice sword, so I weighed it and made you an actual blade that has the same feel.” 

Slowly, Percy unwraps the package and a sword that is almost achingly familiar rests in his arms. It’s a beautiful blade made of a type of darker almost slate blue iron that has a shimmer to it. It’s cyclops made, that much is obvious. After hanging around Tyson in the forges for so long, he’s been able to pick up the small hints of their forging style. 

It’s almost iridescent when he holds it up in the light. It’s beautiful. He runs a hand along the leather wrapped hilt and the pearl that sits in the middle of it. He curiously pokes it and his suspicions are confirmed when a hint of magic runs through it. 

“Is this…?” He asks. 

“A pearl that will teleport you to Atlantis if you need it.” Poseidon says, then his voice lowers. “Use it only in emergencies, do you understand?” 

Percy nods as he slides the sword into the sheath next to it. Sliding it onto his belt feels right. He hadn’t known how much not having a weapon had unsteadied him. It feels as if for the first time since he came to camp that he’s whole again. 

“Thank you for the gifts,” Percy says honestly. “I will try to be worthy of them.” 

His father’s eyes linger on the scar on his hand. They swim with an emotion that Percy can’t place. “I’m sure you will.” 

Percy lowers his gaze back to his sword. “Right. In the war–” 

“You know, that is not the only option.” Poseidon interjects. Percy looks him in the eye as his father tilts his head. “You could come with me back to Atlantis.” 

He pauses. What? 

“I thought you wanted me to fight in the war.”

Poseidon frowns. “It is… convenient. However, the deal I’ve made with Aphrodite can be dissolved. It is not as if we swore on the River Styx upon it.” 

Hold up. Percy raises a hand. “You made a deal with Aphrodite for me to fight in the war?” He tries not to let the hurt leak through his voice, but from the way that Poseidon’s expression wavers, he fails. 

“She offered me something in return for you fighting,” Poseidon informs. 

“What did she give you in exchange?” Percy barely stops himself from shouting. His gut sinks as his father’s words register. 

“Ah, do not worry my son, it is nothing that you need to concern yourself with.” His father said, sitting down on his bed. “Now come here, your blood is quickening. You’re getting angry.” 

“Of course I’m getting angry!” He shouts, his resolve snapping. “You’re making deals without my consent for me to fight in war!” 

“If you do not wish to fight, you do not need to do so, we can take you to Atlantis. You’ll be safe there. From what I have heard, you have fought enough battles for your lifetime.” 

“What did she promise you?” Percy growls. His voice dips low into the mer language form of a rattle. He snaps. 

Something appears in Percy’s mouth, a foreign liquid that tastes sickeningly saccharine. He's about to spit it out before the god’s hand forcefully covers his mouth and he accidentally swallows.

He can tell the moment it hits his stomach. 

The sea god's eyes flash a seafoam blue in warning. And a second later, Percy is sluggish and falling forward. His father easily catches him and maneuvers him in his arms until he’s cradled against his chest. Percy tries to fight it. His legs kick, his arms push, he shakes his head, but it’s as if he’s moving through syrup. It’s too slow. 

Even his anger seems to slow down, fading from a blaze to a small simmer below the surface. 

“There you are,” Poseidon smiles, running a hand along Percy’s arm. It trails up to run through the boy’s hair. Percy dry sobs. “You should know better than to try and challenge me.” 

Challenge? Percy hadn’t been doing that, had he? 

His thoughts turn to mush as his father holds him closer. 

“Wait a couple more decades and then you can try that again.” Try what again? What's happening? 

A deep chuckle reverberates beside him. “You’re so soft like this. When I introduce you to Triton and Amphitrite maybe we should have you this compliant.” Percy lets out a clicking version of a young merman whine. The one future Triton taught him to do if he was in trouble. His father’s hold grows tighter. He shushes him softly. “You’re not in danger. I’m here.” 

Percy is in danger. He is. 

He lets out another whining click. “Come on now son, do not be a child. There are simply some things that you are not required to know. It is simply our way as gods. When you are immortal, you will understand.” 

Oh shoot. Did he just say immortal? This Poseidon can’t know that Percy had already turned down immortality. That Percy wants to be human. 

( His skin feels too tight around him, his blood quickens, and a crooning voice made of rushing water laughs– ) 

“I do not usually grow so attached to my demigod children. It’s very curious.” Poseidon’s voice lowers. “I have known you for such a short period of time. But I can read the signs around you. The imprints.” 

Percy tries to fight again, but whatever drugs that Poseidon used are too strong. He melts into his father’s hold miserably. However, his dad must take his ease as submission, because he croons and rests his chin on top the crown of Percy’s head. “There’s something about you. It’s as if I’ve known you for much longer than I have. The others are shocked at how attached I’ve become.” 

He pauses, then continues. “I think it may be because it’s rarer…for my offspring to be strong and also kind. Theseus had grabbed everything he had wanted by force, bribery and false promises. But when you speak I don’t detect any sort of trickery.” Percy closes his eyes. “You do not wish for gold or jewels or women. Not even power. All you want is to return to those who you are loyal to.” 

He chuckles. “Loyalty is not a bad quality to have. However, in your case it borders on a flaw.” 

“Sssss’ not,” Percy slurs. “When ’ssss ‘Bethh.” 

The hands around him tighten. “This daughter of Athena…” He trails off. Percy is suddenly glad he can’t see the man’s face. “She has such a momentous hold on you. What could she have done to win such loyalty?” 

What hadn’t she done? Annabeth had been there for so many of Percy’s adventures. Without her, he would have never made it this far. She was kind. Practical. Smarter than anyone else he knew. 

He loved her. 

Even if he hadn’t told her that yet. He did. 

“Sheeee’s,” Percy starts but then stops, the words not forming correctly on his tongue. Poseidon waits until he can steady his words. “Good.” 

Poseidon laughs. “That’s all?” 

“You donnn get it!” Percy says, teetering on the edge of an anger he still feels. “She’s good.” 

There’s a pause. 

He wonders if his father understands his meaning. That Annabeth is good when few people seldom are. 

“I know, I know,” Poseidon shushes, and Percy wonders if he actually does. “Maybe I should see her for myself then?” 

Percy’s heart quickens and he starts to struggle, throwing up both his arms and pushing him away from his father’s chest. “No!” 

“No?” Poseidon asks, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re in a challenging little mood tonight, aren’t you, demigod?” 

“No!” Percy states again. 

“Honestly, for such a warrior, you act like a child.” Poseidon frowns. 

Tears well up in Percy’s eyes before he can stop it. Darn it! These dumb drugs are making it harder to mask his emotions. “I am a kid!” 

The world goes deathly silent around them, and his father’s arms become rigid. Percy is almost afraid to look and see what expression he is making. Slowly, almost cautiously, the god draws him back onto his lap, his head tucks underneath Poseidon’s chin, and his arms tighten around him like a shield. 

(Or a cage–) 

“Are you twenty?” He asks. Percy shakes his head. “Nineteen?” Again, Percy denies it. “Eighteen–” 

“Daddd,” Percy whines. 

“Surely, you can’t be younger than that.” 

“I’m si-sixteen.” Percy mumbles, noting how the air around them grew warmer. 

“Ah,” Poseidon sounds resigned. 

Percy stills, “Are you–” He licks his dry lips. “Are you mad at me?” 

“Oh, my dear little godling, no. No.” Poseidon rubs his cheek along the boy’s hair. “You’re just a child, Percy” 

He swallows, his dry throat aching. “I’m old enough…” His vision wavers. “...Don’t… be mean to Annabeth. She’s just…a kid too.” 

“I promise Percy that  I will not willingly harm the Athena child.” 

“Swear it… on the Styx.” 

There’s a pause. 

“I swear it on the Styx.” 

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Percy smiles. “Good…I like her, you know?” 

“Trust me Percy,” Poseidon says warmly. “We know.” 

There’s a rustle of fabric. Intruders? Percy squirms to get out of Poseidon’s hold, but his hands keep firm. He whines, but Poseidon shushes him fondly. “It’s alright. It’s just the annoyances.” He pointedly emphasizes that last part as Percy looks to the side as Ares and Apollo step into view. Both of them look… worried. But that can’t be right. Nobody is hurt, right? 

“Is he–” Ares hisses. 

“What business do you two have here?” Poseidon asks. “Do you have news?” 

Molten gold eyes flicker between Percy and his father with concern, Apollo’s brows furrow together. “We’ve come to tell Percy which section of warriors he will be training tomorrow, but I see he’s preoccupied at the moment. We’ll come back in the morning.” 

Percy sluggishly tilts up, trying to rise and greet them, but a hand gently pushes him back. Yeah, he’s not leaving Poseidon’s grip for a while. Okay. That’s fine. He likes his dad. 

( Musical hands pluck a questioning note on a lyre. A sword balances on the edge of something that Percy can’t describe.) 

“See to it that you do then,” Poseidon growls. 

There’s a brief glow like a sunset and the Apollo disappears. Ares visibly hesitates. A threatening rattle follows. 

“We need him focused tomorrow,” Ares almost sounds scared. 

“You will have him bright-eyed and clear headed. Now leave.” 

There’s a sound of clanging metal, and then in a second Ares is gone as well. 

And Percy is alone to soothe a worried god. Peace of cake really. At least this time he gets to be jello instead of fighting a war. For a second, he worries if his father will actually go out to meet Annabeth on the Greek side, but then he calms down. He’ll just have to wait to set up a line of communication with Menodora. 

He can wait until then. 

He has to. 

Poseidon watches carefully as his son falls asleep in his arms. 

Such a curious demigod. 

On the outer edges of his spirit, Poseidon can see where he’s left tiny imprints into the boy's soul. There are little notes scrawled into his spirit that only a god could see. They sing of invisible adoration, praises, and honors. All made by Poseidon’s hand. 

The only problem is that Poseidon doesn’t remember making a single one. 

The first time he laid eyes on the boy, he almost couldn’t believe his own vision. The boy is so showered with love from Poseidon that it’s almost as if the god of the sea had painted giant flags on his son’s spirit to warn off other gods. 

This is my favored child. All of the different marks scream. Stay away. Keep safe. Do not harm. 

( The sea croons, having only touched him once, the notes around his son’s spirit beckons them like a beam of light upon a dark ocean.) 

However, he’s missing the most vital piece of protection that Poseidon could give. 

There’s no mark on him that claims him as Poseidon’s. Yes, his spirit is claimed by Poseidon’s admirations and songful praises for the boy. But there’s no mark that signifies that he’s been touched and blessed by him. 

Probably because this is the first time he’s ever met him. 

He could have made those other notes with the edges of his consciousness. He must have noticed his son’s deeds, even if he hadn’t known it was his son doing them. Interesting. Poseidon wishes could remember making such signs. 

But, it’s no matter, he guesses. 

His son is in his arms now. He’s his. No other god will be able to ignore his claims now. Not even another pantheon, like he is starting to get a sneaking suspicion had stolen his child away. 

(All signs that the gods have observed had shown that these new demigods that appeared were trained for battle and dangerous. Yet they were so, so pliable. Another weak pantheon perhaps? Stealing strong demigod children and raising them as warriors? They'd have to see.)

He cups his son’s jaw, Poseidon’s large hand spanning from the edge of his jaw all the way around to the back of his neck. To the other gods there will be no missing his claim. No matter which clothes his son decides to wear. 

There’s a flash of heat. 

His son whines in his sleep at the pain. It hurts. Yes. But it’s necessary. It’s over just as quickly as it begins, and Poseidon draws some water from a barrel and soothes away the aches. He lifts his own hand and sees a teal handprint left behind. It has golden cracks through it, and shines brightly in the candle light. 

Seeing his handprint on his son’s jaw and neck drives something in Poseidon’s mind feral. Just like when he sees it on all his other children. (His handprint on Triton’s bicep. On Rhodos’ shoulder. On Benthesikyme’s ankle. Eumolpus’ palms. Chrysaor’s elbow. Polymepheu’s foot.) 

He usually tried to keep his claims off of his children’s face. Not wanting to distract them from their features in the future. But with Percy…he has an inkling that he’s going to need it to be visible. For all to see. It’s not entirely on his face, just the edges of his jaw. If he ever finds it unsightly when he ascends then he can wear a high collared shirt or a scarf. 

(That would kill Poseidon. Percy hiding a mark that shows him as his. His son. His favored. His adored.) 

Something about the echos of the scrawling notes on Percy’s soul, encourage these feelings, helping them grow. Without them, Poseidon almost wonders if he would have noticed his demigod child so fast. Would he have known so instinctively that Percy is his? 

He somehow wishes he could have done more to protect him, despite not knowing him when he had made those imprints. The little lines across his soul are more of a cautionary warning, but they wouldn’t have stopped anyone from stealing his son. Apollo and Ares had both instinctively known that Percy had been one of his more powerful children. 

But now…

His hands trail across the golden handprint gleefully. 

There will be no mistaking this. 

Poseidon grins. 

Mine. 

Chapter Text

The next morning Annabeth wakes up to see Diomedes and Odysseus quietly whispering among themselves. They are deep in conversation. Both of them lean close to each other, sharing secrets softly. She scans the tent and realizes that two extra pallets have been brought in, so it’s safe to assume that they both spent the night. She sits up and stretches her arms above her head. 

“Good morning m’lady,” Diomedes warmly greets. “Did you sleep well?” 

She nods sleepily as Odysseus smiles at her. “We’re having breakfast prepared, it should be about finished. I’ll send it in.” He raises from his pillow on the floor and goes to poke his head out the door. 

While he speaks to a servant, Diomedes grabs something from behind him. It’s a small piece of folded parchment. “Here. Your mother came by last night, but she did not want to wake you.” 

“Thanks,” Annabeth says, ignoring the way her stomach swoops at the thought of her mother coming by…to see her. She unfolds the parchment. 

‘Keep your ears and eyes open.

There are gazes watching you.’

Ominous? Short and sweet? Yeah. This is from her mother. She scowls at the vague warning. 

“Is it trouble?” Odysseus asks, coming back in to sit down at the low table. Annabeth shakes her head. Servants come in, bringing freshly cooked eggs, a type of roasted bird, and some bread. She hadn’t expected something so luxurious. The smell is tantalizing and immediately tempts her. 

“It’s a warning for me to be cautious while in camp.” Annabeth says. She leaves out the part about people watching her. She has no doubt that Olympus is watching  every move from the first daughter of Athena. 

She tears off two portions of her bread, prays over them, and then asks one of the servants to throw them in the fire outside. One is for her mother. The other is for Hermes since she has the sinking suspicion he had helped her get through camp yesterday. 

The servants follow her request, but give her strange looks as they do so. No doubt they were used to different burnt offerings. But Annabeth doesn’t have a bull on her, so what could she do? 

“Wise advice,” Odysseus states. “Camp can be…difficult, even for the men. But as a woman? It’s going to be challenging. Especially since your mother asked you to give the war council advice. Of course, I’ll listen to you, little owl. But, the others–? It might be best just to stay in my encampment for the meanwhile.” 

“No.” She crosses her arms. 

“M’lady, it is not that we do not trust your intelligence–” Diomedes begins but Annabeth cuts him off. 

“My mother told me to help the army strategize.” Annabeth says, cutting into the the roasted bird in front of her and piling it on top of some bread. “And that is what I shall do.” 

“The men at camp, Annabeth.” Odysseus says, voice soft yet stern. “They are not like me or Diomedes. They aren’t close to your mother. They won’t understand.” 

“Then you should understand my decision,” She says, piling her plate with food. Her eyes reflect the firelight like an owl’s at night. “I fear my mother more than I fear mortal men.” 

The two look taken aback at her statement. They turn to each other in silent conversation as she takes a bite of her food. It’s juicy and savory. Perfectly cooked. She’d have to give her thanks to the servants who made it. She takes another bite as the two seem to finish their silent conversation. 

“We shall like to introduce you to the council first.” Diomedes coughs awkwardly, beginning to fill his plate as well. “We need to introduce you as Odysseus’ niece so that they know not to harm you.” 

“You’ll fall under my protection, so that anyone who dares to commit a slight against you, will have committed a slight against me.” Odysseus explains again. 

“However, before we introduce you, we need to make you aware of a few of the kings and leaders there.” There’s a flash of worry on Diomedes face. And it’s for that reason that Annabeth listens closely. “The first king that we should give you warning about is Agamemnon.” 

“The king of Mycenae?” 

“The very same,” Odysseus confirms. “He is known…” Now, this is perhaps the most uncomfortable that Odysseus has looked. He clasps his hands together in front of him. “...To whisk away women of import.” 

Her stomach drops. His statement recalls information. 

( Inside the library of her mind, another page falls open in a book that she stores information about the Trojan War in. She had forgotten about Apollo’s daughter.) 

She sits up straighter. The Greeks hadn’t exactly been known by scholars for being knights in shining armor. They pillaged each city they conquered. Taking both their gold and women. It’s easy to forget that even the men she’s met so far have taken part in such atrocities. 

She nods with a frown. 

“He also has a temper. You would do well not to insult him,” Diomedes warns. “He is unstable. Easy to anger. And takes offense to many things.”

“Noted,” Annabeth says. She has an inkling of a feeling that there’s no way she’s getting out of that meeting without offending him at least once. If not by her words, then by her general presence. 

“Achilles is snappish and generally vain. But when he has Patroclus by his side, he is more mild tempered,” Diomedes continues. “Please do not find yourself along with him. If you must be in the company of one of them, Patroclus is your safest bet. Achilles is known for enjoying… well.” 

Oh fuck. They’re actually having this conversation. Right. Okay. 

“That’s fair,” She notes. “Especially since the man I’m courting wouldn’t enjoy me being in an angry male’s company.” 

Both Odysseus' and Diomedes’ attention snaps to her, like a fish being jerked on a hook. 

“You’re being courted?!” Odysseus asks, surprised. Annabeth nods at his question, ignoring his dramatics. “By who?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes! M’lady! It very much does!” Diomedes informs her. “You are the daughter of a highly esteemed goddess. Her first demigod. Is he of a proper match for you?” 

Is he…seriously asking Annabeth if Percy… is good enough for her? “Yes, he is. He is a respected warrior where I come from, a son of Posideon.” 

“And he is…currently back where you come from?” Diomedes broaches carefully. 

“As far as I am aware.” 

Diomedes relaxes a little, “We could use this. For a second I was worried about the war implications of a Son of Poseidon running around outside of the camp. But if he is still in your homeland, we could very well weave a story of your betrothal to help keep you safe.” He taps his chin in thought. “Since you are under the guise of being Odysseus’s niece, we will have to make a cover story for him.”

“Maybe a foreign prince?” Odysseus asks, stroking his beard. 

“They most likely will not respond well to the marriage of a foreigner. But if he is Greek as well–” 

“We have half the kings of the kingdom in our camp,” Odysseus groans. “They will know if he is Greek or not.”

Annabeth sits as they argue. She quietly contemplates an idea. It could work…but if it didn’t then it would probably be suicide. She taps her finger on the table. But how would they know–?

She sucks in a breath. 

“I might have a solution for his cover,” Annabeth says. 

It would take guts. 

Good thing Annabeth has never been lacking with those. 

“What is it?” Diomedes asks. 

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you.” She informs. “This type of plan. I can only utter it out loud one time.”

Both of their brows dip in confusion, but she hadn’t expected them to understand right away. After all, only a mad man would come up with a plan that might tick off Poseidon. 

“And you’re sure you want to court him?” Odysseus asks curtly. 

“Ody–” Diomedes warns. 

“It’s just that you know of your mother’s rivalry with Poseidon!” Odysseus says. “He’s a son of– And you’re the daughter–” He frowns. “It just doesn’t make sense.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “And?” 

“Oh, I have no qualms with it, my lady!” Odysseus quickly explains. “But well, does your mother know? I thought that she and Poseidon were not… on good terms.” 

“Me and Percy are together regardless of our parents.” She shrugs. “He is his own man, and I will not be swayed upon my mother’s opinions of others. He is not his father. I am not my mother. That is final.” 

Odysseus' eyes scrunch up in worry, yet he does not say anything else. 

“Don’t be distressed at our friend’s silence here,” Diomedes says, watching Annabeth’s gaze. “I think he suddenly had the realization that his son will talk to him like that one day.” He laughs as he stands up and claps the man on the shoulder. “Children grow up to have their own opinions.” 

“It’s not proper–” 

“Such as going against your parent’s wishes at sixteen to marry a Spartan?” Diomedes raises his eyebrows. Odysseus immediately shuts up after that, properly scolded. 

Annabeth can’t help it– she giggles. 

They stop by the tailor on their way. 

Surprisingly, the seamstress already has prepared one outfit for Annabeth– despite only having a day's warning. They leave the tent to give her privacy to change. Her chiton is beautiful. It’s grey with brown owls embroidered at the bottom, along with green leaves of an olive tree. It’s luxurious and way too elegant to have been made by one woman. They must have had ten or more working all night to make it. 

She hoped that they at least were allowed to rest after. 

It would almost ruin wearing the garment for her otherwise. 

She put on the garments and some leather sandals. The chiton is longer than most men’s, ending at her shins, but it isn't floor length like the other women's either.

When she tells the other two to come back in, Odysseus gives her a parcel. Inside is leather armor. A breastplate, greaves, and shin guards. When she’s properly outfitted she feels more comfortable than she has since she arrived. She had felt naked without proper armor. 

After thanking the seamstress, they leave. 

The three make one more stop near some training grounds. 

“Here are some of the swords we have available,” Diomedes sweeps a hand over a rack of different blades. “Please take your pick of them.” 

Odysseus seems very unsure about the idea of giving her weapons. He keeps looking down at her armor in nervous glances. She admires though, that despite his awkwardness and him feeling uncomfortable, he never tries to take back the decision. 

She’d wear him down. Eventually. 

She grabs one that feels familiar enough. One that she would have easily chosen at camp. Unlike Percy, it’s not as if she’s used one sword her entire childhood. She’s used to fighting with different blades. 

She swings it experimentally, testing the weight. It’s a solid choice. She turns to Diomedes. “Thank you.”

“It is of no issue,” He replies with a smile. “Should you ever want a different one, you are free to grab one from this wall, whenever you like.” 

Odysseus’s eyes narrow in on how she holds the sword. “I feel– as if I’ve seen that style of fighting somewhere.” 

“She is Greek–” Diomedes laughs, but Odysseus waves him off. 

“That’s not–” He pauses. “Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll think of it.” 

There’s a second where Annabeth is confused. Then a small spark of fear enters her heart. 

She’s been trained by Chiron. 

So has Achilles. 

Both of them have had the same trainer their entire lives. She has no doubt that her fighting style probably is almost an exact match for his. 

(Percy had never actually trained all that much at camp, too busy fighting for his life summer after summer. He ended up learning a style that is a hodge-podge of things he’s picked up over the years. It makes him almost impossible to predict when they’re fighting.) 

“I’ve had a good teacher,” She says simply. 

“From this magical place out west you hail from?” Odysseus asks curiously. Annabeth bites her tongue in thought. 

“The less that others know about it, the better,” She shrugs. Then she attaches her sword and sheathes it to her belt. It’s a familiar weight that makes her feel less nervous about stepping into the council meeting. “Alright, I’m ready.”

“We are just going to a meeting, not the battlefield.” Diomedes laughs. 

“I wish to be ready for both of those at all times.” Annabeth calmly says. 

The two pause, their eyes flickering towards each other in silent communication. 

“Surely, you jest?” Odysseus asks, his smile wavering. “You know there is no way in Hades either of us are letting you actually set foot on the battlefield, correct?” 

Annabeth raises an eyebrow at them. But even Diomedes looks stern about this. 

“You are a sixteen year old woman.” Diomedes says. “Even if you were a boy, we would still not send you. You are far too young for the front lines. You’ll learn more experience from the tents, helping us strategize and plan.” 

“If you wanted to keep me from fighting, you’re a few years too late.” Annabeth huffs, “I’ve already been on the frontline of wars. Two in fact.”

None with completely mortal men. But how much a difference could it be between them and monsters?

( A ripple drops into the ocean. A candle alights.)

She looks up, and cannot guess what thoughts are going through their heads. Diomedes crosses his arms and tilts his head. Then he looks at Odysseus. “So we are sending her back to Athena then?” 

Odysseus firmly nods. “She’ll protect her.”

“Hey! Wait a second–!” Annabeth objects. 

“This is not something that any new adult wishes to hear,” Diomedes sighs. “But it really is for your own good.” 

“I’ve been to war!” 

“And we wish to spare you from another,” Odysseus sighs, placing his hands on her shoulders. His eyes waver in the sunlight. “Is that so wrong?” 

Well– no. She can’t see why any adult would first look at a teenager and think, ‘Yes! They should be on the front lines.’ But Annabeth isn’t just any teenager. She’s the daughter of Athena. The girl with a plan. The woman who faced down giants and spiders and lesser gods. 

She is made for the battlefield–

(Is this a bad moment for Annabeth to have the realization that maybe– just maybe– she has more of her mother’s war domain than she had originally thought? Huh. No, she’s not thinking about that right now. She’s pushing that thought far into the back of her mind.)

“Look,” She puts her hands together. “My mother sent me here to help you all strategize–” 

“Nice try,” Odysseus starts. “But I was there Annabeth. She clearly never mentioned letting you go out to the front lines. In fact– I remember her even saying the opposite.” 

Her jaw ticks. Okay, so they weren’t dumb. But she can find a way on the field. She could go with a different encampment? Or perhaps ride out by herself after them when it’s too late to send her back? 

Odysseus rubs a hand along his cheek tiredly. “I will be making sacrifices to her lady later.” 

Annabeth crosses her arms, fully realizing she’s acting childish. “She will surely agree with me. You’ll see.”

Diomedes has the gall to snort. “I’m sure she will. For now let us go to this meeting. It’s better if we don’t set a bad impression for Annabeth by being late.” 

They agree and all three walk towards the middle encampments. They make idle small talk as they walk, but for the first time since Annabeth came to camp, she’s not invisible. People take notice of her. 

It's not all bad. 

Worker women smile at her as she passes, surprised to see a woman walking with generals and wearing armor and a sword. She makes sure to smile at them and wave. They hesitantly wave back in poorly disguised curiosity. 

The soldiers however–

She almost shivers. However, that would be showing weakness. And Annabeth knows better than to do that in front of strangers. She keeps close to Odysseus and Diomedes, never straying far. 

Their gazes trail across her skin. At the edge of her chiton. She wishes she had persuaded Odysseus to give her plain, longer clothing. But there would be no mistaking her as a slave or worker when she wears the same armor and weapons as they do. She was bound to get noticed, no matter her clothes. 

There are some jeers as they walk by one group of soldiers, but Diomedes pauses their walk and goes to talk to them. She isn’t quite sure what he said to them for them to turn as white as a sheet, but she can fill in the lines. 

( Owl feathers lightly brush against her ears as if muffling the words.) 

Finally they arrive at the council meeting. 

It’s hard to miss the giant battle tent, located in the very heart of all the encampments. All around it are banners with different kingdom flags, waving in the wind. The milling soldiers around the battle tent part as they walk towards it. 

The inside is just as impressive for the times, with a long low table sitting in the middle of the tent, with maps and smaller flags strewn across its surface, along with drinks and snacks. Around the table, on giant floor cushions, sit a wide arrangement of men in different shapes and sizes. 

Silence falls across the room as soon as she steps inside. 

She meets all their gaze as every man turns and stares at her. She keeps her head tilted high and her back straight. Ah yes. So it begins. 

Both Diomedes and Odysseus bow in greeting. 

Annabeth doesn’t do the same. 

Normally, she wouldn’t blatantly ignore customs. But her appearance here is going to have to be one giant power play. She cannot cower. She cannot show any sign of deference. 

“Diomedes! Odysseus!” The largish man at the end of the long table yells outraged. He stands up, his face flashing red. “What is the meaning of this?” 

“Hold your tongue," Odysseus says cooly. “This is a very important guest. We are doing our due diligence to introduce her to all the generals, since she will be staying at our residences for the meanwhile.” 

“Then you can do it at dinner!” The man yells. And it’s then that Annabeth realizes that she recognizes the voice from yesterday. He had been the one yelling at someone else about Odysseus’s idea. “It is indecent for a woman to enter the battle tent. She’ll throw off the balances.” 

This must be Agamemnon. Diomedes had told her that the man had a temper. 

“It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Annabeth says, keeping her gaze focused on the man. “My name is Annabeth, and my mother asked for me to help give counsel to your war efforts.”

Agamemnon turns even redder, but to her surprise, her words immediately catch the attention of two men close to her. They’re practically sitting hip-to-hip. One man with long blonde hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes, while the other has darker tan skin, with long braided brown hair. They perk up at her words. 

“You dare to enter the Greek encampment and–” 

“Who is your mother?” The tan man closest to her asks, cutting off Agamemnon's lecture. 

“I am the daughter of Athena, born from her thoughts, constructed out of wedlock.” Annabeth says, placing her hands on her hip. Right on top of her sword. 

“Another demigod?” The blonde one asks, sounding almost…indifferent. “That’s interesting.” 

“She is under my protection,” Odysseus cuts in immediately, walking behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Annabeth is my niece from Penelope’s side. She was sent over with Diomedes shipment from Sparta. You will treat her with respect.” Then his gaze sweeps out to all the other men in the tent. “Any insult to her is an insult to me and my family.” 

“Bah! Like she’s truly the demigod of Athena.” Agamemnon barks, sitting back down. 

Annabeth’s hackles rise. She blinks owlishly. Something in her eyes constricts. 

All the men flinch as they look at her. 

Agamemnon shifts in his seat. His jaw ticks. Annabeth feels her heart constrict in anger. “Do you have a problem with Athena’s chosen?” 

( Owl wings protectively wrap around her from behind. Feeling warm as if she’s being embraced in a hug.) 

“Were you truly the daughter of Athena, why would we have an issue?” He speaks loud and clear, and the others nod. “But you have given us no such claims. And were Athena to have a child without breaking her vows, why would she not send us a son?” 

There are shouts of agreement, and internally, Annabeth seethes. 

Not because they are looking down at her for her gender. She expected that, and she plans to use it to her fullest advantage when they underestimate her. But something churns in her guts at their words. Something that she hadn’t felt in years. 

(A piece of her that still feels twelve and is full of hubris, longing for her mother– because isn’t Athena great? Isn’t she so wise–?)

She had thought that part of her had died. 

Apparently it hadn’t. 

Her voice lowers and she glares at all of them down her nose. “How dare you ever think you understand how the goddess of wisdom thinks!” 

( The library in her mind glows. The ticking speeds up. Owl feathers flap in delightful laughter.) 

“You are just a mortal man! And she is a god.” Annabeth says, eyes constricting into the round pupils of an owl. 

Agamemnon has the audacity to scoff. “Be that as it may. You are useless. A woman cannot enter the battlefield that is Ares domain. Unless you are to marry–” 

“I am not.” Annabeth puts a stop to that right away. 

Something shifts in the eyes of the blonde beside her in curiosity. She finally places who he is. 

Achilles. 

Agamemnon laughs. “You just are of marrying age, are you not? You look to be of sixteen summers. Maybe that is why your mother sent you?” 

Odysseus steps in front of her. Which she appreciates, but also can’t help but feel slightly ruffled for. This is her battle, thank you. 

“Athena has specifically come to me with Annabeth’s protection. She was granted the permission to stay here under the allowance that she is to aid us while planning for the war. She is not a weapon to be sent to the battlefield,” He glares at Achilles, then turns to Agamemnon. “Nor is she to be married off. She is to be treated with respect as you would treat one of the huntresses of Artemis.” 

Diomedes’ hand rests on his belt, close to his sword. “She is the daughter of a goddess and will be treated with respect. No mortal men at camp are worthy enough to court her, even if that were the case.” 

Annabeth feels Achilles' stare dig into her skin. She purposefully does not look at him. 

“A woman aid us in battle?” Someone else asks. They’re big. Even sitting, they are taller than most men. There’s a nasty look in his eye that Annabeth doesn’t like. “Have you two lost your wits?” 

“I say, let her marry!” An older man says from the side. He looks to be in his middle ages, far older than the twenty and thirty years old around him. “What harm could marrying a demigod make? She’d be more protected as a wife anyhow. You say she’s your niece but you won’t even grant her that?” 

There are nods around him, as if he’s wise, as if he knows anything about wisdom. 

“I am not to be married!” Annabeth snaps. 

The men laugh at her, jeering with snide remarks. It is then that Annabeth realizes they will not listen to words. Maybe if she had been a daughter of Aphrodite, like Piper, who could speak their way into people’s hearts. But Annabeth has never been like that. She knows herself. She’s logical, quick to the point, and gets angry when others can’t see her vision. 

Some parts of that can be attributed to her ADHD. Others– well. 

It’s time to go through with her plan. 

(Oh shit. She hopes she doesn’t get smote. This had been a bad idea back at the tent. Standing in front of everybody– well, it doesn’t make her odds look greater. On the bright side, should she not survive this, at least Odysseus and Diomedes won’t have to tote her around camp all day.)

She takes a deep breath. “I cannot be married for I am already being courted.” 

This gets their reaction. Some of them seem genuinely curious, while others snort, no doubt thinking that she’s pulling this out of her ass. (She is– partly.) 

“Oh, and who is great enough to court such a lofty demigod as the first child of Athena?” The big bulky one asks. From recollection, she thinks that he might be one of the Ajaxes. 

“Why, a son of Poseidon, of course.” She blinks innocently, appearing to have an air of honesty. 

The table erupts into shouts. 

“She’s obviously still lying!” Agamemnon yells. “No daughter of Athena would willingly be courted by the son of Poseidon! Anyone who knows their history knows that those two are rivals!” 

Almost all the men agree. The few that seem to look as if they believe her are, of course, Odysseus and Diomedes. But the old man, who must be Nestor, and surprisingly, the tan man hanging off Achilles’ arm, Patroclus, look at her pensively. 

“And even if you were telling the truth,” Maybe-Ajax starts. “Is he of noble enough rank to marry the niece of Odysseus, the king of Itaca?” There are shouts. 

“Where does he hail from?” One shouts. 

“And is he here at the war?” Another asks, sounding slightly more worried than the rest of them. However, for once, Annabeth can’t fault them for their worry. Sons of Poseidon have been known to change the course of history, and it’s not because of any sort of weakness. 

“He is back from where I hail from,” Annabeth answers. “And is he of noble enough rank to marry me!”

“Bah! Then is he not Greek?” Agamemnon barks. “She should be married to a Greek!” She hates the way his eyes look at her, as if sizing her up. She’s thankful that he’s at least married, and others would probably protest if he tries to take her as an official wife. 

“He is Greek! And a prince!” Annabeth says, finally showing the first part of her plan. Odysseus shoots her a warning look from the corner of her eye. But, she’s decided on the path she is going to take. There is no backing out now. 

She sends up a quick prayer to her mother to guide her hand, and hopefully help her not get smote by an angry sea god. 

( Owl feathers ruffle in surprise. The ocean sings a song too far away for Annabeth to hear.) 

She straightens her shoulders, as the others look around skeptically. She can hear someone whisper to another, “Have you ever encountered a Son of Poseidon?” 

Agamemnon meets her challenging gaze with one of his own. “There is no such prince in Greece, for surely we would have heard and paid the proper respects.” 

Okay, time to lay her entire hand on the table. This is the part that might get her killed. But out of all the plans she’s thought of, this might be the one that will win her the most time. 

“You would not have met him,” Annabeth starts as the room quiets down around her. “For he is a prince of Atlantis.” 

( Owl wings wrap around her quickly as if to shield her. But no blow comes. A dolphin sings with laughter in the far away creases of the sea, and goes to spread news.) 

They all pause in the tent. Nobody can come forward and claim that there is not a son of Poseidon who might be a prince of Atlantis, because no one here has been to Atlantis. The closest one who might have been is Achilles, but Annabeth has little reason to suspect that Thetis has taken him there. 

Annabeth is more worried about Poseidon being offended of a fake prince being announced. Of course, Percy isn’t in this time. She would know if he was. And, since Annabeth is speaking of someone that won’t be born for a few thousand years– and that large gap of time still pierces her heart like a sword–  Poseidon has great reason to take offense. 

Nobody would lie about such a thing. Not with the risks. 

Diomedes screws his eyes shut in pain. Odysseus looks at her like she has just made her own noose. However, as the seconds tick on and no sea god appears to angrily smite her, she thinks that maybe– just maybe– the price won’t be too heavy to bear. 

The others settle around her, and frown at her words. She can see Agamemnon seething. 

‘ Speak out against a favored child of Poseidon. Do it. I dare you.’ Annabeth tries to say through her gaze alone. ‘See how that turns out for your camp.’ 

“So, she will not marry.” Nestor says, not frowning but not smiling either. At his words, many of the more anxious members of the council settle down. It is strange to see how many of the younger generals look to the eldest for advice. His word seems like final law to many of them. 

“So she will not marry,” Agamemnon repeats. “That does not mean we have to heed her council.” 

Surprisingly, it is Patroclus that speaks. His voice is soft and almost a whisper. Immediately he has everyone’s attention. Achilles stares at him with his eyes shining a blue that sends a shiver down Annabeth’s spine. 

(She has seen those eyes before– on a Titan–or a monster.) 

“It would not harm us to listen to her advice,” Patroclus doesn’t raise his voice. He does not need to. “I personally would like to have a daughter of Wisdom here in the council. She could provide us insightful perspectives that we might not be able to see ourselves…due to her unique circumstances.” 

The man finishes talking, but his brown eyes remain on Annabeth. Thankfully, Achilles isn’t looking at her, too busy staring at Patroclus’ jawline. 

( From the distance, something changes in the sea, a ripple that spreads across the ocean. Annabeth cannot understand it, but she feels it.) 

“It does seem like bad luck to have a woman on the council.” Maybe-Ajax argues. 

“Let us see what happens then,” Odysseus says. “All in favor of letting her stay?” About half the men raise their hands, and it’s enough apparently to soothe Agamemnon’s anger. He crosses his arm and still looks at her like she’s the scum underneath his boot, but he doesn’t say a word when she takes a seat at the table between Odysseus and Diomedes. 

The council meeting officially begins and between Annabeth paying close attention to the strategies they use, and fangirling over actually being part of Greek history, another part of her knows that this is too good to last. 

It’s only a matter of time before Poseidon hears about what she’s done. 

And when he realizes that he has no such son, he’ll most likely kill her for spreading false rumors about him. 

Annabeth silently hopes that she hasn’t just doomed them all. 

Chapter Text

Their new trainer isn’t there at sunrise.

It forces Apollo to postpone footwork training with Perseus with archery practice. He hands over the reins of the lesson to one of the better archers at camp, and goes by himself to track down the son of Poseidon. 

It’s not entirely his fault. Yesterday when Apollo and Ares had made a schedule for the boy, he was up to his non-existent gills in some type of stupor. It had scared Ares, Apollo had realized later, seeing the war god tear down fighting dummy after fighting dummy. 

Not for the boy’s health, of course. 

But because both of them realized that in any second, Poseidon could break his deal with Aphrodite and simply whisk him back to the sea. (Where neither Apollo nor Ares could follow.) They need to speed up their plan. 

Which is hard. Considering the boy has a knack for disappearing. 

He wasn’t in his tent when Apollo checked this morning. But his weapon and gear were gone. No men had seen him at breakfast. (Which makes Apollo angry for an entirely different reason– he’s supposed to be healing!) Now, he’s in none of the training grounds, and camp is only so big. 

Apollo would have noticed if the boy left. He put a ward up around the city to alert him just in case the demigod did try to run. 

Finally, he stumbles upon him. 

He blinks through the trees. 

Laying by the riverside, with Apollo’s sunlight shining on his tan skin, Percy is lounging. Naiads gather around him with a few other nymphs as they weave flowers in his hair. (Even one nereid is there.) They speak in hushed gossiping tones with each other. 

He seems completely at ease. Apollo does not think he’s ever seen him this peaceful before, this at rest . His blue eyes scrunch up in the corners, and his mouth is pulled up in a genuine smile. 

One that he’s never graced Apollo’s way. 

Moreso, none of the nymphs or naiads seem scared at him. In fact, they look at him with such adoration that it floors Apollo. 

They’re all a sight to behold. Apollo wishes he had his paints. His fingers twitch to hold a brush. 

He would never claim the son of Poseidon as one of his lovers. The fallout with his uncle would not be worth the momentary fun. But, Apollo has to admit beauty when he sees it. 

And this scene is so delicate in it’s beauty that Apollo knows one move will break it like glass. 

It’s a tragedy to walk out of the forest towards them. He longs to stay there and bask in a moment that is not his to enjoy. 

(Did he truly not belong though? After all, it is his sunlight that is shining upon them, brushing over all their skins.)

As expected, the nymphs disappear. The naiads linger for a few seconds more though. Far longer than Apollo would have guessed they would. They hold a protective stance over the demigod, but the boy, now frowning, gently dismisses them. 

They dive into the river in an instant. 

Percy raises an unamused eyebrow at him. “What do you want Apollo?” 

His previous adoration and a new anger conflict in his chest. How does Percy always speak with such an impudent tone? Especially to Apollo? He thought the other day in the tent, he had finally scared some reverence into the demigod. Clearly not. 

“You–” Apollo falls to his knees and lays sideways next to the boy in the sun. Percy stiffens. Then Apollo tacks on the rest of his sentence “--missed training Hector’s newest recruits.” 

“I did?” The shock on his face is too real to be a lie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what time–” 

Apollo waves a hand dismissively, and freezes when he sees the teal and golden handprint around the boy’s neck and at the edge of his jaw. Oh that possessive sea bast–

Without thinking, Apollo places his hand in the same spot with a frown. Poseidon must have placed it last night. And no mortal would be able to see it. He doubts Percy even knows that he’s been claimed.

However, there would be no missing this for any of the other gods. They could clearly see such a possessive claim.

Ares is going to be pissed.  

“Umm, cousin?” Percy looks at him with widened eyes. “You are a very handsome man. But I do not feel that way for you–” 

It takes a second to register how intimate of a movement this position is and Apollo scoffs. 

“You don’t have to worry about that little demigod. Not with me.” The sun god removes his hand. “Though if you ever change your mind–” 

“Abosuletly not!” Percy snorts. 

Apollo scrunches his nose in annoyance. “You do not need to sound so disgusted.” 

“Oh, I mean no offense,” Percy says. “But Annabeth would be angry if I ever fell in the arms of the other. Not that I would.” 

Ah, that troublesome daughter of Athena. Apollo had heard about the waves the girl had made in the battle tent yesterday. It had been the first time a woman had joined in on a council meeting. He’s sure the pesky little men could hardly manage to keep their fragile egos together. 

“What has this girl done to inspire such loyalty in you?” Apollo asks, leaning an arm behind the boy. 

“There’s too much to put into words,” Percy says, a tiny slip of a smile gracing his lips. 

“She must be quite beautiful for you to care so much,” Apollo says off handedly. 

“For me? Yes. She is the fairest girl in the world with my own biases.” Then Percy stills. “Though I guess– I should refrain from saying such things, given the nature of this war.” 

Apollo smirks as he remembers the Paris situation. 

“Hardly, there is no need to worry. After all, there are no goddesses prying for your attention. And there is a distinct lack of any apple.” Well, there is Aphrodite. But he doubts the boy will meet her soon. “Now, have you eaten breakfast yet? I must say that you paint a pretty sight by the river, but beauty does not fill your stomach nor fix your health.” 

“I had some berries-” Percy winces. The sun god scoffs.

“That hardly counts as sustenance,” Apollo informs. “Did you not have a proper source of food at your last home? Were your care takers not feeding you?” 

“They fed me!” Percy defends them. 

There it is again. That jealous little bubble that is building up in Apollo’s gut. It’s not as if he cares for the boy. But…this other pantheon. They had stolen demigod children. 

(That’s the best theory that they can come up with. They stole them. Trained them to be soldiers far too young. Then also made them hate the gods, breeding a defiance in them that Olympus has never seen before.) 

Yet, Percy is so protective of them. Any slight against his past caretakers is met with a puffed chest and angry words. 

It's knowing that information that stills Apollo’s hand. These little demigods were wrested from their homelands. How are they to know how to properly pay respect? Still, even with his past caretakers Perseus’ reactions are still extreme. 

Loyalty is definitely Perseus’s fatal flaw. 

“Then please explain why you had no food for so long?” Apollo asks, leaning slightly over the boy. His true form slips a little. It’s been doing that often around the demigod. His skin molten bright. Feathers trailing down his arms. 

“I was in a place…where food wasn’t available…on a quest.” 

Apollo stiffens. “Is this also because they did not teach you how to hunt?” 

“There was nothing to hunt!” 

“Maybe because these– care takers–” Stealers. Child takers. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. “--Never taught you to look for such things!” 

( The sun grows a fraction hotter. Some fishermen curse, holding their hands up to block out the sunshine.) 

“It was full of monsters! Monsters turn to dust when you kill them! You can’t eat the dust! I tried!” 

Silence falls upon their grove. Percy blanches at his words, but Apollo puts an arm around him, firm and unmoving. Percy struggles a bit, but Apollo doesn’t budge. “You were so desperate– Where were you in Tarturus?” 

It's meant to be a joke.

Gorgeous sea blue eyes glance away. It all but confirms it. No. No– surely– Apollo had been joking. That’s too much. Not to mention– wrong. 

( Apollo is not meant to feel pity for the little sea godling. He isn’t supposed to care. Yet all he can think of is that his little cousin faced a torture that would break most men.) 

“I wasn’t alone.” Percy admits. “I had Annabeth.”

Oh fuck. Athena can never know about this–

Poseidon could never know about this–

But there is no way that Apollo will be able to keep quiet now that he knows. They need more help than just decent meals. They’re missing nutrients. Sunlight. Air. All the things that mortal needs to thrive. 

He could take care of him on the side. He could– 

Apollo isn’t supposed to feel like this. He doesn’t want to feel like this. He cannot care for another mortal– he cannot–

His molten eyes trail up to the flowers in Percy’s air. His breath leaves his lungs. 

Hyacinth. 

“Apollo, you need to calm down.” Percy whispers, as both of Apollo’s hands cup the boy’s face and he presses their foreheads together so hard that it hurts. “I’m okay–”

“You are not.” 

An invisible hand reaches into his chest and squeezes his heart. Had Apollo been a mortal, he would say that he’s having anxiety. But Apollo is a god and as such he does not feel fear. He does not get panicked over a demigod fighting their way out of a pit of monsters deep in the earth (one that would be a dire punishment even for a deity–) He does not feel anxiety that this is the mortal that he’s relying on to win the war– He does not get anxious over not winning the war–

(Apollo has both Troy in one hand and Hector in the other, and he is being pulled in two different directions. He’s been stretched between them. He’s breaking. Sure, he could let go of the city and shield his prince. But one cannot survive without the other. Without the city, his family, Hector would wither away and perish. Without Hector, the city will fall.)

And there is no point in shielding a mortal that is fated to die. The fates have already chosen the prince’s death. Apollo Sees their scissors poised on his string. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for the right breath. He does not care. He is one mortal out of thousands. Apollo can find another. He honestly should find another. 

Yet he is still here, waiting, patiently watching over him and his people. 

This accursed city that simply wants to live. People who have families. Women. Children. All destined to perish and be desecrated for one prince’s folly. 

And– And– And– Apollo should not care. 

But he does. 

He can’t help but hate himself for it. 

‘ You’re but a fool,’ He thinks to himself, closing his molten eyes, and allowing the demigod’s concerned familial touches. ‘ They are all going to die. And what when they take your heart with you? What will you do then?’ 

It is not Hyacinth in his hands because the man had died. Leaving him to mourn for him years and years after his death. And Hector would be next. 

And Percy–

Well, maybe not. 

He looks at his cousin, who despite being harmed by him, still looks at him with care and concern. Maybe he can’t have a lover. But maybe…just maybe…Apollo’s hand falls over Poseidon’s mark again. 

“Can we stay like this for a moment Perseus?” Apollo asks in a  low voice that drips of sincerity. 

“Yeah,” Percy says just as kindly. “We can do that.” 

Apollo puts his head under the boy’s chin and simply breathes. He instructs himself through his feelings and worries as if he would a mortal. 

( There is nothing Apollo can do– ) 

His breath stutters in his chest. And Percy hums something quietly, as his fingers softly play with the sun god’s blonde curls. 

“You have–” His voice is wet. Why in Olympus is his voice wet? “--Experience with this?” 

“Calming people down in war? Yeah.” Percy mutters, still twirling a piece of hair in his fingers. It feels nice and grounds Apollo to this moment. He doesn’t get this often. Sure, he takes lovers. But this type of fragile, quiet, platonic company is a feeling that does not come around often. 

“You’re good at it cousin,” Apollo compliments. Which he should feel immensely grateful for. It’s not every day a god compliments you. Yet, the boy seems nonplussed at the praise, simply humming in appreciation. 

They stay laying side by side until Apollo no longer feels himself shivering. Languidly, he rises, staring down at the marked demigod and offering him his hand. “Come on, little godling, you have some warriors to train.” 

Percy grins and grabs his hand. 

It’s almost like teaching at camp, Percy realizes halfway through, except it’s easier, because there are no twelve year olds and not every single person there has ADHD. 

The soldiers, despite Hector’s worries of his age, listen to him complicity. Apparently, word of his and Ares' spar had gotten around camp, and it had earned him their respect. 

A part of him is glad that he doesn’t have to wrangle people into following his instructions, but another part of him balks at trusting someone so easily. 

Where is their skepticism? Their anger at being told what to do? What? They’re just going to listen? 

Percy would have had kids pushing up against his authority within minutes at camp. It's almost a rite of passage to poke and see where your instructor's boundaries are. 

“Your soldiers are too obedient,” Percy tells Hector as he stalks up to him after practice. 

Hector blinks, eyes lifting up from his report, as he stares at the demigod. “Oh?” 

“They never even questioned my authority once!” 

“Well, you are their trainer, I would have been upset if they had done so,” Hector looks back down to continue reading his report. A small smile appears on his face. “You have hard-earned skill from what Anatolious tells me. They are wise to adhere to it.” 

“And if I was a spy?” Percy raises his eyebrows. 

“Then I hope they would be wise enough to still have learned from the chance they received.” Hector’s smile slowly grows into a full blown grin. He gives one of the servants near him the reports, and then stands up. He gestures to Percy to follow him. “Come with me.” 

Percy follows him as they head up to the top of Troy’s walls. ( It's strange to think these are the ones that both Apollo and Poseidon had helped build so many years ago. It's hard to imagine his dad doing physical labor.) Past the walls stretches mountains, rivers, and the sea. It’s beautiful in a way that Percy feels as if he can’t appreciate. 

New York has always been his home with it’s massive skyscrapers, rough citizens and crowds of tourists. 

Seeing such a pure and untainted wild feels wrong. 

( Yet so, so right. As if he belongs.)

“Do you see,” Hector walks around the wall until they are facing the northern shore “That coast over there?” 

Percy nods. 

“That is who we are facing.” 

They’re that close? Percy had though they were far away. He guesses that in ancient times though, the plains around Troy is a few days worth of travel. It’s not as if they have cars, and they have to transport chariots and horses to the battlefield along with supplies. 

No wonder wars took so long in ancient times. 

Smoke billows from the far distant campsite and Percy’s heart longs. Surrounded by thin wooden walls and scarce patrols is Annabeth. His girlfriend is over there. She’s within sight. Yet is also just barely out of reach. 

“They have yet to make too much headway thanks to Scamander.” Hector says with a wolfish grin. 

“Scamander?” Percy asks. 

Hector blinks. “The river that cuts through the plains there?” He points at a long stretching winding river. “That is Scamander. He has been helping us push back the Archeans, and has been a long friend of mine.” 

The wind tussles Percy hair as he looks out at the river. When he turns back to Hector, the man is smiling at him gently. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Apo– Lord Anatolious and my father have said that I am not allowed outside the walls.” 

Hector’s expression turns disappointed.

“--Without me! I had meant!” A voice says from behind. Apollo stands in his mortal disguise, huffing as if he just climbed up the tower stairs. Which Percy knows he didn’t.

Just how much is Apollo watching Hector? When Percy turns towards Apollo, and Hector can’t see him, he gives the sun god the most disappointed stare he can muster. 

That simp–

Apollo shoots him a warning look. 

“Well then!” Hector claps his hand, a smile forming on his face. There’s something in his eye that gleams, and Percy wonders just how much Hector knows. “Let us go. We should be okay, since there has been no movement sighted from the enemy camp today.” 

They descend down the walls and out the gates of Troy, heading towards the river. The tall grass tickles Percy’s shins as they walk, and it takes a while to traverse the plains. It hadn’t looked far from up high. But down here? It takes forever.

The rocky terrain and grassy fields are different from what Percy is used to. ( This is place is so wild, but the earth feels so young.) He takes the time to try and get a feel for the strange land under his feet. This is were he’s going to be fighting eventually. 

( Come here little Prince– the ocean sings– come here–) 

Apollo steadies him as he stumbles, his arm gripping Percy’s shoulder tight. His fingers squeezing tenderly. “Careful.” 

“To be honest, Perseus,” Hector says, looking at the two of them. “I also brought you out here so I could explain to you how we as Trojans do battle. It might be different from where you from.” 

Again, Percy can’t help but respect the man in front of him. Neither Apollo nor Ares took in account the sort of cultural shock he might be feeling. 

“Simply Percy, please,” Percy says, raising a hand with a smile.  “And I’ve learned about the warrior code of Greece. But I will admit, I’ve never seen how you all battle.” 

As they crest a hill, Percy notices the further they get from Troy, the shorter the grass becomes, as if it’s been trampled. Hector’s face is grave as he speaks. “To be blunt, it’s a free for all. We have front lines that are made of our most prized warriors. During missions, we form parties, but in the bloodshed and chaos of the main battle fields we’ve found that they quickly fall apart.” 

Apollo looks away to the far off shores where the Greeks lie. It’s hard to tell what he is thinking. 

“When you face Achilles, we want you to eliminate his time on the battlefield. To cut him off. Time is one of our biggest enemies. If you could distract him, or lead him away, that would be enough of a service to us.” Hector says, re-explaining what Percy already knows. “To do that, I want to show you some more of the terrain.” 

They finally reach the river. It’s waters ripple and push ferociously. And even from it’s shores, Percy can feel the rage– rage– rage– pouring off of it. 

( Fury– Useless– The river is polluted of a different sense– What is a protector with nothing to protect?) 

“And here is Scamander, one of our greatest allies.” Hector says mirthfully, as he sheds his shoes and wades out into the waters. Around where the prince stands, the water turns calm. 

Percy can feel that the control of the river is firmly in the hands of somebody else. But he doesn’t wrest that from them. He is careful to make sure that all of his power doesn't seep into any of the water. As he takes a few steps in after Hector, his power clings to his skin, keeping close.

The water is cool around him, and for the first time, the power in the river turns inquisitive. 

( Little Prince what are you doing in my waters? Do you not belong in the sea?) 

Percy sighs at how good it feels. This day’s been a little hotter than the previous few. He's had half a mind to ask Apollo if he could tune it down a little. But funnily enough– Percy doesn't think he'd appreciate that.

Thinking of Apollo, he doesn’t enter the water. Instead, he sits cross legged on the banks. He watches the two of them with a curious glint in his eye that Percy can’t place. His lips are parted and his eyes are an unblinking molten gold.

It’s as if he’s trying to paint a picture using just his sight. 

(Obsessive hands reach over and brush against his neck like before. He can feel the sun staring at him. A constant gaze following him. Hadn't it been Hector that he came here for-) 

Naiads swim below the waves, invisible and being guided by a larger unseen hand. He waves at them, gently brushing his fingers against the water in a hello. 

“What is a son of our enemy doing here?” A deep voice echoes around them. Percy turns to see an older man standing in the river a few feet away from them. He has a scraggly white and grey dusted beard, ripped muscles and holds a shield loosely in his palms. 

And he’s completely naked. 

Percy’s eyes shoot up and don't look lower than the man’s chest. 

( Musical fingers pluck a string in laughter seeing his reaction.) 

“Hail friend!” Hector raises a hand with a smile. He looks a lot younger in the sun, wading in the river, looking more carefree than usual. “Poseidon has given us a son to aid us.” 

“And you are sure he is not a spy?” Scamander asks, glaring at Percy from down his nose. Percy gives him a shy wave. 

“No, he isn’t.” Apollo says, his eyes narrowing at the minor river deity. Scamander finally notices Apollo and his eyebrows raise, he looks between the three of them curiously. 

Then he turns to clear water and melts back into the river. 

Great. Awesome chat. Percy learned a lot from that conversation. 

“He is a river of few words!” Hector cheerfully says. 

Yeah, Percy got that. 

The demigod snorts, and then feels a hand clasp his shoulder. Hector looks at him with a knowing look. “Come, let me show you more of the battlefield.” 

They return to the shore, grab their sandals, and explore more. 

Hector invites him to dinner with his wife. 

Percy is going to decline, but Apollo shoots him a look and mumbles something about, ‘good food.’ So, Percy ends up agreeing. The castle of Priam is ginormous, and the demigod can see why the ancient world had thought that Troy would one day rival Atlantis. 

It’s a sprawling labyrinth of pristine streets and bridges. It's stone architecture is a feat that Percy has no idea how they achieved without modern machinery.

Annabeth would know, and he can't help but feel a pang of guilt that it isn't him in the ocean camp and her in the city. 

She would talk his ear off about all the city's architecture. 

They enter the castle and are escorted to a small dining room. It’s cozy with a small table with six chairs, plush rugs, windows that overlook the sea, and a fireplace that is already being lit. A woman sits in a chair beside the head of the table, and looks surprised to see Percy there. 

He had changed from his previous clothes into a chlamys with sharks printed on it. 

“I’m sorry, my lord.” The woman says staring at him with surprise. “I hadn’t been expecting company–” She rises from her chair and Percy can see now that she is pregnant. She’s just starting to show, her baby bump barely noticeable. Percy shakes his head quickly. 

“Oh no! It’s okay, you don’t need to rise.” Percy says gently. 

Hector gives a small laugh behind him, and the demigod raises an eyebrow at him quizzingly. The man shakes his head, his hair swishing with the motion. “She thinks you may be a god in disguise. Fear not, my love, this is Percy, the son of Poseidon that one that I was telling you about.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” The woman’s eyes light up. “Hector has told me much about you. Come, come, sit down, we have plenty to share.” 

Hector puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him to the table with a chuckle. He leans over and whispers barely audible in his ear. “She’s an inquisitive one, please pardon her if she does not cease talking.” 

Percy shakes his head with mirth. 

“What are you boys gossiping about?” His wife sniffs.

“Nothing dearest,” Hector walks around and places a kiss on his wife’s cheek before he sits down at the head of the table. 

“My name is Andromache!” His wife introduces herself as Percy sits across from her and beside Hector. “And your name is Perseus, correct?” 

“Oh please, just Percy.” Percy waves off his longer name. “This is a lovely home you both have.” 

“We dine here frequently instead of the main hall with my brothers and father,” Hector says, waving a hand. A servant ducks out of the room. “Too much noise and fighting is not good for a pregnant wife.” 

His wife sips a goblet of water knowingly with a smirk. Something tells Percy this is a conversation they’ve had plenty of times. 

If Percy were in her shoes, he’d use any excuse to get away from Paris too. 

Hector reaches over and pours Percy a goblet of wine, which Percy blinks at. “Do you not partake in alcohol often?” Hector asks, sliding him the cup. 

“Only once,” Percy admits. But, to be fair, he had expected to die the next day, and well, he had been curious. He knows that in the ancient world though, wine is usually given to a wider range of ages. It’s a purified drink. People don’t get sick from wine as often as they get sick from drinking river water. 

How did people survive the past without germ theory? (There’s a small sarcastic voice in the back of his head, that sounds like Annabeth, that scoffs, ‘They didn’t.’) 

“We can have something else brought in for you, if you’d like?” Andromache says, looking hesitant.

“This is fine, thank you!” Percy says, taking a sip. It’s bitter and tastes like rotten grapes. Dionysus would probably have loved it though. He’ll just sip on it. It’s not as if he has to down the entire thing. 

Servants start to bring in different foods. There are platters of breads, cooked birds, grapes, and cheeses. Hector’s fingers dig into the bread and break it apart. Steam rises from the loaf. Percy’s stomach swoops in pure want. He hadn’t had much these past few days besides barley and meat, and his body is already craving fruits and veggies. He waits for Hector and Andromache to start putting food on their plates before he looks over the selection. There’s dips that Percy can’t recognize that he looks at curiously. 

Hector laughs seeing his expression and grabs the dips before spreading it on some bread and sticking it on Percy’s plate. “Try it like this.” 

Andromache also reaches and grabs some different cheeses, picks up Percy’s plate which Hector steals, and places them on it as well. “And you must try this!” 

Percy gapes at the Prince and Princess of Troy serving him, and tries to wave them off, but Andromache shakes her head with a laugh. “It’s not often we get visitors from afar!” 

Hector refills his wine as Andromache offers him his plate back. “You do not need to do that,” Percy says, feeling his cheeks heat up. 

“Nonsense, you are our guest,” Hector grins. “We want to.” 

“So what is your land called? I’m originally from Thebe.” Andromache asks before plopping a grape in her mouth. 

Percy can’t just say America can he? “It’s a land far out west. We’re mostly a camp of demigods actually, less of a city.” That should be safe. “We named it after our lineages…the most direct translation I can think of…is Camp Halfblood.” 

Hector raises an eyebrow. “Very direct of a name.” 

“It would’ve been worse if I named it.” Percy grins. “I am very poor at choosing names, often making them short and easy to pronounce, even if they are ridiculous.” 

“I’ll make sure to note that,” Hector jests, eating a piece of bread. 

“Is it true that you can control water?” Andromache asks with a glimmer of something in her eyes that Percy can’t name. 

“Dearest–” Hector warmly warns, but Percy nods his head. 

“Yes, since it is part of my father’s domain.” Percy answers. 

“So powerful! Even Achilles can not do that despite being the son of sea deity as well. It must be because of who your father is,” Andromache says, her eyes growing a little duller at the mention of the son of Thetis. Hector reaches his hand out and covers hers as they have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“My father is very powerful, so it makes sense some of that transferred to me.” Percy nods. 

“Well, if one son of Poseidon may have such extraordinary power than I am glad it had been you instead of Theseus.” She replies. Hector agrees, raising his cup to that. 

“We’ve gotten lucky having a demigod here that is so humble and kind,” Hector adds on. 

Percy feels his face flush further in embarrassment. “I’m just doing what is right–” 

“An admirable trait,” Andromache grins, as she finishes her grapes. “Now eat! Eat! You’re so thin!” 

( Musical fingers pluck in agreement near him.) 

 He picks up the strange bread and dip-like sustenance that Hector had given him and takes a bite. Flavor explodes in his mouth. It’s fresh, clean and tastes absolutely heavenly. His eyes widen. Before he can stop himself, the entire piece of bread is gone. 

Hector and Andromache both smile warmly at him, when he looks up. He turns sheepish, but the woman waves her hand. “You must be hungry. I meant it, you simply must eat.” 

He finishes his plate as low and soothing conversation flitters over the table. Hector and his wife do not talk much about the war, instead chatting amicably about life around the palace. Andromache talks about her walks with the other ladies, while Hector listens intently. 

It feels quaint and homely. And for a second, Percy can imagine that he’s back home with his mom and Paul chatting lowly, with Estelle giggling in the background. 

He misses them. So much. 

He hopes he is not gone long, and that he’ll be back home before his mother can realize. 

( Come here– little godling– come home. The sea croons at him from the distant shore with reaching hands.) 

Percy shudders. 

“You alright friend?” Hector asks, seeing his reaction. Percy nods, finishing his plate. 

“I’m perfectly alright, just had a sudden chill.”

Hector looks him unbelievingly, but Andromache simply asks a servant to bring more wood for the fire. “The sun is setting.” She says. “It is getting a little more chilly.” 

Percy grips his goblet a little harder. 

“You do not look ill,” Hector finally sighs. “This can be nothing but illness of the heart.” 

“I–” Percy stops. Then he relaxes. “I just miss my mother is all. Eating around a warm fire makes me think of her.” 

Andromache gasps softly and then covers her mouth. Her eyes though are happy. “You must care deeply for your family then.”

“I do.” Percy nods. “I would do anything for them.” 

Hector nods. “I understand the feeling.” His hand again, seeks out Andromache’s. “I wish I had the power to send you back to them. But at the same time, I am very glad you are here.” 

The smile that Percy gives him has a hint of vulnerability to it. “You want to win the war, I understand what that means. It’s not an easy burden to have on your shoulders alone.” 

Hector raises, kisses his wife’s cheek again and then claps Percy on the shoulder. “Come, I shall walk you back ot your tent.” 

After raising, Andromache shocks him, by giving him a hug. He is gentle with her, especially with her status of being pregnant with Hector’s son. She whispers in his ear, “Thank you for joining to aide my husband.” 

Percy responds, “Thank you for the lovely meal.” 

“Please do come have dinner with us again.” 

And the two leave. The castle is silent around them with the sun having gone down. The long winding corridors waver in torch light, but still look beautiful. From up on the taller ground, Percy is happy that from almost any point, you can still see the ocean. “If you would like,” Hector says. “I could prepare a guest room, so you will not have to walk back in the morning.” 

The demigod shakes his head. “Your company and hospitality tonight was pleasure enough. Thank you for inviting me.” 

Hector’s smile is genuine but tired. “Then take care friend, I shall see you at camp tomorrow.” 

Percy walks down the front of the castle steps into the town. There’s still people bustling at night, hanging around fountains, and talking idly under torchlight. A few men on the street play a type of game with cups on a thread bare blanket. The full moon shines down above. 

As Percy winds through the streets, he feels a sense of sorrow. 

This city…it’s on a time limit. 

He can hear children giggle around a fire as he passes the open windows of a home. 

Who will survive? Percy does not know. He wishes he didn’t have to be in the city where everyone he meets already has a doomed end. It’s torture. How is he supposed to relax? How is supposed to meet people in the eye? How can he eat with a Prince that he knows will–

The air feels tight in his lungs. He stops under a tree, and rests against it for a second. He probably looks crazy, almost crying on random street, under a willowy tree. 

They don’t know that their city is doomed. 

They still think that there’s a chance they might win the war. 

Percy looks down and grips the bark of the tree. His heart feels so full after eating dinner with Hector. Yet it also fills with dispair. 

How is Percy supposed to keep doing this? 

Familiar footsteps approach him, and Percy looks over to see worn leather sandals standing in front of him. His eyes trail up a beautiful chiton and then he loudly gasps. He straightens his shoulders, and his mouth gapes. 

Grey eyes meet sea green. 

Annabeth smiles. “Hello darling.” 

Chapter Text

“You’re dating the son of Poseidon.” 

Odysseus’ words are soft, but there’s a steel edge beneath them. She sighs as they enter Odysseus’s tent, Ody’s arm is wrapped firmly around her bicep as he leads her in. It’s just the two of them. Diomedes had purposefully stayed behind to mitigate the fallout of Annabeth’s words. 

When he lets go of her, he starts to pace. Calmly, she sits by the low table on the floor and lounges next to it, putting on a mask of looking unbothered. 

It’s a surprise that he had waited until they reached their own camp before he panicked. 

Honestly, Annabeth had been expecting it as soon as they left the Council’s tent, leaving flummoxed members in her wake. She knew she just dropped an entire bomb on their war meeting. But it was for a good cause. 

“We can…We can work with this,” Odysseus says, slightly irritated as he paces. She watches him go back and forth in the tent, his movements tilted. 

“I don’t get why you’re upset about this revelation,” Annabeth says. “You already knew.”

“But I did not know he was a prince!” Odysseus counters. “That changes everything. Do you know what Poseidon does to his favored children? Because, while I’ve never met one, I’ve heard stories.”

He halts, his fingers running through his hair with a sigh. “And just to make absolutely sure– You’re positive that he’s nowhere near Troy.” 

She nods. 

“Trust me, Perseus is nowhere near this war.” Annabeth affirms, her fingers running along the wooden grain of the table. Her fingernails slightly snag in the divots. 

( Far away, the ocean laughs in a chorus.) 

“And that is where you are wrong.” 

She shows up without a warning. Immediately, Odysseus drops to his knees. Annabeth’s eyes simply widen for a second. Her mother stands in the middle of the tent looking… ruffled. Her owl wings stretch behind her, and the feathers are ruffled and misaligned. They look unkempt. 

Greek gods and goddesses don’t get tired, but Athena gives the sense that if she were mortal, her eyes would have dark shadows under them. She’s unusually quiet, even for herself, as her bright bird-like eyes scan over Annabeth wearily. 

Her eyes pause on parts of her skin as if something is written there that she doesn’t understand. Her brows furrow in confusion– an emotion that Annabeth knows her mother hates feeling. It doesn’t do well for Wisdom to not know things. 

Words are lodged in Annabeth’s throat. But she eventually wrenches them free and out into the air. “What do you mean I’m wrong?” 

Athena’s eyes soften. Then she does something surprising. Her bare feet walk across the tent canvas, silently and gracefully. She sits in front of Annabeth on her knees, lowering herself to the ground. 

Annabeth’s heart quickens. 

No. No. That’s wrong. Athena can’t– be on eye level with her. She’s never–

Hands reach out and gently cup Annabeth’s cheeks. Her mother sits on her knees in front of her, stroking under her eye with her thumb. Her mouth is drawn into a worried line. “Oh my sweet child. My first. My wonderful smart girl,” Athena says, her eyes swimming with an emotion that Annabeth can’t place. “What have you done?” 

All the air in Annabeth’s lungs seems to evaporate at the sentence. She bites back a whine. This is almost too much. She’s not used to having all of her mother’s attention on her. Not used to the sweet words she uses. But there is one thing she is used to–

She has done something that her mother doesn’t approve of. 

(When does she not?) 

“What do you mean?” Annabeth asks, trying not to panic. She reviews her words at the tent. Did she insult Poseidon somehow? Was there something she did wrong? She knew it had been a risk. But it was a calculated one. She had thought through her words carefully. Had she missed something? 

She had thought she had gotten away with it. 

“I–” Annabeth looks over desperately to Odysseus. But he stands frozen where he is. His expression tells Annabeth that he’s never seen Athena like this either. Never seen her bend her knee to anyone. And wisely, he is staying out of an emotional god’s way. 

He won’t lift a finger to help her. 

Not against Athena. 

Internally, resignation rises in her chest. Wisdom’s daughter walks alone. She muses over her part of the prophecy. It’s how it was then, and it’s how it is now. 

Annabeth winces as she looks up at Athena. Her words hitch with more emotion than she would like, “What did I do?” 

Her mother’s expression melts into something bordering affectionate yet disapproving. A strange mixture to see, nothing like she had ever observed on her mother’s face during modern times. Her mother leans over and kisses her on the forehead. 

Annabeth’s mind whirrs. 

This is parental affection. From Athena? She– She messed up. Oh fuck, is Athena going to kill her? Is she softening the blow? She’s never kind, even when Annabeth does everything right. But she’s clearly done something her mother doesn’t like. Yet–

It’s all so strange. Annabeth doesn’t know what’s going on. 

Athena’s voice is soft when puts a spin on Annabeth’s entire world. 

“The Poseidon boy is in the Trojan camp.” 

The only sound in the tent is a gasp from Odysseus. Annabeth feels frozen as if she can’t move. She knows that they’re watching her. Waiting for her to do something. But her mother just said the strangest thing. Something that Annabeth can’t wrap her head around. 

A strangled laugh erupts from her. 

Both Odysseus and Athena look at her worriedly. 

“That’s impossible,” Annabeth says, a slightly manic smile on her face “That’s not– Percy couldn’t possibly be–” 

But Athena is serious with eyes as firm as a stone. Her mother doesn’t joke. If she said that Poseidon’s son is in the Trojan camp, then she meant it. The demigod’s mind whirls with this new information. 

“Are you sure…it’s Perseus? My son of Poseidon?” Because maybe it’s another son of Poseidon and they just assumed–

“Yes, we’re sure. Before your little revelation at the Council’s camp, Poseidon had made the announcement to Olympus about his newly favored son. There were arguments about allowing him to fight. His name is Perseus. And he mentioned you.”

“Me?” Annabeth asks. Despite the situation, it’s a little heartwarming to think that before Annabeth could even talk about her relationship, Percy had already been talking about her. 

Trust that Seaweed Brain to get the notice of everyone quickly. She thinks more than a little fondly. All the worry of her mother’s disappointment slowly eases out of her. Percy is here. She’s not alone in this mess. 

Fuck, she’s not alone. 

Just like last time the prophecy dictated that she would be isolated, Percy is right there, slowly dragging her back to walk beside him. Even in travelling through time, he never lets her fall by herself. From quests to the gates of Tarturus and the battlefield of Troy and Greece itself, is there no place that Percy will not find her? 

Hope bubbles up in her stomach, and it isn’t until her mother’s thumb brushes her cheek and it’s wet that she realizes she’s crying. 

“Does this news trouble you? Were you trying to get away from him? If he has hurt you–” Athena’s voice promises a vengeance that Annabeth doesn’t want nor need. 

“No, no. The opposite. I just–” She bites back a wet sob as she grins. “I’m so happy he’s here.” 

“Well that makes one of us,” Odysseus finally says, cutting through the emotions Annabeth’s feeling. She glances over at him and pauses. 

He’s pale. At his side, his hands shake into fists. Worry swims in his eyes as he looks at the two of them. 

“You’re telling me–” Odysseus’ voice is low and sounds partly strangled. “That the Trojans have a son of Poseidon?” 

Athena’s expression switches from one of a doting mother to a battle hardened warrior in a second. Her hands stop cupping Annabeth’s hands as they do what Annabeth was doing earlier and start dragging her nails along the grain of the wooden table. The action is so human. So unlike the Athena that Annabeth knows that is constantly stiff and proper. 

“Yes, and worse, he has Iron Skin.” Athena notes. 

This causes Annabeth to pause. Because he has what now? 

“That’s impossible, Perseus lost his Iron Skin.” Annabeth says confused. He lost it when he crossed the Tiber into–

Rome doesn’t exist yet. 

Annabeth freezes. 

The curse of Achilles could be lost by entering magical places connected to Rome. But this is before the start of Rome. Could that have something to do with it? 

Even if there was no place to lose the curse though, that shouldn’t have changed the fact that he had already lost it. It wouldn't have given it back, right? That didn’t make any sense. Theories form in her head as she tries to think of a way… any way that going back in time would give him Iron Skin. But, she couldn’t. The only way to get the curse of Achilles was to go into the River Styx. 

“There’s no way that someone can lose Iron Skin,” Odysseus says. “It’s with you until the day you die.” 

“He’s right Annabeth, if your Perseus had it once, he’s most likely always had it.” Athena says softly. Then she drums her fingers along the table. “This changes things though.” 

“You’re right. We need to tell the council about this immediately,” Odysseus says with a tired sigh. 

“Wait– What– Tell the council?” Annabeth asks. “Why?” 

“Annabeth, the only person who could fight against him and win would be Achilles–”

“You are not harming him!” 

Her words burst out of her mouth before she can stop them. She looks between them quickly, and before her common sense can catch up to her mind, she continues speaking. Her hands clench in her lap. “You can’t hurt him! He’s mine. I love him! He’s not an enemy.” 

Odysseus’ eyes soften as he looks at her. “He sides with Troy.” 

He is an enemy to them. 

The words are a punch to her gut. They’re going to try to kill him. Just because he appeared there. “You don’t know that.” She doesn’t either, but she’s not going to let them…just kill Percy. “He could have woken up there just like I woke up here. He had no choice in the matter. If he were to choose to be anywhere it would be here.” With me. By my side. 

There’s no way that he’d side with Troy. Not when he knows it would fall. Right? Troy is going to end up in flames. Desecrated. Would he–

Has he met Helen yet? She closes her eyes as resignation finally beats denial. Or Hector? 

Because admittedly, as much as Annabeth would like for Percy to  not fight for the Trojans. She knows how quickly Percy will throw hands for one of his people. And she could easily see him wanting to protect those two if history was any indicator towards their personalities. 

What are the chances though that he’s met the son of Priam? She thinks as he rubs her temples. 

( Thoughts quicken. The sound of a clock ticks in the background and she stands in the middle of the library in her mind, looking for an answer.) 

“Are you sure?” Odysseus asks. “If we were to steal him from Troy–” 

“I can’t be positive because I haven’t had the chance to talk with him yet.” Annabeth counters. Across from her Athena is lost deep in thought. “If I had the chance. I could talk to him. Discuss things with him. See what’s going on. Maybe I could get him to come here.” 

“There’s one problem with this plan,” Athena finally interrupts. “His father is very firmly denying any talk of him leaving Troy. Nobody knows any details, but he is seen discussing with Aphrodite sometimes. They think there’s a deal they have about Perseus that nobody else is privy to.” 

“What could Aphrodite possibly have to entice Poseidon?” She realizes a second too late how arrogant her words are, but she doesn’t take them back. Despite how she views the goddess of love, she doesn’t know why Poseidon would make a deal with her to let Perseus stay in Troy. 

“We do not know, but I have assumed that it has something to do with the relationship between you two,” Athena says with a calm look on her face. Annabeth sputters. But before she can say anything, her mother continues. “To be completely fair, I do not like the idea of you two courting either.” 

Say what now? 

Annabeth blinks. She knows that her mother and Poseidon have a rivalry. But they wouldn’t– Well. Her mother did warn Percy against being near her multiple times. It’s clear that hot-headed sons of Poseidon get on her nerves. But she doesn’t even know Percy yet. She couldn’t make her judgement that she hated him if she hadn’t even met him. 

(Logically, her mind registers that thought as false, but she ignores it.) 

“Poseidon’s sons have a history of mistreating women and prioritizing honor and glory over the lives of others. We all were happy when Theseus fell, Annabeth.” She says, worry swimming in her eyes. “You’re so young, and I will not stand to see my daughter mistreated or cast aside as if she were nothing. You deserve a strong partnership should you desire one. Someone that will not belittle your deeds and actions simply because you are a woman. And I have yet to meet a son of Poseidon that is not pig headed.” 

“Percy is more than just a son of Poseidon, he is the son of his mother as well,” Annabeth counters. “And his mother is the most gracious, kindest woman I have ever met.” 

Displeasure crosses her mother’s face. And for a second, Annabeth thinks she sees a lining of envy there. But she must be imagining it. 

“Regardless, you will not be with him any longer. I will meet with Poseidon and call off your two’s courtship. I am sure he will agree with me.” 

“Absolutely not!” Annabeth argues, standing up as heat courses through her veins. “You can’t just– expect me to stop loving him! I love him!” 

“You’re a child!” Athena argues. “You’ll love anyone who flatters with pretty words.” 

It’s their first real fight since Annabeth came back in time, but this is one she isn’t planning on losing. This is a hill she’ll fight on. The one she’ll always fight on. “You should know that I am smarter than to fall for that. Mother, he did not win me over with praise or with false platitudes. He won me over with his actions and courage. He’s saved my life multiple times. He fell into Tarturus with me–” 

And she immediately regrets saying it. 

Athena’s whole face becomes as ghostly white as a sheet. Her mouth parts in shock. Her eyes constricting in a bird-like manner. 

“Odysseus.” 

Her words are calm, but there’s a hint of a storm underneath them. Odysseus looks at Annabeth tiredly, as if he wishes there was a way for him to help her. But there’s nothing he can do here. This is a family affair. His words come out after a dejected sigh. “Yes, m’lady?” 

“Leave.” There is no room for misinterpretation. He nods his head and makes his way to the tent flap, looking over his shoulder one final time at Annabeth. His eyes are pitying. 

“Yes…M’lady. I shall go fetch more clothes for Annabeth at the riverside work camp.” He says as he leaves. When he’s gone, Athena rises to her feet, looking at Annabeth with a face devoid of emotion. 

“You will explain those words to me right now.” She orders. And this isn’t just an order from a goddess, but an order from her mother. “What do you mean by Tarturus. Spare no detail.” 

The demigod’s mouth presses into a deep line. Suddenly the tent feels too big. And Annabeth? She feels too small. Her hands clench into the linen fabric of her attire. She takes deep breaths, feeling as her lungs expand and contract. She’s not going to get out of this is she? 

It’s a memory that she doesn’t like talking about. It’s still so fresh in her mind. Her body still holds the malnutrition and scars from her trip down there. And the only reason she’s still alive is because Percy had prioritized her in Tarturus. But something down there had made him different. Colder. More immovable. She hadn’t liked it then, and she doesn’t like it now. 

It was just a bad time all together. 

But ever since Tarturus, she couldn’t help but glance at Percy and wonder sometimes…About what would have happened if she hadn’t been there. If she hadn’t pulled him back from that dark place his mind seemed to go. She knows what Percy is capable of. He’s the strongest demigod that Annabeth has ever met. And she can’t help but love all sides of him. Every aspect. Even the not so great ones. 

She takes another deep breath. “Me and Percy fell into Tarturus. Together.” 

Athena’s face falls. She closes her eyes in pain. The only word she says is a strangled, “No.” 

“We– We didn’t have much. It’s a miracle we made it out alive. There were so many monsters.” She gasps, remembering the memory vividly. “And we didn’t have food–” Her voice hitches. 

A beat. 

Her mother’s hands land on her shoulders, drawing her close. Athena presses her nose into the top of Annabeth’s hair. Her words are soft. “Why did you not tell me?” 

She snorts. “Yes, that is something I’m going to mention the first time I meet my mother. ‘Hello mother, I’m your child, did you know I fell into Tarturus?’” Her last words are said in a faux mocking way. 

Her mother’s arms tighten around her. “Point made.” 

A traitorous part of Annabeth relaxes in her mother’s hold. She’s never had this. Just a calm, and fully accepting hug from her mother without any strings attached. It’s nice. But it’s almost too much. Her skin burns, not used to be touched by anyone but Percy and her siblings. Fuck, she missed the Athena cabin. The late nights weaving together, humming softly by the fire as they all lean into each other and focus on their individual projects. 

“My darling daughter,” Athena whispers, her arms tightening around her. “Already so brave and have faced such hardships. No wonder you are so prepared to be shipped off to war. Have you never been given the ability to be a child?” 

Tears threaten to fall behind Annabeth’s eyes. 

“I had a good childhood. It was full of training but it was also full of a lot of fun things as well.” Chiron and Mr. D really did do their best at camp for the younger ones. Yes, they learned how to fight with a sword, but they also cut out snowflakes from paper, or bracelets around the fireside. There was a lot of good that went along with the dangerous. She doesn’t regret living the life she’s lived. And while she wishes her parents had a more active part in it, there isn’t much she would have changed. 

“My child, it couldn’t have been that good if you fell into Tarturus,” Her mother pulls back and studies her eyes. “Who did this to you?” 

Annabeth opens her mouth but quickly snaps it shut. 

For a second, all she wanted to do was tell Athena everything. About camp. About her quests. About growing up with just a baseball cap that turned her invisible–

She wants to scream back– you did. 

But she holds her tongue. Takes a deep breath. And then says, “I did what I had to do.” 

“You never should have had to face Tarturus. No matter what someone asked of you. Annabeth you–” She takes a deep breath that she does not need. Annabeth wonders if it’s somehow  calming for her like it is a mortal. But it’s a question she’ll never ask. 

Her fingers slowly wrap around her mother’s himation and dig into the fabric, like a child would. And she hates it. Hates how much she loves the fact that her mother is still half-holding her like this. 

“Oh, my darling girl.” A kiss is planted on her forehead and the action almost makes Annabeth weep. “It’s okay.” Annabeth should pull away fully, but instead she dives back into her mother’s arms as her shoulders shake. Her mother smooths the back of her hair with her hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s all going to be better now.” 

Annabeth’s voice is rough when she speaks. “You can’t hurt him. Please. Please. You can’t–” 

Her mother sighs, her arms still holding up Annabeth. “Does he truly mean that much to you?” 

She nods, leaning her head against her mother’s shoulder. “He does. Please. Please.” 

“Alright then,” Her mother says quietly, her hand travelling down to rub her back soothingly. “I promise not to kill or harm Perseus, you have my word.” 

She relaxes in her arms at the word. Her mother is a lot of things, but a promise breaker isn’t one of them. 

“Good, that’s…” She swallows roughly. “That’s good.” 

There’s a pause, “I still think you should reconsider this courtship, but until it’s proven unwise, I will hesitantly allow it.” They separate and both sit in front of the table. Annabeth feels like her skin is itchy. As if it’s been touched a bit too long. Her hands twitch in her lap for something to do. 

She eyes her mother’s ruffled feathers. It would be easy to move them back into place. Annabeth hesitantly reaches a hand up. “Can I–?” 

Pupils expand as Athena nods slowly. Her wing extends so Annabeth can reach her feathers. They’re not as neat and orderly as they usually are. It seems that the war takes its toll even on the Olympians. Carefully, Annabeth starts high, running her fingers on the underside of her mother’s feathers as she dislodges some debris stuck behind them. Slowly, she nudges them in place. 

As she works, Athena watches her like an owl, with unblinking and piercing eyes. It’s nice. Most Athena children could think better if they did something with their hands. They were all built with clever and dexterous fingers. With shapes and motions ingrained into them for weaving. 

Feathers aren’t that different. 

“You know usually it is the parent that preens their owlet’s wings.” Athena says with a hum as she leans her elbow on the table, a picture of elegance and grace. There’s a soft smile on her lips though, one that is foreign to Annabeth. She looks proud, but she also looks content. An emotion that Annabeth would have never connected with her mother. 

The demigod snorts, her clothes rustling softly as she moves. “That would be hard, considering I don’t have wings.” 

Athena says nothing, but her eyes seem to expand as they eye Annabeth’s shoulders as if thinking. Her expression almost seems to say– not yet. 

Which isn’t a thought that Annabeth would like to dwell on. So she takes it and pushes it further into the back of the library in her mind. 

( Along the bookshelves where she keeps Tarturus and Luke and Titans and Giants.) 

She gets halfway through her mother’s right wing, nudging the feathers gently into place as she removes the dead shafts and any debris in them. It’s surprisingly helpful work. She can feel her thoughts click into place as she moves. 

She lets her mind think through what she says next. Her words are calculated and precise. “I would like to visit Perseus in Troy.” 

Her mother’s wing pauses under her hands, but she continues her work, never faltering. Feathers are warm in her fingers. They twitch as Athena seems to think. There’s another beat.

Both are thinking about what they want to say now. Neither of them are running completely on emotion. “And why would you like to do that?” 

To see if he’s okay. If he’s been hurt. Is he happy? Are they treating him well? She bites her tongue for a second lightly, then says, “I would like to know what he thinks of the war. Why he thinks we’ve been sent here. He might have a piece of knowledge that I don’t.” 

Round eyes, clever eyes, stare directly at her and only her. There’s a possessive edge to them that’s new in a way that Annabeth should fear. Something must be wrong inside of her though. Because she’s not afraid. Instead she feels seen. Claimed. “Don’t lie to me. You can tell me the truth. All of it.” 

Fingers hesitate. “And if I don’t want to talk about why–”

“You will if you want to see him,” Her mother’s hand brushes a lock of hair out of her face. “I’m finding that I am having trouble denying my child of things she wishes for. But I need reasons. Logical ones. I’m not throwing you to a place where you might get hurt unless you have a reason to be there.” There’s a sharp inhale. “Even if you think you can handle it… Even if I know you can. Humor me.” 

“Humor you?” Annabeth can’t help but snort. “A weird choice of words for you, mother. Humor isn’t often what I’d describe our thoughts as.” Then she continues to comb through her mother’s feathers, pleased at how the tension seems to be seeping from her mother’s shoulders. She’s more relaxed than she had been at the start. “But, if you want to know the truth. There’s a lot of reasons I’d like to see him.” 

There’s another possessive glint in her eye. “Such as?” 

“Such as–” She finishes the second to last row of feathers. “--He’s a great fighter. I know fate sent him over to the Trojan side for a reason, but I want to know if he stays over there…that it’s his choice. I never want him to feel trapped to fight. Not for his father or anyone else.” 

Percy deserves so much more than that. After everything he’s done. 

Her mother nods. “There’s more.” 

Annabeth’s smile is a little sardonic. “When is there not?” She takes her time to think as she finishes the last of her mother’s right wing. 

Without prompting, her mother shifts to where her back is against the table and her left wing is spread out in front of her. She quickly begins again. “Me and Percy, well, we fell in Tarturus together. He took care of me. I took care of him. Before we were separated…We were…” Clingy. That’s the only word she can think of. Both of them took great reassurance though in knowing the other was close and alive. Mr. D had been careful about watching them, making sure they weren’t getting too codependent. He said the nightmares and the anxiety of being apart would die with time. 

Both her and Percy are too independent to not be able to live without the other. But that didn’t stop the anxiety from Tarturus lingering when the other wasn’t around. 

“Seeing him would calm me,” She finally finishes. 

Her mother is quiet as she watches Annabeth. Those unblinking, piercing eyes looking straight through her. “And you would come back?” 

It’s not a question that Annabeth expects, and it throws her off guard. “Of course.” 

“You say that– but do you mean it–” Athena presses. Pushing against what Annabeth says. “Will you return back to Odysseus?” 

The demigod runs her tongue over the inside of her teeth nervously. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Athena continues to stare at Annabeth, her eyebrows furrowing together. “There is much I need to still learn about you. I–” She stops as if trying to find the words. “We haven’t known each other near long enough. I don’t understand how you think. I thought I would. That you would be a copy of me. But that was foolish. You’re your own person, of course. But–” 

Her fingers twitch in her lap as if wanting to also do something. Her eyes linger on Annabeth’s shoulders again. “I thought I would know. How you think.” She repeats the words as if they’re important. “I want to know what your strengths are. Your weaknesses. I want to be able to pick you apart and dissect everything about you. You’re my first child. I want to know everything. It drives my thoughts wild that I don’t. That there’s something I don’t know.” 

She takes another breath. An illusion of mortality. “And I don’t want to push you away. Because I know that level of knowledge can be intense. Yet, I simply cannot help myself. I gave birth to you. But I do not know where you were born, or who your mortal parent was. Your life is a blank canvas to me that needs to be filled. I cannot do that if you’re not here.” 

“I–” Words lodge in Annabeth’s throat, but Athena quickly shushes her. 

“Hold on–” She pauses. “I want you to know that I would go to Troy to retrieve you.” 

“And the war?” 

“Forget the war. It means nothing if it stands in the way of me and my child.” Athena’s fingers reach towards her and place a hand on a seemingly random part of her arm, as if tracing something that isn’t there. Her eyes glimmer. 

Her mother sighs as Annabeth reaches the middle of her wing. “You know, it would bring me great relief if you would simply tell me everything.” 

“Everything? About myself? It would take all night.” Annabeth chuckles. 

“We have the time,” Athena’s smile is such an uncommon sight. 

I could get used to seeing her like this. Annabeth thinks though, perhaps a little too fiercely. A greedy part of her wishes she could stay in this time forever, if only so she could have her mother’s easy expressions like this. 

She counters. “Odysseus might disagree, we kicked him out of his own tent.” 

“Perhaps another time then,” Athena says warmly. 

Annabeth nods. 

She finishes preening her mothers wing. On reflex, it flares out, her feathers rippling. They look shiny and sleek. A warble of an owl slips out of Athena’s mouth almost on instinct. “Such a good owlet.” 

Annabeth soaks up the praise like a dry sponge to water. She can’t help the pleasant feeling that wells up inside her. She then nervously retreats her hands into her lap. “And about seeing Percy?” 

A second passes, and then, Athena leans over and smiles. 

Chapter Text

Percy's entire world pauses.

That's a lie. It doesn't. The fountain a few feet away continues to pour. The trees still rustle. There's the sound of children laughing in one of the nearby streets.

Time doesn't stop.

But it feels as if it does.

(As if each second is holding its breath, just waiting for the moment to shatter.)

Staring at Annabeth, there's so much that Percy wants to say, but he can't find the words. All his thoughts are too big to squeeze through his too tight of a throat. So, he doesn't speak.

Instead, he wordlessly offers his arm to her.

Annabeth's grey eyes soften into a relieved expression. Slowly, she glides towards him, fitting her arm in the crook of his.

It fits perfectly.

She slots against him as if she's the piece of a missing puzzle, and Percy finally feels as if he can breathe again. They simply bask in each other's company as he leads her to the quiet area under the willow tree. He dusts off a nearby stone bench, before she gently sits down. Not once does her eyes leave him. With the willow leaves curtaining around them, it's almost as if they've been cut off from the world.

Percy takes Annabeth's hand as he sits down beside her, tracing his fingers over her palm and making note of the callous-free curves and dips. He smiles fondly. 

It’s been days since he’s seen her. But it feels like months. 

And it’s such a cruel joke. 

“I tried to get here as fast as I could Percy, please believe me.” Her voice is nearly a whisper. A chilly wind blows through. Percy pulls off his chlamys, leaving him in a tunic and trousers as he pins the poncho-like shawl around her shoulders. 

“It's going to be getting cold soon.” He says with a smile.

Annabeth blushes as he finishes pinning it. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” He says in barely a whisper. His eyes dip down to hers. There's a pause. He smiles softly. “Is there anything else you need…Lady Aphrodite?”

(Dove feathers ruffle in surprise.)

Her form ripples away almost immediately and she looks exactly like the last time he saw her– a blend of his mother, Annabeth and a few other women he knows. (The curly hair of Artemis surprised him initially, but the goddess had been one of the kinder deities to him. And what is beauty if not kindness?)

Red lips part in surprise, before they quickly tilt into a smirk. “How did you know?”

“A few reasons.” Percy laughs. “Wise girl hardly ever calls me darling. Also, my lover is proficient with a sword and quill. She has callouses here-” He trails a finger over part of her palm. “-and here.” He touches where a pen would rest against her fingers. 

“Impressive,” The goddess compliments. “Not many would see through my disguise like that.” Her hand slides up Percy's arm. Shivers tingle up his spine, and he politely coughs as he pulls his arm away.

Her eyes suspiciously narrow at him pulling away. A beat passes. Then she takes a breath. “So you know I'm not your lover.” Her suspicious gaze shifts into a half lidded stare. “But I could be.”

Panic grips his heart. He scoots a bit away from her, but she's quick to lean in and erase that gap. His heart beats fast in an emotion that is definitely not excitement. Her arms go on either side of him, effectively caging him in.

(The ancient foreign ocean calls out to him in a croon, bringing with it the smell and sound of seafoam dissipating on the shore. Dove feathers slowly trail up his skin.)

Something in his heart tugs. It feels vaguely wrong and foreign, travelling through his skin and into his blood. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to place what exactly he is feeling. But there is no word for it– only warmth and a longing that doesn’t belong to him. 

“I am–” Percy gulps. The feeling grows. “So sorry Lady Aphrodite. I mean no insult. You're beauty personified. But I'm loyal to Annabeth-”

Her lips part into a growing smile.

His heart tugs again. A string is weaved around it. Not something that forces his hand, but simply a line that forces him to look. 

“She wouldn't have to know.” Her voice sounds melodic. Percy could listen to it forever. Would pay to have it speak compliments into his ear, to tell him that he is adored, to tell him that he is loved. 

He draws in a deep breath. His heart hammers in his chest, being pulled in two directions. As Aphrodite leans in, Percy can feel his face flush and his pulse race. 

(Dove wings spread in preparation to take flight. 'This will be all too easy.') 

There’s another tug in his heart. 

And it’s all so wrong. 

This is quickly getting into dangerous territory, so he does the first thing he can think of– he flees. 

He scrambles backwards, off the edge of the bench, and awkwardly stumbles to his feet. His breath comes out in quick puffs as he places both of his hands over his chest. Fingers grab at the fabric there as if he can will his very heart to calm down. Screwing his eyes shut, he waits for the backlash of his actions. 

The string around his heart dissipates in an instant. 

But there’s only silence. 

A beat. The air around them is still. And when Percy opens his eyes, he doesn’t know who is more surprised. Him or Aphrodite. 

The goddess is wide eyed at his hasty escape with her mouth open as if she could not believe he had just run away. She closes her mouth. Then it opens again. Then she closes it with a click. Her jaw stiffens as her nostrils flare. 

Percy swallows harshly. “I'm very flattered,” he cringes. “But no.”

Aphrodite's expression melts into one of silent fury. Her lips turn downward as she fluidly straightens her shoulders. One eyebrow raises at him. “No?”

He inhales a deep breath, and his voice is as firm as he can make it. “No.” 

“You would turn down the goddess of love?” Her voice dips into something cold and ancient. A chill enters Percy's bones. A voice in the back of his mind, one that sounds suspiciously like Mr. D's, warns him to proceed very, very cautiously.

(A dove's beak nips the shell of his ear furiously.)

“I would turn down anyone who isn't Annabeth, m'lady.” He quickly bows to the hip, with his arm over his waist. It's a formal apology. Perhaps the most reverent he's been with a god yet.

Out of all the gods to piss off though– Aphrodite is firmly at the bottom of his list. He has a gut feeling though, that he’s not getting out of here without doing so.

Her head tilts, her hair spilling over her shoulder. Her eyes scrutinize him up and down as he pulls back. Then–

-She sighs.

“Men usually only want one thing.” She places her hands in her lap, sitting up regally. Her expression becomes one of disdainful confusion. “I don't understand you.”

Well, Percy hasn’t been turned into an animal yet, so he’s taking that as a sign to keep going. “I'm sorry to disappoint, m'lady.” 

She looks at him as if he were a creature she's never seen before, with narrowed eyes, parted lips, and a tilted head. His chlamys is still wrapped around her shoulders and she runs her hand along the sharks embroidered on it. “You're a strange one, Perseus. I can't tell if I love it or hate it so.” 

He grimaces. “At least I make things interesting?”

“I would've taken easy.” Aphrodite drawls. Then she pauses. Another sigh. 

“I had hoped to intice you into my lovers and I's bed so that you would continue to fight for Troy.” It's surprising– her honesty. It's not something Percy had expected. But he's grateful nonetheless. 

(The sound of a battle cry draws closer in a mixture of surprise, incredulous awe, and slight interest.)

His hands quickly curl and uncurl as he swallows. “I already fight for Troy m'lady.” 

She scrunches her nose. “Please. Drop the false narrative darling. All of us know you only fight since your father commanded it. This isn't where your heart is. And a warrior without his heart is a liability at best.” She stands up in a smooth motion. Aphrodite takes a step towards him. Then another. 

“And do you know where your heart is? I'll tell you-”

Percy freezes rigidly.

“It's with the Greek camp. It belongs to that demigod of Athena. The one everyone is talking about.” She scoffs and flips her hair. “And because of that– you're distracted and your loyalties are torn in half.” 

“I wouldn't join their side that easily m'lady.” Percy says, surprising himself. Does he really mean that? He knows who will win this war, and it's not the Trojans.

But when he thinks about the idea of leaving, all he can think about is Hector inviting him into his home, Apollo laying with him on the riverbank, and the recruits he helped train who were laughing with him and obeying his instructions. 

“Would you not? You know, my lover speaks highly of you. He says that you’re one of the best warriors he's met.” Her voice tinkles like a windchime. It's soft and airy.

“Lord Ares is merely happy that I'm a decent fighter.” 

She quickly shakes her head. “It's more than that. He says that you're honorable. Which is something that is rare in a mortal's heart these days.” She takes another step towards him. He takes another step back. “You're brave. Loyal. But most of all kind.” Percy's back hits the bark of the willow tree. 

(The scent of bloodshed and the sound of iron clashing agrees vigorously. It draws closer. Almost as if it's by Percy's side.)

There’s a beat where the silence stretches between them. “This is the part where you say thank you. It’s a compliment.” 

“Thank you, Lady Aphrodite,” Percy parrots. This entire conversation feels off putting. As if he’s stepping on uneven, rocky terrain and doesn’t know where to put his feet. 

She hums again, her lips turning into a frown. 

('Oh you could be perfect-- Little godling.') 

“Join us in our bed Perseus, forget about the Greeks.” Aphrodite is a breath away from him. Defiance and pride shines in her eyes.“You could have it all you know. Honor. Glory. Victory. We could give you anything you wanted.” Soft fingers cradle his jaw. “Whatever your heart desires. We could make you ours."

(There’s a scent of ownership in the air. The sound of a dove cooing along with the snort of a hog.) 

Percy closes his eyes with a sigh as he leans into her hand. “I'm sorry…but my heart still only desires my lover.”

(It's the sound of metal clashing that pulls the dove away, making her take a step backwards. It's as if war can smell Percy's disinterest, and is very insistent not to force him.) 

Percy sends a thankful little prayer towards Ares.

(A warmth like a soldier's cloak envelops over his shoulders.) 

Aphrodite's nose scrunches up, but she doesn't try to touch him again. Instead she merely shakes her head. “I don’t understand you. Most men would jump with joy at the mere chance to belong to us. We would take care of you.” 

The willow leaves whisper around them as another gentle wind blows. His hands twitch. “It’s a generous offer. But I already belong to her.” 

“So be it then. I will stop trying to coax you to come back to our room with us. But, just so you know, my lover is a persistent man, and I know that he wants you in other ways than what I offered today. I have a feeling that you’ll be relying on us more than you’d think.” 

Fuck. Percy hopes not. The last thing he needs is for the gods to gain more favors from him. 

“You say that your one desire is to be with your lover?” Aphrodite asks. 

“Yes, it is for me to find her and to take her home.” Percy nods. 

Moving beside him, Aphrodite leans against the tree, their shoulders touching. If Percy didn’t know better, he’d say that she almost looks casual with that pose. “And where is home?” 

“Far west from here.” It’s not a lie. 

Her eyebrows scrunch together at his words. “If it is so far from Greece…Where did your mother meet your father?” Percy bites his lips and shrugs. There’s no good way he could explain that. Thankfully though, she doesn’t take his silence as an insult, instead she softly asks, “Do you want to know what I think?” 

As Percy nods, she continues. “I think that your mother gave you to a weaker pantheon. That they stole you. Trained you. Made you all into little soldiers to play in a world that isn’t their own. And I’m not the only one. Others have their own theories. It’s all the talk in Olympus nowadays– two very strong and dangerous demigods, showing up out of nowhere, trained and desperate to go home.” 

She doesn’t stop as she leans her head up to stare at him. “Yet here you are. They’re not here. They’re not going to defend you. You’re at our mercy.” She laughs, and it’s a haughty and arrogant sound. “You’re ours to place in this war. Fate led you to us. So I don’t think home really matters now does it?” 

“Lady Aphrodite–” She cuts him off, raising a hand up. 

“You’re father has asked me to make sure that you stay firmly on the side of the Trojans. We made a deal, you see. And while you don’t need to worry about the specifics, you should know that I’ll do anything– and I do mean almost anything– to win this war. I promised Paris the most beautiful mortal woman in the world. And I keep my promises.” 

He grits his teeth. The small voice in the back of his head pleads for him to stay quiet. But Percy’s never been good at doing that. “Helen isn’t a prize.” 

She laughs again. “Oh, but she is. What is a mortal to a god, sweetheart?” 

The question grates against him. It rubs his insides raw. Anger wells up in his stomach. His hands clench at his sides. “She’s a person! She never asked for this!” 

“Neither did you– but I’ll still keep you here.” 

He takes in a very shaky breath. “Please, Lady Aphrodite, I am fighting for Troy. I do not know what it is you want.” 

Her form shifts then– into something made of glass and galaxies and seafoam. It’s every color. Then it’s something vaguely human again– a flash of a woman much older than Percy sees her. 

“I want your loyalty.” 

Her eyes glow as the pupils dilate into a sphere of gems. “It’s strange. How far you would go for someone. How long you would fight for them. It’s heedy. Addictive. It’s a wonder how your heart can beat still in your chest when you’d give the entire thing to someone you love. That kind of devotion can’t be bought with jewels. It must be won. And oh– we want it so.” 

“Is that a threat?” His jaw clenches. 

“No,” She whispers with a sharp grin. “It’s a promise darling.” 

(There’s the sound of a wave crashing– seafoam dissolving–)

Aphrodite disappears. 

Percy stays under the willow tree for longer than he’d care to admit. He’s clutching at his hair, pacing and mulling over goddess of love’s departing words. Dread creeps into his bones. His mind is racing too fast for him to keep up with. A frantic buzzing noise rings in his ears. 

Aphrodite wants him to only care about Troy. And it sounds like she believes there's only one thing standing in her way of that–

Annabeth. 

Shit, she had tried to even get Percy into her bed so he wouldn’t be Annabeth’s anymore. 

(Which is a very uncomfortable thought. Aphrodite had always been like a distant aunt to Percy. It was hard to view her as anything but family. Especially as he had gotten to know her children at camp. Even more so to think of Ares like that. But they didn’t know him like he knew them.)

Eventually he stops spiraling long enough to head back to camp. It’s a little blurry how long it takes, but the walk towards his tent is good for him. The cool night air helps him gather his thoughts. The trails winding through the city eventually turn from concrete roads to dirt paths. Soldiers greet him as he passes, and it takes all of his willpower to wave back at them. 

He reaches his tent and pulls back the flap. 

Someone is waiting for him inside. 

For a split second, Percy contemplates walking back outside and sleeping under the stars. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done so, but there’s an inkling of a feeling that he can’t ignore the god in front of him without serious consequences. 

Percy sighs, running a hand through his thick, black hair, only stopping as his fingers get caught on a tangle. His feet feel heavy standing on top of the canvas. “Aphrodite has already approached me–” 

“Please Perseus, I am not here for that.” Ares voice is soft yet unyielding. His shoulders are straightened and it looks like he’s treating this conversation as if it's a battle that he’s preparing for. The man’s chest rises with a deep breath.

He approaches Percy with heavy, loud steps. When they’re face to face, Ares lifts something in his hands– Percy’s chlamys. The one he wrapped around Aphrodite’s shoulders.

“May I?” He asks with a voice just above a whisper. Percy nods as the man throws it around his shoulders and gently pins it in place. His hands rest where they are when he’s done. He doesn’t pull away. He grits out his next words as if they’re physically hard to say. “I have…come to apologize.” 

“I didn’t mean to– Wait. What?”  Percy asks owlishly as he blinks up at Ares. The man’s mouth is set in a deep line. His eyes glimmer with an emotion that Percy can’t place. His form shifts slightly. Tusks appear and disappear in an second. Eyes glow an unnatural red. 

Ares sighs, his nostrils flaring. “I did not ask her to try and lure you into…well. I do not take non-consensual partners. I never have. I never will. I would have declined had you continued being insistent." 

That’s a relief, at the very least. 

“It is one thing to seduce someone, and another to pressure–” Ares then shakes his head. “Regardless, you have my apologies.” 

Percy swallows, his throat bobbing. “You’re forgiven.” 

There's a deep chuff sound. It's breathy and rumbling deep in the god's chest. His eyes dilate.

His hand trails towards his jaw. 

The demigod vaguely recalls it being the same spot Apollo held. 

‘What is with these guys and placing their hands on my neck?’ Percy thinks with a huff.

Ares' attention narrows in on it, his attention never wavering. Then his hands drop from Percy. “That is a deep relief. I’ve brought you back your clothing. The last thing she needs is more. Though, I had to talk her out of keeping it. She does not do well with rejection.” 

He said it. Not Percy. 

Ares takes a step back, his hands coming to rest on his belt. Right where a sword would usually be placed. “In the meanwhile, there are other uses I have for you.”

“Ah, right, being the matchup to Achilles. How could I forget?” Percy drawls sarcastically as he toes his sandals off. Ares’ shimmering red eyes follow the motion. 

“It's more than that,” The god of war shakes his head. “I thought I had been too obvious. But clearly I see, I have not. I do not want you as a lover Percy. I heard you call Apollo--” His nostrils flare as his voice deepens. “Tomorrow, before breakfast, meet me outside near the gates.” 

“That’s in a few hours!” Percy complains.

The war god snarls in response. His lips draw back, displaying tusks again that keep slipping in and out of existence. Ares’ hands curl into fists. “Then you should be grateful that I am not dragging you out now. Besides, you’ll want to save eating for after what I have planned.” 

Percy swallows. “And what is that, if I may ask?” 

“You may not.” He says clipped. 

“I train a few troops–” 

“You’ll will have the time for that.” Ares brushes past him towards the tent flap in clear dismissal. He stops just before he ducks out of the tent. He turns back and looks at Percy with stern eyes. “Front gates. Tomorrow. Before sunrise. Don’t sleep in.” 

Then he leaves. 

Percy groans as he falls against his bed and buries his face in his hands. 

He’s so over being in Ancient Troy.

He silently curses the fates for dragging him here where he has to deal with conniving goddesses of love and gods who drag him to do their every will. What he would give to be back at camp. 

Percy sighs. Then he debates whether or not to sleep. 

Not just because it’s so little, but also because he has no idea how he’s going to wake up on time for that. The ancient world doesn’t have an alarm clock. So the only way he’s going to be able to wake up on time is if somebody else does it. 

You know what? Fuck it. If Ares wants me awake on time, he can wake me up himself. Percy thinks as he crosses his arms behind his head and falls asleep.

(The sound of rushing water croons at him– and hand made of something ethereal slowly trails along his throat, tracing something akin to a chain.)

('All in due time.') 

Chapter Text

“So tell me again why Odysseus never received my clothing?” 

Annabeth walks down the neatly grooved trail through the tall grasses towards the river, her newest shadow trailing her. 

“Well, you see miss, he was on his way last night. He really was . When he ran into some trouble with another camp. And, since it was a very important matter, he and Eurylochus went to deal with it… efficiently.” 

Polites is a scrawny man with knobbly knees, brown chocolate curls and a splatter of freckles on his face. He is also almost in a constant state of smiling. It would be annoying, if it weren't so refreshingly informal.

Annabeth had woken up to the man standing outside her tent, regretfully informing her that Odysseus had left Polites to guard her for the day. She initially had felt bad for her mother essentially kicking the man out of his own tent the night before. But that guilt faded when she heard that most of Odysseus's inner circle were gone as well.

Barring Polites, who is quite stubbornly tightlipped about the entire incident that drew them all away.

“Don't think that the king would like me informing you miss,” Polites says with a sheepish smile when she asks. “He said not to worry you with it.”

“But isn't it more worrying for me if I don't know what is going on? How am I supposed to prepare if I don’t know what the issue is?”

“I think he wishes for you to not think about it at all miss.”

Not think? For a child of Athena? Impossible. Might as well ask Seaweed Brain to stay out of bodies of water. 

They make their way to the river banks where several groups of women are standing in knee-deep water to wash clothes. Soldiers' linens sit in covered piles along the rocky shore. Most of the tailor tents look empty, so Annabeth is assuming that everybody is helping out with laundry day. 

“They're so busy,” Annabeth notes. It's always strange to see the logistics behind a war: the cleaning, the food gathering, the cooking, etc. 

For the most part, Annabeth has always been in the fore most part of their wars. She mostly did the fighting. Not running the camp. 

Idly, the center of her back itches and she reaches behind her to scratch lightly at it. 

“Most of the women here were captured by the army on the way to Troy, miss.” Polites voice dips down low next to her head in a near whisper. “They have very little duties outside serving the attending army.” 

“You mean they're slaves.” Any hint of warmth drops from her voice as she looks at all of them working hard.

(Something akin to mischief beats in her heart. A lone side eye comes from a feathered being near her. There’s a flutter of feathers near her that are inquisitive. As if asking what she’s planning to do next.)

“Some of them are, yes. Spoils of war,” Polites says a bit sheepishly, shrugging as if this were always meant to happen. “But, fear not miss, not all the women at camp are forced labor. A few Greek women came over on supply ships. While none will be close to your station, I'm sure we can find some suitable company for yo– Wait! Where are you going?” 

Polites gawks as Annabeth rolls up her chiton a bit and starts striding into the river, close to where the women stand in shin deep water.

“Come on Polites,” Annabeth smirks over her shoulder. “Unless you'd like to tell Odysseus that you left me alone while talking to strangers.”

He sputters. He's obviously very reluctant to let either her or himself anywhere near the washers. But unfortunately he didn't stop her in time, and there's no reigning her in now that she's made up her mind.

He sighs dramatically before unclasping his belt and dropping his sword and shield on the bank with a clang. He follows her with unenthusiastic steps. His face flushes a bit as they draw close to the working women. 

They bow when she reaches them. One fearfully looks up and says, “M'lady, you should not be out here you'll get your chiton wet.” 

“Nonsense! Me and my bodyguard came here to offer our services and help.” Annabeth smirks. 

Polites’ eyes widen. “We did no such–”

Her cold calculating eyes meet his. “Why not? Is my soldier scared of a little water?” 

She didn't think it was possible for Polites to turn even redder, but clearly she was wrong. The flush of his face makes his freckles stand out. A few of the women giggle at the sight. The one from before chimes in again with a small forming smile, “It is not men's work, m'lady.”

“Polites has surely washed his own clothes on the many men-led expeditions of his youth. Haven't you Polites?” He really does make it too easy. “Like all the stories you told me on the way here.”

“That was different miss!” He stage whispers, looking more embarrassed than she thought he'd be. “We had no women-!”

Annabeth interrupts him gently. “And so you have experience. If you're going to be following me then you're going to work.” 

One of the younger ladies in the river giggles, while others nearby shush her. 

The slightly older woman that protested her involvement speaks up again, “M'lady, it just doesn't seem right to make you do work. It's below your station.”

Annabeth pauses for a second before gently smiling. “What's your name?”

“Briseis, m'lady.” 

The demigod promptly ignores the swoop of her stomach at the name. She nods and gestures an empty hand at one of the washboards, waiting until a nearby woman passes it to her. “Briseis, my mother is the goddess of weaving. As such all parts of textiles are within my realm of expertise. Including the mending and washing parts of them. Now…Shall we begin?”

That seems to put an end to the argument. Nobody dares go against Athena's domains. 

They all slowly return to work, incorporating Annabeth and Polites into the fold. Eventually the man gives up his reservations about doing “woman's work” and two giggling girls usher him under their wing to show him ‘ the proper way’ of washing. 

From the giant smile he gives them, he doesn't seem to mind the attention all that much.

He also doesn't notice when she wades a little further away.

( A giggling echo follows her. A flap of wings hovering over the water, following her.)

Something brushes against her leg. 

It takes all her training not to jolt, instead looking down through the water to see a shimmering form rippling through the water. 

A naiad?

What in the world would a naiad want with her? Unless they're simply playing in the river and are teasing her? Camp spirits did that sometimes. She continues to wash her clothes.

A splash ripples in the water next to her. 

( “Oh well, this should be interesting~” Feathers brush over her shoulders.)

Annabeth pauses. Okay, now they're clearly trying to get her attention. She looks back over her shoulder, seeing Polites blushing like a schoolgirl as an older woman with grey streaked hair says something inappropriate making the younger girls laugh.

He's distracted. Good.

Hitching up her chiton and dragging along her work, she wades further down the river until she's out of ear shot. Sea birds squawk over her and she takes the time to simply enjoy the sound of the ocean in the distance along with the feeling of the cool river stones under her feet. 

Clearly the naiad is in no rush. They don’t hurry her. Rather, they swim beside her curiously, occasionally passing by her shins as she wades into water that rises just above her knee. 

Once they're at a distance where nobody can hear them, the naiad barely pokes their head out of the water. Big watery eyes stare up at her. 

They frog blink. One eye at a time. 

A shiver goes down her spine.

“Hello there,” Annabeth plasters a smile on her face.

“You are Annabeth, correct?” They ask in a whispery silky voice.

So, this isn't a chance meeting. Someone sent them here. But who–

Percy. 

Her eyes sharpen as she looks down at the water spirit. “You know my name, but I'm afraid I do not know yours.” 

They frog blink again and rise further out of the water. From here Annabeth mentally adjusts their pronouns to she. 

The water spirit smiles sweetly at her, showing rows of sharpened teeth. “You're just as beautiful as your lover says. My name is Menodora.”

“It’s nice to meet you Menodora. So Percy sent you?” Annabeth can’t help the way her heart beat quickens at the thought. Trust him to find a way to contact her all the way from the city. The naiad nods and rises a bit more until she’s sitting up, her waist out of the water. 

“He did. He’s been most kind to me and the others. Kinder than any soldiers we have met before. He sent us to make sure that you were okay and you were not being harassed at camp.” 

Bless that man. 

“There is so much I want to say,” Annabeth will deny to her last breath that her voice hitches then, so full of emotion that she can barely contain in. “But will you tell him that I am safe? A man named Odysseus of Ithaca has vowed to protect me here at camp.” 

Menodora nods. Then she tilts her head at an almost unnatural angle. “He also had another message for you Annabeth.” She raises a blue-ish scaled hand out of the water, something gripped tight in her fingers. Annabeth cups her hand and Menodora drops something light, wet and metallic into it. 

A drachma lays flat in her palm. 

She holds it up to the sun, admiring it’s sparkle. “What was the message?”

“Hold on– I practiced–” And here, Menodora looks bashful. She blushes a purplish hue along her cheeks. “It was in a foreign tongue. But he repeated it for me several times.” She clears her throat. Then she opens her jaw and in lilted English says, “ Hey. You’re in the past too. And this is crazy. But here’s a drachma. So call me maybe?” 

Before she can stop herself, Annabeth erupts into laughter, not being able to keep quiet. She’s so surprised that she forgets to speak in Ancient Greek, “ That absolute dolt–” She waves off Menodora’s concern. It takes a second for her to remember how to switch back from English. “I’m sorry– He just made a joke. He wants me to Iris message him.” 

“Oh,” Menodora’s eyes sparkle. “I had been pondering what the message might mean. He had been sure that I needed to get the melody right.” 

“You did it perfectly. He’s just an idiot.” 

“He seemed quite smart–” 

“Oh, he is. Even if he doesn’t think he is. He’s not actually dumb. It’s just–” It’s hard to explain that she says he’s an idiot affectionately. “He’s just hare brained sometimes. I love that about him though. For example,” She flicks the drachma into the air, catching it as it falls. “If he had the means to Iris message me, why not do it himself?” 

“I do not know the answer to that miss,” The naiad runs a hand through her hair. “That must be something you ask him when you two speak.”

“I will,” Annabeth smiles genuinely. “Thank you again for delivering his message for me.” 

“It’s no problem on our end. Perseus has been most respectful to us. Would you like me to create a mist when I leave for you to call him?” 

“Yes!” Her words tumble out of her mouth, betraying her desperation. Normally, Annabeth is a private person and keeps most of her emotions close to her chest. But– This is different. “I mean– If you don’t mind.” 

The naiad smiles and dips down in the water, a trail fin coming back down and splashing into the river creating a mist with a rainbow. Before Annabeth can second guess herself, she throws the drachma in, reciting the prayer she’s memorized since she was tiny. 

Please work! 

A form ripples across the mist. Annabeth’s heart quickens. 

But no image appears. 

Her heart drops into her stomach. She takes a deep breath. Of course, that would be too easy. Why would any quest of Annabeth's or Percy let them have anything of convenience? 

The water vapor doesn't disappear though. It lingers in the air taunting her. 

Then a foot slides out of the mist.

It's followed by a leg, as if someone were stepping through and parting a silk curtain. A head peeks out next, revealing an unworldly woman who glides out of the mist with a giddy smile. She’s beautiful with iridescent skin and strands of hair that incorporate every color of the rainbow.

Iris. The goddess of rainbows and messages. 

The person who should be connecting her to Percy right now. 

( Several eyes glance their way in Olympus. A lyre is plucked with interest before their gazes wander to more important things. Except for one.)

(Young love– Horrible love– Why are you so strong– A dove chirps confused in the distance.) 

Shoot. What’s the protocol for this? Should she kneel? She hasn’t really faced any other gods when going back to the past except for her mother, and she hadn’t exactly taken the reverent route with her. 

Of course, Percy must have worn off on her, because even now, stuck in the past, she finds it awkward to show complete devotion despite her being a goddess. Slowly, she dips into a form of a shallow bow. 

“Oh my goodness! I was wondering when I’d meet you!” Annabeth blinks at the chipper quality to the goddess’ voice. Quickly she straightens her back. 

“You have?” 

“I'm like your two's biggest fan! I love some good dramatic irony. And the story of you and your lover? Ugh! So adorable.” She glides through the water towards Annabeth, smiling and showing no ill will. Despite her easy disposition though, Annabeth doesn't let her guard down. 

The will of gods is finicky. 

One moment they could be granting you blessings and the next ask you to perform some horrific sacrifice. 

There's no telling what Iris is here for.

“So…will you let me talk to him?” A small bubble of hope arises in her chest. But it pops as quickly as it appears.

“Oh goodness no!” Iris says with an ‘o’ shaped mouth. She shakes her head quickly. “I couldn't possibly allow that.”. 

“You're kidding.” Annabeth deadpans. 

“I am unfamiliar with that meaning. However, rest assured that this isn't a jest.” Iris says calmly, looking quite put out that she couldn’t fulfill Annabeth’s wish. “If it were just up to me I would. But– Well–” Here her disappointed look turns sheepish. “Poseidon is scary.” 

( A single feather brushes along her shoulder as if in contemplation. There’s the sound of a humming voice, deep in thought. ‘That is true.’)  

Oh for the love of– Wait. If Poseidon would be angry if they were somehow connected, then that means– 

“He doesn’t approve of us?” Annabeth asks quietly. 

Iris’ eyes gain a remorseful quality. “Oh dear, no. He and Athena have long been competitive with each other. And while they aren’t outright enemies any longer there is still a bad history there. He thinks that you are using your quick wits as a way to manipulate his son. I think young Perseus knew his father might try to interfere were he to call, so he sent a drachma your way.” Then she gives a wistful smile with a sigh. “Young mortal love can be so romantic!” 

“Is there any way you could possibly connect us without letting either side know?” Annabeth asks quietly, wringing her hands together. She needs to be able to communicate with Percy. And her plan to visit Troy wouldn’t happen for a little while longer. (Not if her mother had anything to do with it.) 

“I’m sorry dear, it really is out of my hands.” Iris laments. “I’m neutral in the war, so I should be able to switch sides easily. But, I also made a promise to my bestie that I would stay out of this matter–” Her bestie? “Speaking of–” She grabs a golden jug by her side and lifts it up to her hip. “I need to go back to work. My job’s not all ferrying messages you know!” 

“Wait!” Annabeth’s voice comes out much more desperate than she would like. “Please, there has to be a way for me to contact him!” 

“Maybe–” Iris’s eyes glance up to the sky, as if looking at something Annabeth can’t see. “There might be another way.” 

(‘ Ha ha ha ha!’ Hawk feathers cackle in the distance in revelation.) 

“Another way?” 

“Yes, another way. But, even if you do decide to ask for his help, it’s out of my hands.” Iris then pauses. She tilts her head as her rainbow curls fall delicately over her shoulder. Then she slowly lifts a free hand and cups Annabeth’s chin. Her skin is cool to the touch. As if water vapor from a waterfall was brushing her skin instead of fingers. 

Her lips thin into a line. “But, please, keep the question in mind…Is this boy really worth all the trouble?” Iris almost looks maternal in the way her eyes waver. “I do love a good tragedy. But it’s a little less sweet when I know the stage actors.” 

“Is that what we are?” Annabeth breathes, looking at the goddess with a steely gaze. “A tragedy?” 

“Who is to say?” Her lips part into an unnaturally beautiful smile. “I guess it all depends on you two, dear.” The hand drops from her face. “Please be careful about what you wish for.” She hefts the jug higher on her hip. 

“I am rooting for you both.” She tacks on. Then she steps back into the mist, disappearing almost as fast as she arrived. 

Annabeth stands in the knee-deep water for a minute longer. 

( Her thoughts quicken. The library in her mind is frantically searched. The tick tock of a clock echoes around her as time almost perceives to slow down.) 

There were a lot of things that Iris said that revealed more questions than answers. Somehow the demigod of Athena is left more confused than when she first threw that drachma. 

I should’ve gotten a refund. Annabeth thinks sarcastically as she feels the cool river against her skin. She looks up to the sky and then covers her eyes with her hand as she tries to piece together what Iris had said. 

Who was her bestie? What had she been so worried about? Who was the him that Iris was referring to asking for help? Surely–

( ‘Oh come on girl, you aren’t that daft.’ A single feather brushes against her head, jolting her.) 

She turns around. 

Nobody is there. 

Reaching behind her shoulder, Annabeth idly scratches at the top of her shoulderblade. She could have swore that she heard someone speak there for a second. 

There’s a rustle in the wind. 

Annabeth sighs and drops her hand as she gathers up her work and slowly heads back to where Polites is still trying to flirt with some girls. 

It’s probably just her imagination. 

(She knows that's not true.)

They head back to the camp after a few hours of work. 

Before they left Briseis had stuffed their arms with not only Annabeth’s newest working clothes, but also some snacks, a jar of water for her tent, and some wash rags for whenever Annabeth took a bath.

It’s been a while now that she’s thought about it. 

She’s been sharing a tent with so many men that didn’t regularly bathe that it had slightly dropped from her mind. Soon, she’d have to get onto that. Just because soldiers in the past didn’t have the same hygiene as current day soldiers, didn’t mean that she had to do the same as well. 

‘Now that I think about it though,’ Annabeth muses. ‘Ody and Diomedes usually look fairly clean. I wonder when they get the time to do so. Maybe I could borrow their bath.’ 

For now though, Annabeth is okay. She did wash a bit in the river around her clothing. 

The campsite near Odyseus’s tent is deserted when they arrive. Polites looks unbothered by it, but the lack of soldiers is astonishing. 

“Well, it looks like we have the camp to ourselves!” Polites says cheerfully. Though the mirth doesn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, he looks at the empty grounds with a nervous air. “What shall we do first miss? The world is our oyster–” 

“Polites,” Annabeth’s voice drops into something of ice and steel. Her eyes are defiant as she looks at her shadow. “What’s going on?” 

He freezes. Then he quickly backtracks, plastering a smile on his face. “Nothing you need to worry about. Shall we train? Odysseus says that he hasn’t quite had the time to measure your ability with a sword–” 

“Stop skirting around the issue. If it affects the people around me than it affects me too.” Annabeth lays down her newly acquired goods on a log, just so she can place her hands on her hips. “Spit it out. I’ll figure it out sooner or later anyways.” 

“But Ody said– He said–” Polites stammers, looking clearly nervous. “Please don’t do this to me m’lady.” 

“I won’t repeat myself again. Where is everyone?” 

The man looks dejected as he sighs and places down his items as well. He mumbles something inaudible. 

“What was that?” Annabeth prompts. Polites sighs louder. 

“They’re on their way to Agememnon’s camp.” 

Blood turns cold inside her veins. “They’re what?” She gapes. “Why would they go there?” 

Polites grimaces, looking clearly uncomfortable at her question. “Because…” His next words come out in a barely coherent mumble. “They might be threatening to withdraw from the war?” 

“They’re threatening what?!” 

That never happened in the Iliad. Not that Annabeth can remember. Yeah, the main leaders squabbled. But she doesn’t remember the Ithaca camp just up and protesting. Had she really changed things so thoroughly that Odysseus might leave?

But then who would steal the Palladium? Who would invent the idea of the Trojan horse? Who would infiltrate Troy as a poor man? 

Odysseus has to be here! 

“Oh no, no, no, no, that can’t be right.” Annabeth runs a hand through her hair, her fingers snagging where it starts to braid. 

“See, this is why he didn’t wan to worry you m’lady.” Polites quickly ushers, standing in front of her as he tries to nervously smile. “It’s just a scare tactic miss. I’m sure Ody doesn’t mean to actually go through with it. It’s just to frighten Agamemnon into behaving.” 

She pauses. Then her eyes narrow. “Why? What did he do?” 

“It really does not matter–”

“What,” Annabeth stresses, reaching up to grab at the edge of Polite’s chiton and pulling him down to where he’s face to face with her. “Did he do?” 

Polites blanches. 

The two quickly rush on foot to the Mycanae camp to find the entire area in an uproar. 

There is a cacophony of noise as crowds of people argue and yell over each other. It’s a huge mob. But thankfully, no weapons are drawn yet. Not from what Annabeth can see. All of them crowd the two kings as Odysseus and Agememnon stare each other down. 

It takes a while to push her way through the crowd, Polites following behind her to nudge muscular men out of the way so they wouldn’t crush or squeeze her. He’s a huge help in making headway towards them, and by the time they are in the center, the two kings know of her arrival. 

Odysseus looks pissed. 

“Polites you had one job!” He seethes as he looks between Annabeth and Polites. 

“I’m so sorry my king,” Immediately her shadow drops to one knee. “She outwitted me into telling her what was happening.” 

That is not the way Annabeth remembered it. She had merely applied pressure until Polites broke. But she guesses that could technically be classified as a type of wit? (She’s not going to correct him, especially if it would get him in trouble.)

“As he should have. Especially since this involves me.” Annabeth puffs out her chest, flicking her long braid over her shoulder as she tries her best to appear graceful as she approaches the two men. Immediately, they both shift their body language from almost outright attacking each other, to standing to where she has room. 

Women still had some power in Ancient Greece if they were a high enough birth. But Annabeth hadn’t exactly capitalized yet on how that power is used. 

They expected ladies to be graceful and soft spoken. 

Too bad for these two that Annabeth is neither of those things. 

“The dishonor he committed lies on my shoulders,” Odysseus fumes, his eyes angrily glancing back at the other king. 

“I would disagree considering that he is claiming that you are my biological father.” Annabeth says cooly. 

And really, to think that a rumor spread around camp made this big of an impact. But from a honor standpoint, she can see how things got this far. 

“You all forget yourselves,” She says calmly as she looks out at the gathering crowd, suddenly completely aware of all of the eyes watching her. “For I deal with any dishonor that is aimed towards my mother. Dishonoring her is dishonoring me.” 

“We meant no ill will to the goddess of wisdom.” Agamemnon states, but Annabeth immediately grinds that interjection into the ground. 

“You have!” She hisses, fury in both her voice and boy language. 

She feels the all too familiar well of heat rise to her chest as she thinks of what the king of Mycanae has said. 

Annabeth looks around to all of the surrounding men with disgust. “You call her oath breaker! You say she went against her vow of maidenhood! How dare you? How dare any of you?!” Poison should drip from her mouth from how venomous she sounds. Her grey eyes dart between both kings. “My mother has never broken her vow. And to lie about it is the most utter disrespect to her. Odysseus and my mother never had an affair. I am not their love child.” 

“She speaks the truth!” Odysseus says. “I would never cheat on Penelope. And were Annabeth my daughter, she would have grown up in Ithaca alongside Telamachus regardless of her parentage.” 

A swell of affection rises in her chest at his words, but she pushes it down. “My mother made me from thoughts and wisdom. Something I see is lacking here.” 

Agamemnon’s face turns bright red at that. His eyebrows furrow and he takes a deep breath. “How dare you insult the King of Mycanea–” 

“I dare!” Annabeth steps forward and a man, Eurylochus, quickly steps beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. 

“She simply speaks out of anger–” He tries to save her from her words.

But Annabeth doesn’t need saving. 

“I do not! It is the highest dishonor to spread lies about a goddess. And you shall be punished for your lying tongue.” Annabeth juts out her jaw proudly, looking up at the muscular man in front of her. He squares up, seemingly uncaring of her short stature. 

That causes the men around her to laugh and jeer. She does not care. Her actions will prove them wrong. 

Odysseus’ eyes widen as he looks between them. 

“Annabeth–” He gasps as he tries to step in front of her, but she holds up a hand to stop him. This has gone on for long enough. They have looked down on her since she stepped into this camp. And it was time to put an end to it. 

Annabeth is a demigod. 

She is going to show them her value. Even if someone gets hurt in the process. 

“It is clear King of Mycenae that you will not listen to reason.” Annabeth seethes. 

( There’s the sound of crashing thunder along the shore. All of Olympus pauses. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes look down at the camp of Greece.) 

( Owl feathers quickly rush down to their owlet. But are stopped by their father’s hand.) 

Agamemnon puffs out his chest and looks around with a prideful gaze. “And what will you do about, girl? ” He spits out the last word, as if she should be ashamed of her gender. Annabeth is not. 

“Agememnom\n, leader of the Archean camp, I challenge you to a one-on-one duel. Tomorrow before sunset.” 

Silence falls upon the crowd as a hammer. All the shouting, jeers, and whispers stop. It’s so quiet that she can hear the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore. 

Beside her, she can see Odysseus’ face drain of color as he looks upon her with horror. 

“I will fight Odysseus your champion–” Agememnom quickly agrees but Annabeth cuts him off.

“You will not be fighting Odysseus,” She interjects coldly. “You will be fighting me.” 

Surprise rings out around them as men gasp and look at her with both alarm and pity. They see the differences between them– a tiny stick of a girl against a muscular, tall, well built king. But they forget who’s daughter she is. They don’t know how long she has trained. They don’t know about Camp Halfblood or Chiron being her mentor. 

But they will see. 

And they will learn. 

As Annabeth expects from all her comrades. 

“She does not know what she asks for,” Odysseus looks almost as if he’s about to cry. He also does not believe that she can do it. If it were any other time, Annabeth would have felt pity for him. 

( ‘Please stop this!’ Owls cry in the distance under thunder and lightning strikes.) 

“I do know what I ask for. And I will fight in my mother’s name. Agememnom! Do you accept my challenge?” She calls out loud and clear for everyone to hear. 

The man’s mouth twists into a dark, twisted and greedy thing. He roars a laugh that echoes around them, looking like a proud and mighty king. He growls in a deep voice. 

“I accept!” 

Chapter Text

She’s twelve when she realizes she isn’t enough.  

She is at the top of the St. Louis arch, looking at her friend dying, her prayers falling on deaf ears, with a monster that is drawing closer with snarling teeth, and Annabeth isn’t enough. 

She’s impertinent. Disgraceful. Reckless. All qualities that her mother hates. She has casted her lot with a crew that is obstreperous in the eyes of the gods. 

Athena lets a monster into her very own sacred temple– just to teach Annabeth a lesson.

For a mistake that isn’t even her own. 

And if her mother’s wish had been for Annabeth to question herself– then it works. 

Because she questions why she thought that she’d ever be good enough in the first place. 

Years of her life were lost. Fantasizing something that would never be hers. Wishing to be someone she’s not. 

Her mother’s temple ends up being wrecked and devastated. Smoke plumes rise from the great architectural wonder. Fire burns around the edges. A hole is ripped from the top. 

It’s the first time she’s ever seen Athena so clearly. 

She doesn’t wait for the others to go back to camp. 

Once her piece is said, she stomps out of the crowd of people, the soldiers of Ithaca quickly following, falling one by one behind her like confused ducklings. After a few minutes however, their quick scramble transforms into something of a funeral procession. Each man seems at a loss for words as they trudge on. Odysseus already looks as if he’s designing her pyre. 

She doesn’t blame him. 

Seconds ago, she signed the Ancient Greek equivalent of her own death warrant.

A duel with a master swordsman can only end one of two ways. 

“Annabeth–” He hisses behind her. She ignores him and keeps walking. His steps quicken after hers. “Listen to me, dammit. I am your king–!” 

That catches her attention, but her steps don’t halt. Her voice is even– measured. “You are not.” 

“Force of habit,” He shakes his head. “You’re right. I’m not. But I still care for you, and this is madness–”

“Not here,” She cuts him off. “Let’s go somewhere the others can’t hear.”

He acquiesces– which speaks volumes of how much he trusts her. They walk along the seaside. Soon enough they’re outside the encampments walls. She traverses across the craggy rocks and it isn’t until all she can hear is the waves of the ocean that she turns to him. 

Odysseus stands beside her, his eyes reflecting the water’s light. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” 

She doesn’t know if he’s disappointed. The fact that she doesn’t care is– in her opinion– character growth. She squares her shoulders and juts out her jaw. “I do.” 

A beat. 

“I have a confession.” It’s not easy to admit. The words scrape up her throat like knives. “I’ve been keeping some of my abilities a secret.” 

That seems to catch his attention. His eyebrows furrow and he crosses his muscular arms across his chest, silently indicating for her to continue. 

I’m not from this time. A part of her wonders if she drops enough clues if Odysseus will piece it all together without her outright saying it. “I’ve had a master of weapons train me since I was small.” 

His eyes waver. 

“So you’re proficient with a sword?” 

“Knives.” 

All hope seems to vanish from his face in an instant. His eyes close as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “A short-ranged weapon?” 

She admits that it’s not ideal when facing a sword, though it’s been plenty enough for her before. “I have a plan.” 

“What plan? Mind sharing it with the council?” He asks, dramatically sweeping his arms out wide. “You know what I don’t understand either– why do all this?” 

“He insulted my mother–”

“Don’t act like that’s the reason. I’m not stupid Annabeth.” His words snap her from her thoughts. There’s a steel behind them that is hard to ignore. His hands clench into fists at his sides. “You didn’t do this for Athena!” 

She inhales deeply. There’s a few seconds of silence as she mulls over her words. Grey eyes flicker between him and the ground. When she speaks her voice is soft. “You’re…not wrong.” 

Annabeth is no longer twelve. 

The St. Louis arch burned. 

“I have ulterior reasons for challenging Agamemnon.” She shifts, turning towards the sea with a sigh. Her eyes stare out at the waves with longing. Then she smiles. A prideful curl of an expression. 

“And–” Odysseus takes a step closer. “--what were those reasons?” 

She reaches behind her and itches in between her shoulder blades. 

Another beat of silence passes and then she nods. “You’re right I didn’t do this for Athena. I didn’t even do this for you. I did this for myself.”

His eyes squint in confusion. “What do you gain from challenging Agamemnon?” 

“Can I be honest with you Odysseus?” Her eyes flicker up to his. Her pupils narrow like an owl spotting its prey from meters away. Her smile transforms into something sharp. “All thoughts out in the open?” 

Odysseus nods and she continues. “I want to fight. No– I need to fight.” She runs her tongue along the ridges of her canines. “I have to be in the war.” Her eyes flash again. “And for that to happen– you can’t leave it.” 

Odysseus has to fight. His spot in the war is essential. Who else would design a horse to enter Troy?

She takes a step towards him. He takes a step back. Her head tilts like a bird. “You’re not allowed to leave this war. It would interfere with my plans. Worst of all it might cause harm to Percy.” 

“Your lover? The one in Troy?” Odysseus' eyes widen. 

“Yes, see– things have changed since I learned Percy was here. When Athena and I were talking in your tent all night, I had to change my goals. At first I wanted victory for Greece. Before you worry– I still want that.” She saw his hackles begin to rise and she shakes her head, bringing a hand up to run through her hair. “But now I need to know that Percy is safe as well.” 

She takes a deep breath. “Which means I need to be out on the battlefield, where he is.” Her eyes flash. “You and my mother would have had me reading maps.” 

Annabeth would have never been outside of camp if they had their way. 

“You would've been safe.”

She shakes her head again. “No, I would still be on the battlefield. I just would've sneaked out behind the army. And, in that case, you wouldn't know I was there. See why it's better when we talk? All thoughts in the open.” 

He's quiet for a moment. 

Then he takes a shaky breath, his voice dropping low. 

“You planned this.” 

Her eyes scrunch up. “You catch on quickly. I see why my mother favors you.”

Horror dawns in his expression. His lips part in true surprise. His eyes flicker as if he's thinking of everything she's done since she's come here– which has been a lot. 

It's been a productive week.  

“There are hundreds of reasons I need to be on a battlefield. So I thought to myself– how should I get there?” Her eyes glimmer. “And then you– honorable you– dropped the perfect reason in my lap.” She chuckles. “What was I supposed to do? Not take the opportunity?” 

“You’re a child.” His voice comes out weak. It's a pathetic argument. There are rarely children in war.

“I was a child.” 

Sorrow consumes his expression. His eyes glisten as he stares down at her. “I just…don’t understand. You’re seventeen. A female. You don't have to fight. You have every excuse not to. Why isn’t that enough? Why do you so badly want to be a soldier?” 

There’s an obvious flaw to his logic. “Because I already am one. I don't know how to sit down and do nothing in a war.” Her fingers twitch as if reaching for something to do. She wishes she had thread to weave. “I've been in a few.” 

Silence falls like a blanket on the beach. The sound of the waves and wind are the only two things to be heard. Gloved hands reach out in the air as if to draw her in a hug--before withdrawing as he thinks better of it. 

“I was twelve during my first war.” 

“You could be seventeen when you saw your last.” He says dolefully. 

Her mouth twitches up into a smile. “If only.” 

The sounds of waves crashing surround them. A beat passes as they stand still side-by-side. The ocean wind pushes her hair away from her face. 

The man beside her looks twice his age. It's hard to believe he's only in his thirties. His eyes hold a sadness that not many thirty year olds have during modern years. 

“What would you have me do, niece?” He asks quietly just over the wind. He takes a piece of leather from his pouch and gestures for her to turn her back to him. She obliges. 

His fingers cleverly undo her braid. “For the fight? Nothing really. I didn't know if you would want to help, so I didn't factor you into my plans.” 

His fingers pause in undoing her braid, the strands wrapped around them. “I would never not aid your plans. If not for your mother– then because someone has to stop you from running recklessly into danger.” 

She snorts. “That sounds like an impossible mission.” 

“Sometimes the gods send us those.” 

A few more seconds pass as he finishes unraveling her hair. 

Annabeth can't help smiling just as he begins to braid her hair again, this time catching all the flyaways the ocean wind was blowing away. “I didn't know you could braid.”

“Penelope told me I might need the skill one day. If we had a daughter.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. 

The braid he starts to weave is tight and doesn’t easily budge as she tilts her head from left to right. “Stay still.” 

She snorts. “Right.” 

At camp there would’ve been a round of ADHD jokes at his comment, and the thought sombers her. She misses them. More than she thought she would. (It’s still been so soon after the war. Their weapons have only been hung up for a month.) 

She wonders how Percy is faring in all of this. There’s no way to tell. She likes to think that since she’s having trouble adjusting that he would be as well. He could be just as stressed as she is, or he could be teaching the nymphs by the river how to cause avalanches by singing.

It’s a toss up really. 

When he’s done weaving her hair, she tugs on the end gently. Odysseus smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Did I do a good job?” 

“If you had a daughter she would’ve been happy with it.” She says softly. 

“And are you?” 

Her hands still in front of her, before a beat passes and they fall into her lap. Her voice is just above a whisper. “Yes. Yes I am.” 

Diomedes is waiting for them when they return to camp. 

He taps his foot impatiently, his dark eyes practically livid as he stares at the servants cooking dinner in front of Odysseus’ tent. He’s wearing a cream chiton that contrasts with his dark tan skin and reflects the firepit’s glow. When his gaze meets Annabeth, he points at her. “You!” 

“Me,” She mimics with a deadpan expression.

He purposefully strides over to her, his finger digging into her collarbone as he hisses. “Of all the immature, reckless, stupid things to do–!” 

“Are you going to give me a lecture? Because Odysseus already gave me one.” 

“Good! As he should have!” He jerks his head in a nod. “I cannot believe– Actually, I can. That’s the issue.” He mumbles something about glory-hungry demigods under his breath. She’s only slightly insulted. He stills, his eyes glancing between Odysseus and her. “So I’m assuming you have a plan?”

“Of course.”

Diomedes crosses his arms and sighs, “What do you need?” 

No bullshit, no tip-toeing about what she’s going to do, just a clear acceptance that she’s going through with something risky. 

There’s a reason that Diomedes is Athena’s favorite. 

“A few things.” She says with a flutter of eyelashes, as if she were talking about the weather instead of a duel to the death. “How good are you at distractions?” 

Most of the times Annabeth has prayed in her life– her requests have gone unanswered. The pantheon rarely has time for demigods (even if said demigods were their own children.) In her time, she stopped praying because there was hardly a point to do so.

Now Annabeth doesn’t pray so the gods won’t pay attention to her. 

‘They’re awfully annoying in this time period.’ She thinks to herself as she dodges behind a crate. On the other side of the large wooden boxes, soldiers chatter. She hates that they’re all talking about her upcoming duel. Seriously, doesn’t one person think she can win?

‘Focus.’ She reprimands herself as she ducks further and sneaks through the tents of the Mycenae. Where had that tent been? The only time she had come to this area had been on her first day when she snuck into the camp. 

(Hawk feathers brush along her invisible shoulders.)

She sneaks around canvas, keeping to the shadows. She has her invisibility cap on, but she’s not taking any chances. If someone catches her– they’d think she’s sabotaging the duel for tomorrow. 

They wouldn’t be wrong. 

But the only thing worse than sabotaging or tricking you way into winning a duel– was being caught doing said thing. 

If you got away with it, you were just considered clever. 

Fuck, Annabeth hopes she's clever. 

Finally, she arrives at the tent she wanted to find. However, she can still make out two distinct shapes silhouetted through the canvas, and she huddles next to a water barrel to wait it out. 

Where is Diomedes’ distraction?

She huffs as she crosses her arm. Surely it didn’t take so long to distract two men from camp? Minutes pass as she settles down, sitting with her back to the barrels. She keeps her eyes focused on the tent but her mind wanders.

(A giggle resounds as someone sits on the grass next to her.) 

She thinks back to the beach with Odysseus. 

He had called her practically his daughter. But he didn’t know her that well. Why would he claim to make such a statement? Surely he couldn’t be that fond of Annabeth yet. 

It must be to win favor with Athena. 

If he thinks treating her well will win her mother’s favor, he’s sorely mistaken. 

She waves the thought from her mind. Then, she shifts her shoulders and gets ready to wait. 

(“Patience darling.”) 

An hour passes before a frantic guard comes by the tent and ducks through the entrance. 

It only takes a second for a loud “--What?” to ring out from inside. Loud arguing commences. Soon enough both the guard and Achilles, dressed in a loose chiton rush out. She waits for their footsteps to disappear before she stands up.

‘Diomedes,’ Annabeth whines in her head as one shadow remains inside. ‘Your distraction wasn’t big enough.’ 

(Hawk feathers flap into the wind– following just a flash behind her. The smell of incense briefly fills the air.) 

Oh well– it isn’t going to get much better than this. Annabeth invisibly stalks across towards the tent and enters. Her eyes immediately register the shadow as Patroclus lounging under a large fur blanket. (Thankfully clothed.) His eyes seem to be lost in thought and he has a knuckle pressed against his lips. 

Annabeth inhales a quiet breath. 

Okay, she can do this. She just has to be careful. She’s sneaked through worse circumstances before.

Walking forward, she keeps her weight evenly distributed, stepping from toe to heel. Sweat drips down her neck. She’s only a few steps in and she knows one sound– one movement will give her game away. 

It’s starting to get dark outside. There are candles lit around the tent. When she steps near one, it disturbs the air and the flame flickers. 

Immediately Patroclus’ eyes are drawn to it. His bushy eyebrows furrow. She can feel his gaze drill into the spot where she stands and it takes all of her willpower not to move too quickly and give herself away. 

Finally, his eyes trail from the candle back to the entrance– his gaze turning into longing. 

She rolls her eyes and takes another step. 

It’s a testament to his speed that Annabeth can’t get away when Patroclus shoots out of the furs. 

A hand reaches out and aimlessly manages to grab an edge of her armor. A lucky guess. She tries to struggle for only a second before realizing she’s not pulling herself away. She knees him in the gut, a grunt escaping his lips, but his hands do not let go. They hold on tighter as he falls down and uses his weight to drag them both to the floor, falling into a heap. 

Her hat gets knocked off her head with the collision and falls to the side. Brown eyes meet grey and shift from anger to confusion.

“Daughter of Athena?” Patroclus punches out, keeping a hand gripping the collar of her shirt, pulling her up and slightly off him as if scruffing a kitten. 

Annabeth glares knowing she’s been caught. 

Well at least it isn’t Achilles. 

“What are you doing here? Achilles has no ill will against you.” Patroclus murmurs in a deep voice. “And you will not hurt Agamemnon by making an enemy of him.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, hanging limply from his grasp, a headache building behind her temples. “I do not wish to make Achilles an enemy, I just need to…borrow something.” 

Realization dawns in his eyes and his lips tilt up into an amused smirk, he pulls her closer to his gaze. “I thought that you were the child of Wisdom, not thieves. Didn’t your mortal parents teach you better?” 

His grip is strong. But not as strong as Agamemnon’s will be tomorrow. 

“No,” She grits out, feeling her teeth almost sharpen in her mouth. Her eyes look to the side– a petulant child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I didn’t grow up with them.” She sucks in a breath as she searches Patroclus’ eyes for anything that might be useful. 

He doesn’t seem upset now that he knows it’s her that’s infiltrating Achille’s tent. 

Probably because she’s a girl. 

“So, are you going to let me go?” She asks, as he sits up, keeping his hand gripping the back of her armor’s collar. 

“Depends,” He smiles, not at all looking perturbed that she was caught stealing. “What were you seeking to borrow?” 

Grimacing she leans over and whispers what she wants into his ear. His face doesn’t shift into anger. Or disgust. Instead he looks surprised. 

“You want– that?” 

“Yes. I know that he might not have it. But I had heard from someone…well– do you think I can borrow it or not?” 

He lets go of her collar as she scrambles to her feet. He leans up and crosses his legs, scratching the back of his neck, lost in thought. “He has it. He kept it on a whim. But why would you wan..t…?” He trails off. Slowly, his lips part into an ‘o’ shape. “You’ve got quite a devious mind, daughter of Athena.” 

“It won’t win me the fight.” She acknowledges. “But it might unarm him a little bit.” 

“I’d say more than a bit.” He stands up as well and takes the hand she offers to help pull him to his feet. “I will…let you borrow…what you’re seeking. I will even return it after the duel so Achilles will have no idea it was stolen. I hardly think he’ll notice it missing. He rarely pulls it out.” 

A kernel of hope alights in her stomach, but then she pauses. “And what do you want in return?” 

Open palms spread in the air in a placating gesture. “Nothing. Not yet at least. Let’s say that you will owe me a favor.” 

It’s risky. 

She doesn’t need the knife. But it would provide an advantage that she can use. She mulls it over. 

(Time slowing down– a clock ticking in the background– giving her more time- time- time- to think. Before it resumes back to normal.) 

Nodding, she sticks out her hand. “Deal.” 

He looks at the open palm in confusion. Oh– right…Ancient Greece. She drops the hand with an awkward cough. 

“I will go and get it now.”

“Yes, that would be great.” 

As he goes to kneel in front one of Achilles chest, she picks up the hat from off the ground and sticks it in the belt at her waist. Patroclus eyes it from where he’s kneeling. “That’s a peculiar hat you have there. Gift from Athena?” 

Annabeth pauses. “Yes, how did you know?” 

“Thetis sometimes brings Achilles gifts, nothing as grand as a hat that turns him invisible though. Thinking of it, however, that is probably for the best.” Patroclus snorts. “He would get into too much trouble wandering around unseen.” 

Finally, he finds what he’s looking for and withdraws it, wrapping it in a cheese cloth before passing it to her.

“Please to remember to return it. Preferably without blood on it.” 

“I’ll do my best.” It’s quickly tucked into her waistband. Her fingers hesitate before she replaces it with the hat. She’ll need it to sneak back out. 

“Do try to be visible the next time you come here.” 

She grins. “I highly doubt I will be in this tent again. Goodnight Patroclus.” 

“Goodnight Annabeth.” 

One hat later and she vanishes into thin air. The large man stares at the spot where she vanished and can’t help but grin. 

It has started getting interesting around here. 

She doesn’t take the hat off until she’s back into Odysseus’ tent. 

It startles both Diomedes and Ody– both ceasing their bickering and startling with a jump from where they sit on the floor– Annabeth stares at them for a solid few seconds before she snorts. 

“What’s with all the mud?” 

The two men sit facing each other with rag clothes in their hands, washing off bits of dirt from each others skin. Diomedes eyes warn Annabeth of asking any more questions. 

“You wanted a distraction–” Diomedes rolls his eyes as his lips slightly pucker– as if eating something sour. “And we gave you one.” 

“Was your heist successful?” Odysseus asks, looking happier than his counterpart, and significantly less dirty. 

Withdrawing the cloth she sets it on the table and unwraps it, inside lays a glinting sharp knife with a bulky twisting wooden handle. A tiny gem is inlaid in the pommel. Both men nod when they see it. 

“I still don’t think such a tiny thing was worth the trouble.” Diomedes scoffs. 

“You’re just upset because you weren’t expecting to take a roll in the mud tonight.” Odysseus shakes his head. Then he reaches out with, thankfully, clean hands and inspects it. “Such a small thing brought so much turmoil that night on the shore…I don’t know if your plan will hold as much weight as you hope. But any advantage you can get is a benefit.” 

“I do like having a card or two up my sleeve.” Both men share a glance at the odd idiom. Annabeth feels herself flush a bit. She keeps slipping into English habits tonight. She shakes her head. “It’s a saying where I come from. Anyways–” 

Odysseus deposits the knife into her palm. It fits surprisingly well. “That is one tool that can help. It won’t win me the fight.” 

“Please tell me that you have more planned m’lady.” Diomedes says. 

She twirls the knife in her hand, testing the weight. “I have a few ideas in progress. None that will come to fruition tonight, however. As of now, I must sleep. I will need my rest.” 

Both the men eyes soften at her words, any joy in their countenance fading. 

“Annabeth…You…You do not have to go through with this.” Diomedes says softly, his eyes keeping her gaze as he continues to scrub his arm free of dirt. “We can have you sailing out of here at night. We could come with you–” 

Her entire body goes rigid. 

They still kept thinking of her as a child. 

“I’m not running away!” She says with a frown. 

“Why in Hades not?” Odysseus eyes flash with something akin to desperation. “That’s what I would do. There is no cowardry in running from death!" 

There’s a short unbelieving look that Diomedes sends Odysseus, but it’s gone as fast as it came. “He’s right in this instance. Nobody will blame you for leaving. Agamemnon will have backlash for accepting a duel from a woman in the first place. They will say he has no honor since it would be easy for him to defeat you.” 

The hairs on the back of her neck bristle. “But it would not be easy to defeat me.” 

“Annabeth– you must only weigh fifty-four kilograms soaking wet. Agememnon could lift you using only a few of his fingers–” 

“Then I’ll just have to make sure he won’t touch me!” 

“And how would you…” Diomedes stares at her. Then down to her hat. Then at the dagger. “Oh.” 

Odysseus eyes travel down to the hat. “There’s no way he’d let you use a magical item such as that. They’d count it as foul play.” 

“My mother gave it to me. So technically, it’s an extension of my mother’s powers. But I’m not planning on using the hat… Or at least, not quite like that.” 

“But you do have a plan for it?” 

“Look at who you’re asking that question to– then ask again.” Both men grimace at her words with a nod. “Am I going to tell you the plan? Maybe. If it comes to that. Right now I’m trying to keep the hat out of the fight. In the worst case scenario though…I do have a few ideas of how to use it without Agememnon knowing.” 

She snorts as she shakes her head at them and continues. “One of these days you two will see me as a professional. One day.” 

That surprisingly startles a laugh out of the both. 

“We doubt that Little Owl,” Diomedes grins, dipping the washcloth back into the bucket of water in his side, wringing out a trickle of water as he continues to drag it across his skin. 

“You’re just so small.” Odyssey grins. 

“We are the same height–” She grits out. 

“And yet, you seem as fragile as a baby bird.” He finishes. 

“They grow up so fast Ody.”

“Too fast Diomedes. Why it feels like only yesterday we were conjuring a story for her to stay with us–” 

She interrupts him, placing her newly borrowed item with her hat in a chest. She goes to her pallet of furs and blankets. “I’m going to bed now. Do try to keep the noise down.” 

They thankfully do. Waiting until she was settled to blow out the lantern they were using to keep light. Their words turn into hushed whispers. As her breaths finally even out, Odysseus turns to Diomedes with a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Should we tell her?” He asks quietly, barely a whisper. 

“No, she needs to focus on her duel.” Diomedes whispers back just as lowly. “She does not need more worries on her shoulders.”

“But with Athena not answering either of our calls–” 

“It is rather odd. But she is a god, Odysseus. She is probably preoccupied with dealings that are more important than us mortals.” He says lowly, eyes flashing briefly in the crack of light coming from the tent opening. 

“She’s never been silent before when it involved her daughter.” Odysseus counters. He stops briefly and looks down at the ground before glancing back up. “It is strange that it happened right after the duel was issued.” 

“You think that the rumor that Agememnon started actually offended her?” Diomedes asks, eyes widening slightly. 

“I haven’t the faintest clue. But if it had– that–” He pauses. “--That means that this duel is even more important that Annabeth may think.” 

Both men turn their attention to the sleeping girl a few feet away from them. Her chest falls and rises with an even tempo. It’s a reassuring sight. She’s not dead. Not yet. And both men would do anything in their power to keep it that way. 

With only a small rustle of clothing, Diomedes quietly stands up. 

“Where are you going?” Odysseus asks with furrowed eyebrows.

“To pray.” Diomedes answers calmly. “We need every advantage as we can get…Every card up our sleeve.” He uses the strange idiom that Annabeth said, liking the way it feels on his tongue. 

Odysseus nods. “Then I shall do that as well. It will be a long day tomorrow and she needs to win.” He turns and looks back at the sleeping girl, his mind whirling with thoughts as he presses his knuckles against his lips. 

‘Annabeth needs to win. For her sake…and for ours.’

Chapter Text

“Why do I have to wear this again?”

Annabeth twists, standing on a small stool with her arms spread, as she looks down at her new clothes. Blues and greens newly decorate her armor and chiton. 

“Because they're Ithaca’s colors and you're technically its champion now– now hold still–” Odysseus says as a seamstress sticks pins and bobbins into her uniform. “I didn't exactly have a lot of time to commission this.” 

Annabeth huffs, blowing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “I could be using this time for something more practical.” 

“There's no use in practicing right before a duel. You already are as prepared as you're going to be.” He replies flippantly, watching the seamstress work with his fist anxiously pressed against his mouth. 

The tent entrance flaps open. 

“What is taking so long?” Diomedes asks, striding in, before halting as he sees Annabeth. His disbelieving gaze immediately turns to Odysseus, then to the seamstress and back.“You're having her try on new clothes? Now?” 

“Everyone is a critic. Don't you know what's the most important aspect in a duel?”

“Winning?” Diomedes stresses. 

“Well– yes– that. But besides the obvious– there's power in looking the part. It's establishing confidence–”

“It's establishing a lapse in our time.” The other man crosses his arms and sighs, motioning to the seamstress. “Please finish whatever you are working on now.”

The seamstress nods and immediately starts finishing a few last stitches.

“Thank the gods,” Annabeth sighs gratefully, waiting for the last final touches before hopping off the small stool she's on and heading towards the entrance. Brushing aside the cloth, she peeks out. 

That's…a lot of people. 

They gather in crowds around a circular ring that has been tied off with rope. Flags wave in the wind indicating the two city-states colors.

It's official– the duel is happening. 

There will be no more time to make any more schemes. It's all or nothing. 

“Diomedes, are you prepared?” She asks, taking a step back as she adjusts her armor. She goes over and grabs her belt off a table, fastening it to her waist, quickly touching every loop to make sure everything is where she needs it. 

“I'll leave behind Odysseus so they won't notice.” Diomedes nods. 

“And worse comes to worst I have a ship prepared in the– Ow.” Her fake uncle rubs his arm and glares at Diomedes. “What was that for?”

“She's not running away. Stop using your niece as an excuse to try to run back to Penelope.” Diomedes deadpans. 

“I'm just saying–” He breathes harshly. “I could be back at home with my wife in a few weeks time. She'd love you Annabeth.”

“Not leaving the war unless Percy is with me.” She huffs, fastening her belt tighter. She slips the knife she stole from Achilles into a sheath in her boot. 

She's ready. 

There's nothing else she can do now. 

“Fine.” Odysseus bites out. He then looks at Annabeth and walks over. His hands brush some imaginary dirt off her shoulders. “We'll be right by the dueling circle. If at any point you change your mind…just call out. We'll help you.”

His eyes soften and his grip on her shoulders tightens for just a fraction of a second before he lets go. 

“Come on Diomedes,” Odysseus says into the open air, before he leaves the tent. 

Annabeth stares at the empty space for a while before taking a deep breath. There's no turning back now. She needs to do this. For more reasons than one. 

If she wins this fight there will be nobody of higher rank than Agamemnon to forbid her from fighting. She will have proven herself to the entire camp. 

And if she plays her cards strategically, she might be able to help a few people along the way. 

Why kill two birds with one stone, when you can decapitate multiple?

For a brief second, Annabeth thinks about praying. There's food still left out from breakfast…and a fire outside…but no.

Annabeth can do this on her own.

She might have been getting used to seeing her mother more the past few days. But it's not going to become a permanent feature in her life. It can't be. 

Athena's past words ring in her mind. 

“I want to know what your strengths are. Your weaknesses. I want to be able to pick you apart and dissect everything about you. You’re my first child. I want to know everything. It drives my thoughts wild that I don’t. That there’s something I don’t know.” 

She shakes them away.

She can't be thinking about her mother now. Athena doesn't care. She's just curious about her. She wants to know more about her as an Athenian demigod– not know more about her as a daughter. 

“Get your head out of the clouds,” She tells herself as she takes a steadying breath. 

A loud horn blows outside. 

It's time. She moves to the entrance and squares her shoulders. Then she exits the tent behind. 

Cheers resound as the champions take their spots on opposite sides of the field. 

Agamemnon stands proud among his people, his chest puffing out, his grin wide. Under all the bravado though it isn't lost on Annabeth how outfitted he is.

He's dressed to fight– to kill.

He's wearing bronze armor that covers his torso and head. All his vital spots. She's gonna have to fight dirty. 

“Not too late to dismiss your rumor and call this duel off.” Annabeth announces loudly, stepping under the rope, into the ring. She places her own helmet on, it feels just like the one she wore at camp.

Instantly, the man's smile drops. 

“Trying to run away, daughter of Athena? I see how you take after Odysseus’ cowardly nature in more ways than one.”

They both ignore Odysseus’ indignant cry in the background, “I resent that!” A few jeers follow his words. 

Annabeth shifts her feet until their shoulder-width apart. It's a fighting stance she's practiced since she was a kid. Of course…back then she trained just so she could better at Capture the Flag. In those days Luke would take her after training to sneak snacks from the kitchen. They'd both end up outside, by the lake, with popsicle grins and dye-stained tongues. 

This isn't like then. 

Luke's dead now.

And the stakes are a little higher than losing a game with her friends. 

Agamemnon takes a stance across from her. He's readying himself to charge. Most likely he'll try to overpower her from the start– he'll stick to his strengths. Smart. 

But if he thinks he's gonna win that easily then he's sorely mistaken. One second passes. Then another. 

The horn sounds. 

The duel begins.

They stare at each other, waiting for the first to make a move. Her hands clench at her side. Annabeth's feet shift in the grass.

Agamemnon explodes into action.

The crowd roars immediately.  

He dashes across the ring, crossing the distance in almost a blink of an eye. A hand reaches towards her neck.

(A clock ticks-

Agamemnon slows to a statue-

Thoughts quicken-

Time seems to halt.

Wait– What–)

What is this? Did time slow down– No– Her body is moving just as slow as Agamemnon's.

Is she– is Annabeth doing this?

No time to panic about that. She sees an empty opening to his left that she can use. Pressure builds up inside her head. Annabeth can't keep this going for long. She doubts that shouldn't be doing this at all. 

She's never been able to think this quickly before. 

(The clock stops-

Time resumes.)

Annabeth dodges perfectly under his arm, just as a headache slams into her skull. She almost staggers from the sudden pain. Oh shit. Right. Maybe that's why she never tries to do that before?

She takes a few steps away, turning around to face him, ready for his next move. 

Immediately all the noises from around her stop. The cheers died almost as fast as they came. Agamemnon stumbles a bit, grasping thin air. Then, he turns to face her. 

Annabeth's blood runs cold.

“The first king that we should give you warning about is Agamemnon.” 

She's seen that darkened expression before. (On monsters. On Titans. On creatures that wanted her dead.) His eyes almost shine with unbridled rage. 

There's no question that Agamemnon will kill her if he gets the chance to. 

Diomedes wasn't wrong that the king would lose morale for killing a woman. So if he did murder her he'd need an opportunity to make it look like an accident. 

She has to make sure he never gets one. 

Which will be tricky– considering what she's about to do next. 

She grins, something sharp and full of teeth. “Scared, King?” 

“Scared of a demigod who only knows how to run away?” He asks with a sneer and a raised eyebrow. “Hardly.” 

“Then why are you hesitating? Unless you do not believe you can beat a girl?”

Sching. 

He draws his sword before she's even done talking. He points it at her, looking down his nose with eyes of coal. 

“He also has a temper. You would do well not to insult him,” Diomedes warns. “He is unstable. Easy to anger. And takes offense to many things.” 

“Let's dance then…coward.” She smirks, withdrawing two knives from her belt. One is shorter with the flat edge, while the larger resembles a ridged hunting knife. 

(She has a third knife in her boot. Hidden. But she's waiting for the perfect time to use that.) 

His face scrunches up with disgust, then he's moving again. His steps are quick. Efficient. He has a longer pace than she does. It takes him only seconds to cross the distance between them. 

His sword swings over his head in an arc. 

(A clock ticks– Thoughts speed up– “What's the trajectory?”)

One knife goes up and crosses with the larger behind it, forming an ‘x’ shape that catches the edge of the blade. She grunts as she redirects the sword to the side. 

It slides off her blades. It also gives her an opening.

One arm quickly draws back. She aims the edge of her pommel for the side of his neck. 

It hits. 

If she had put more strength into it– she could have snapped his neck. It was a good angle to do it. 

But Annabeth's goal isn't to kill. 

Which makes this duel infinitely harder than it needs to be.

He grunts, getting whiplash a bit as he staggers back, eyes even more furious than before. His breaths sputter into coughs before becoming ragged and furious. It resembles a sound a Hydra would make than a human.

His eyes flicker with an emotion that Annabeth can't place.

Did he realize she could have killed him there but didn't?

“Bah! Like she’s truly the demigod of Athena.”

“Wanna make this fight more interesting?” She laughs as she dodges another swing of his sword.

She's mostly evading. It's infuriating to him that he can't land a hit on her. But his movements are starting to get closer. Faster. It won't be long now. 

“And what do you suggest?” He grits out with a maniacal grin. His eye twitches as he looks at her. The sword impales the ground next to her foot. Woah, that's a close call. 

“I think I should get something for winning this, don't you?” 

“Don't celebrate your victories yet. Daughter of Athena.” 

“So you freely admit I'm her daughter now?” Annabeth grins, kicking his hand. He doesn't let go of his sword. Sadly. But it gives her time to dodge to the side before he recovers. 

He wavers. 

A few loud Ithaca warriors cheer. 

(She can hear Polites’ higher pitched voice among them.)

“No other woman would be able to hold this long against me. You must truly be a demigod.” It's strange that his words are almost garbled, as if she had to pull his teeth to get him to admit that.

“I am.” 

There's a clash of blows again as they fight. It's almost like a dance, both trying to keep distance but get to the other. The clanging of metal fills the field as the crowd amps up. Cries of both their names fill the air. Annabeth can hear Odysseus and Diomedes cheering for her. 

“I have ulterior reasons for challenging Agamemnon.” She shifts, turning towards the sea with a sigh.

Another swing of his sword, but this time it doesn't completely miss. It slides a shallow cut across her forearm. She's had papercuts that have been deeper. But it's still a point of contact that shouldn't have happened.

Blood drips down her skin. 

Agamemnon grins.

“And what would I gain if I win?” He mocks, looking more cocky now that he's drawn blood. 

“Besides me dead? I'd grant you my most treasured possession. A magical item my mother gave me long ago.”

(Ozone fills the space– the metallic taste of charged air almost flooding her nostrils. There are eyes watching closely now.)

“Now that is interesting.” He tilts his head as they start circling each other. “And what would you want? Little girl.” 

“Easy. I want Briseis.” 

She dodges another swing at her. She needs to stop evading soon. The best defense is a good offense, after all. 

Agamemnon seems surprised at her choice in prizes, and it shows in the slight hesitation of his movements. 

“What would a young girl want with a slave woman?” 

He pauses and that slightest bit of hesitance is his biggest mistake. 

Her right hand grabs her smaller dagger. 

“Because I can? Besides, I have been finding I like people doing my hair.” 

(Clocks tick-

She takes aim.)

Agamemnon blinks. Annabeth throws.

The dagger soars in the air and lands with a squelching thud into his shoulder where flesh just meets armor.  

His shout of pain is loud and visceral, but before Odysseus’ and Diomedes’ cheers even reach her ears, Agamemnon is rushing at her. 

She dodges his sword, but can't miss his knee. It drives into her gut. Pain erupts through her abdomen. 

A hand manages to find purchase on her armor and a second later she's flying across the ring. She rolls and lands in a heap. 

All the air from her lungs evaporates as she's left gasping on the ground. She spits out something she doesn't care to look at. 

“Annabeth!” Someone calls outside the ring. 

She can't stay still. She has to get up. If Agamemnon keeps her on the ground she might actually lose. 

There's a reason she wanted to give Agame-moron space. 

His hits fucking hurt. 

“Let you keep her if you can best me!” He laughs with pure malice, a string of saliva stretching across his open mouth. Blood drips down his shoulder and he rips the dagger out. He tosses it out of the ring and it lands dully in the grass. 

Oh thank goodness. He agreed. 

She can end this now. 

Odysseus deposits the knife into her palm. It fits surprisingly well. “That is one tool that can help. It won’t win me the fight.” 

Now she has the perfect leverage to get Achilles back onto the battlefield– with Briseis out of the game.

She might be able to win this war quicker.  

(She might be able to get to Percy before everything implodes.)

She rolls onto her back and bridges a jump onto her feet. Then she takes her larger knife and aims a throw–

Agamemnon grimaces and ducks, thinking she'll aim for another knife in his shoulder. Her hand stills and she charges close. 

Once Chiron had told her that she should be proficient with more weapons. That you shouldn't bring a knife to a sword fight. But he never discouraged her from sticking with her strengths. 

Annabeth reaches down and pulls her third knife out from her boot. 

The red jewel in the hilt glints in the sun. 

She swings the arc up towards the slit in his helmet. 

His eyes widen in recognition, his skin paling as his mouth gapes. 

Never in a thousand years would Agamemnon expect her to use this knife– the one he sacrificed his own daughter with. She doubted he would have thought Achilles kept it out of a strange type of sentimentality. 

“Iphigenia says hi.” 

Metal slices through flesh. The blade drags shallowly through the slit of his helmet, over his nose and eyebrow, knocking his helmet off with a metallic sound. He stumble backwards–

Right out of the ring. 

There's a stunned silence to the crowd as the man almost trips over the rope, haphazardly gaining his balance on the other side, and looking completely lost. He looks down at where his feet stand. His eyes scream, ‘What just happened?’ 

Silence falls over them. A beat passes. Then the Ithaca camp descends into cheers.

Annabeth has won. 

She can’t believe she actually did it. Of course, she had faith in herself. But it’s one thing to think you can do something and another to actually pull it off. 

(The smell of lightning in the air lifts– leaving behind the stale scent of what had been. An owl screeches somewhere in the background before being softly muffled.) 

A hand clasps her shoulder before Odysseus slides next to her, dragging his elbow around her neck in a friendly gesture. 

“Annabeth! Why didn’t you tell us you could fight?” He has the absolute gall to ask that question and give her the most ridiculous grin. The audacity almost makes Annabeth want to strangle him. Her hands merely twitch by her side. 

“He jests, m’lady.” Polites says politely as he walks over to them. 

“He better–” She stops as her hair prickles on the back of her neck. Quickly she looks to Agamemnon. He’s still standing outside the ring– staring. However, surprisingly it isn’t at her. 

Annabeth follows his gaze. 

Swirling steel blue eyes watch her. His mouth is parted. His blonde hair pushed back in an elaborate hairdo. His pupils track her every breath like a predator. 

Achilles stares at Annabeth with a type of intensity she’s never seen from him before. 

With Agamemnon behind her, and Achilles in front of her, she feels like a rabbit caught between two snarling dogs. It’s almost too much. What could the son of Thetis possibly want from her? Did he see the fight? Did he notice she had borrowed his dagger–? 

She takes a deep breath and plasters a smile on her face. 

No, she can handle this. She puffs out her chest and smirks, before dipping her head and letting Odysseus take off her helmet. Polites unwraps a piece of gauze to wrap around the cut in her arm. 

“Don’t mind them,” Odysseus whispers, his eyes trailing to where Achilles watches her like a hawk. “They’ve never seen a woman fight like that before…Like Athena.” His lips tilt into a smile. “You made your mother proud today.” 

No. She didn’t. 

Such a little thing could never make her mother proud. It’s not grand enough. She doesn’t refuse him though, and merely smiles, covering her insecurities with a mask. 

“Thank you uncle.” She says softly. 

Internally, her mind whirrs. The duel might be over, but she hardly made any friends today. Agememnon will get revenge for the push back he’s received today. Sooner probably than later. 

Things were only going to get worse from here, she’s sure. But for now– she basks in the glow of people tending to her, ignoring the glares from two different types of monsters on either side of the ring. 

Just another day as a demigod. 

She smiles as Odysseus raises her arm in the air and the Ithaca camp cheers. 

‘Just wait Percy– I’m almost there.’