Chapter Text
Zeus bit his cheek. If Poseidon hadn’t left to talk to Sally, Percy would have cursed him for leaving at all: he and Zeus left alone never went well. The god cleared his throat. “I, ah…I understand this is a hard time.”
Percy may not like his uncle, but he could appreciate the decorum. “It is.”
Zeus nodded and frowned; clearly, his phrasing was deliberate and as unobtrusive as it could be when he said, “There are still questions that have been left unanswered—“
Percy knew there were things he wouldn’t be getting away with. “I’ll answer civilly if you ask civilly,” he promised. Zeus nodded in agreement.
He spoke slowly, and his words were carefully picked. “Efforts had been taken to prevent Gaea’s awakening.”
Making things civil was not the same as making them easy. “Is there a question there, Uncle?” Percy asked.
Zeus raised an eyebrow. “May I ask why, Perseus, you felt the need to undermine that effort?”
“Of course.” Percy nodded. “How long did that effort buy us? Had her waking been prevented forever? Or just for now?” At Zeus’ furrowed brow, he continued. “Gaea had been asleep for millennia. It was only natural that she was waking up. If I had left her asleep, how do we know she would have stayed asleep for any significant amount of time? I won’t risk her rising again in a few years.”
“Purely theoretical,” Zeus argued. “The damage that would have been wrought had she won is not.”
“She wouldn’t have won. My original plan was simple: lift her off the ground long enough to cut her into a million pieces. That it didn’t happen that way doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead.”
“Like Ouranos,” Zeus muttered. “Like Kronos.”
Percy’s brain screamed at him, that names have power, stop invoking their names, stop trying to get their attention—but these names were different; Kronos and Gaea had died recently enough there was no way they’d reformed yet, and Ouranos was strangely missing from all of history since his death. It had been long enough—especially with Tartarus itself able to use its power to help or stop things from reforming—that he should be back by now.
Percy was close to certain that there wasn’t a primordial of the sky anymore.
“Exactly.”
“And you believed you could manage this on your own?”
“Can you keep a secret?” Zeus nodded solemnly. “Will you swear on the Styx? Because I swear on the Styx that should you reveal this secret without my permission, Olympus will fall.”
Zeus swore. Thunder rumbled.
Percy took a deep breath. “I met two primordials in Tartarus. Both showed interest in my power. They told me I could kill Gaea, that they’d be watching with interest. So, I knew I could manage it on my own; it was just a matter of finding the right method.”
“I’ll admit, I was concerned when the ground swallowed you.” The thunder. The darkness. Gaea letting Percy live, when moments before she had him at her mercy. His Immortality. Zeus was questioning all of it.
“My best guess,” he started slowly, knowing full well that his best guess was backed by more facts than he would share with the god, “is that one of the primordials I met didn’t want me dead. That they interfered.”
“And the primordials you met—“
“The Pit,” Percy told him, “and Night.” There was a heavy silence. “You don’t like it.”
“I don’t.” Zeus sighed, running a hand over his face. “I rarely like things, when the primordials get involved.” He pursed his lips, then stood. “You have given me much to think over, Perseus. If you need a lift back to Camp—“
“Thank you, Uncle,” Percy interrupted, pleasantly surprised, “but I’ve got it.” He sent his uncle a mischievous smirk, backed up a bit, and turned around.
Rather than the doors of the throne room, the cozy atmosphere of his cabin greeted him. Night, what he wouldn’t give to have seen Zeus’ face when he just vanished.
His eyes traced the details of the bronze hippocampi Tyson had made. How the bronze gleamed gold in the sunlight, and dust never seemed to settle on top. The one in the front was obviously a little rendition of Rainbow, and Percy marveled at his little brother’s amazing craftsmanship. After he was sure he memorized them, his gaze jumped to the IM fountain. Each crack and nook and cranny in the stone, the dent where he’d dropped a shield on it. Then his bed, the small trunk he kept his stuff in, the Minotaur horn on the wall. He took in each important item, each important feature of his cabin.
The Poseidon cabin.
It had become his, in the years since his claiming. With each night he spent in his bunk, each belonging of his that he’d put in his trunk, each time he left and came back and felt at home, this had become Percy’s Cabin. He wasn’t sure how much time he’d be spending here, anymore. He wasn’t sure if he’d be spending any time here, ever again.
He wasn’t sure he had a reason to.
Percy groaned before unceremoniously face planting on his bed and closing his eyes. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, with his legs hanging off the bed and his torso at an odd angle on the edge, but he didn’t bother moving. Discomfort had become something of a friend. He was fine.
He could feel his body getting lighter as he drifted off. The dark behind his eyelids faded into a familiar misty crimson. Percy looked around and found himself at the confluence of the Styx and Phlegethon. The pale, spindly trees and branches poked up from the ground in jagged groups. On the shore opposite him stood Tartarus.
His hand was halfway to his sword when the primordial spoke. “There is no need to draw your weapon, Godkiller.”
“I had to last time,” Percy immediately argued, and why, he lamented, was his first instinct to argue with the thing that Literally Killed Him? But hey, go big or go home, and Percy had already tried and failed to wake up. “I tend to base these sort of things on precedent.”
“You escaped my wrath on fair terms, Godkiller,” it told him. “My anger shall not pursue you to the world above. Instead, I will watch your growth with interest.”
Dionysus had spiked his nectar. Never mind that he hadn’t had any nectar in weeks. Surely, that’s what this was. A drug-induced fever dream. His first impression of Tartarus told him that it wasn’t really the type to give up, or people watch. “Thank you,” he answered, managing to sound composed and not at all on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Anything I can do to make sure you stay not mad at me? Toss your sword back down to you, maybe?”
It let out what Percy hoped was a laugh, and not a growl, because the world was shaking and he was decently terrified and strength, why couldn’t he wake up? “Perhaps you should keep it; it is a weapon befitting of a Godkiller.”
“I don’t think I want to. It killed me.”
“Which makes it that much more appropriate.” Great. Percy had a new sword. Yay. “However, I called you here not to give you gifts, but to give you an apology.”
Percy’s brain stopped in its tracks. “A what now?”
“I would like to consider my sibling, Nyx, and I close. I wish no harm upon Its Blessed.”
“You did a day ago.”
“A day ago, you were throwing poison left and right with no thought about how…irritating it might be.” Night, had Percy annoyed Tartarus into killing him? Everyone he’d ever met had been right; he did get himself killed by annoying an immortal. It couldn’t help that the poison he’d left everywhere probably hurt, if only in the way bug bites do. “A day ago, another demigod had managed to escape unharmed after setting My Heart on fire. A day ago, my anger was my priority.”
“I guess that’s fair,” Percy conceded, banishing the tiny, desperate part of his mind that wanted to make it angry again. “Could it do it again?” he had asked Night. He wasn’t going to find out now.
“But today,” Tartarus continued, “my priority is reconnecting. My sibling and I are in the company of our sister for the first time in eons; I would not start this time off with bad blood.”
“There’s no bad blood here,” Percy told it. No, no bad blood. No grudges. Just the appropriate terror of a gnat in front of a spider. Thankfully, this spider was content with peace. “If I can ask a favor?”
“Ask.”
“Can you tell Gaea she’s a bitch?”
There it was again, that laugh-or-growl that made Percy’s hair stand even more on end than Tartarus’ voice. Oh, hell, he didn’t go too far immediately after making peace, did he? “It shall be done.” Oh, thank fuck.
“Thank you, Lord Tartarus.” Percy didn’t bow, but Tartarus didn’t seem to expect one. The next time he blinked, his eyes opened to his cabin. He’d been dismissed. And if the ground rumbled angrily a bit, well. No one was around to hear him tell it to fuck off and stop being an asshole.
Percy didn’t move a muscle. For the first time in months, he didn’t have to. The world wasn’t going to end if he just laid there; he wasn’t going to be eaten or killed if he didn’t move. Nothing was relying on him to get out of bed instantly. It was over. Everything—even Percy’s own war, for now—was over.
It felt weird. The ghost of urgency danced around his thoughts. The echoes of danger and pressure and tension hadn’t yet left him alone. Peace hadn’t settled in quite yet. It stood in line, waiting for him to process his hurt and grief and anger and fear. It would wait for a while yet, but it would be there when he reached for it.
What was he going to do with himself?
He couldn’t continue going to high school; his mom thought he was dead. Along with that, she’d probably have Poseidon help her get him legally declared dead.
He may have burnt the whole New Rome bridge, too. Their college and city would probably not be open to him anytime soon.
Would he stay at Camp? He could. His cabin was here. Blackjack and Mrs. O’Leary were here. Chiron, Clarisse, Malcolm. Although, Malcolm might be pissed at Percy for cursing Annabeth, and Clarisse had been wary of him after the incident with the Romans. She knew he didn’t make empty promises.
Poseidon had said Atlantis would always be open to him. Was this how Percy wanted to go, though? Run from his home at Camp because everyone either hated him or feared him? Would he have a choice?
Knock, knock. Thump! “Ow! Holy mother of Pan—”
Someone was at Percy’s door. Someone Percy hadn’t seen in a very long time. He took a second to close his eyes and dip into the connection he’d almost forgotten was there. A faint sting on his palm told him all he needed to know.
Grover had smacked his cabin door as hard as he could, pounding out the rhythm to Queen’s We Will Rock You. Night, it was such a Grover thing to do, Percy couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he walked over to get the door.
The first thing he noticed were his horns. Grover’s horns had grown out, curled around and almost looped in on themselves. “You slept through yesterday,” Grover started with no preamble.
“Yeah?” Percy asked. Grover nodded. “Good.”
They just stood for a moment, each staring the other down, taking in everything about the other, noting any differences they could find. Grover’s eyes fell on Percy’s face, and he gasped softly. “You got—there’s a—“ Percy hadn’t seen his face in months. He waited for Grover to continue. “You got splashed, with something. Right here.” Grover pointed to his own cheek, back by his ear, and dragged his finger down to his jaw.
Percy pressed his fingers to his cheek. The skin was raised and bumpy, and Percy remembered: one of the arai, that had found the cave during his training. He slashed one through the chest, and from the wound burst a stream of lava. He’d just had enough time to think, The telkhines— before it hit. Night had had him summon the fire-water of the Phlegethon afterward, for healing and practice.
Unlike the thin, silvery scars ambrosia left, the Phlegethon merely accelerated healing, and left large, angry, raised scars behind.
“I ever tell you,” he asked, as a half-assed way of changing the subject, “that I’m a little bit fireproof?”
“Gods, what have you been up to without me?”
“Going to hell and getting killed.”
The hug came out of nowhere. Percy couldn’t even flinch, couldn’t even think before he was throwing his arms around his best friend and burrowing into his embrace. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” Grover’s teary voice promised.
“Good,” Percy replied, trying to keep the tears out of his own voice, “I need my protector.”
“Clearly.” They didn’t move for a while. “What now?”
Strength, what now? The first thing he needed to know to decide— “What’s the date?”
Grover let go. “You need to get caught up,” he realized. “Gods, I didn’t even think—I forgot you wouldn’t—“ He shook his head. “Shower first. Then I’ll tell you everything.” Shower first. Percy nodded and invited Grover in. “Oh—It’s August 3rd.”
August. That made it almost 11 months since he’d been taken. Night, it hadn’t even been a year since the Battle of Manhattan. Percy nodded in thanks and headed to his bathroom.
He’d been avoiding this, but it had to be done. Gently closing and locking the door behind him, Percy leveled his gaze at the floor, and walked over to the sink. A deep breath, and then—before he could change his mind, Percy raised his eyes and looked in the mirror.
His hair was a mess. Where it normally looked windswept and messy, it was longer, now, and closely resembled a tangled bird’s nest. There were bruise-like bags under his eyes, and they were darker than he remembered; the bright sea green had melted away to a deeper shade more closely resembling the green of Akhlys’ poison. His poison. He was paler than he’d ever been, and probably skinnier, too, but that could be fixed with food and sun.
The scar on his cheek Grover had commented on—and wow, how hectic were these past few days that he was the only one to point it out?—stretched back to meet his ear and down to his jaw and was only one of many. It twisted the corner of his mouth into a seemingly permanent scowl. On the other side of his face, his eyebrow had a pink, raised slice bisecting it, starting just under it and running up to disappear in his hairline. Starting on his collarbone, the top of the cut from Polybotes and his cyclops was just visible. That wasn’t counting the pock marked scars on his arms and palms because of the glass sand, and other scattered injuries he hadn’t noticed yet.
He’d been marked during his time in Tartarus, inside and out. This was who the monsters and immortals saw when they called him Godkiller. This was Night’s Blessed. This was the monster that killed Small Bob.
This was a stranger.
Percy looked away. He could shower without looking at the mirror again. Maybe someday, he’d settle back into his own skin, but it wouldn’t be today.
Grover was lounging on his bed as he emerged from the bathroom, still damp because the water felt amazing after so long without it. “How long—?“
“Not long enough,” Grover joked. “Gods, you still smell like monster.” Percy didn’t have the heart to tell him that was probably just him. Instead, he just laid next to Grover and turned his head to face him.
“So, what’d I miss?”
Grover talked at him for hours. Percy laid next to his best friend and listened as he recapped any and every minor detail he remembered from the past year. He updated Percy on his relationship with Juniper, how his restoration of the Wild was going, how the nature spirits he’d visited were. He told him about the other campers—Clarisse had graduated high school, along with Travis Stoll. The Ares cabin was undefeated in Capture the Flag for the last six months. Since Percy had been taken, someone had been vandalizing Zeus’ Fist—the rock formation was covered in doodles of sea monsters and waves and multicolored fish.
Tyson had stayed with Ella for a few weeks before going back to Atlantis, leaving behind promises to return soon. Harvey had forged his first war hammer, and immediately broken someone’s femur in Capture the Flag. Chiron had shouted for the first time in fifty-three years, because someone at Camp was worse than Percy at archery and shot him in the arm.
By the time Grover caught him up on drama from last week, the sky was dark again. “—and that’s when the Romans started mobilizing.”
“I remember that part,” Percy said with a nod.
“You’ll have to let me know how that went,” Grover thought aloud. “I was working with the Apollo cabin to ready the archers.”
Percy’s stomach twisted itself in knots at the thought of telling Grover how far he’d fallen, just how much of a monster he was. “Gro—“
“Not now,” Grover reassured him. “Right now, I’m starving. It should be about dinner time. Come with?” Percy nodded.
Not for the first time, Percy was glad Grover could sit wherever he wanted as they sat at the Poseidon table. Although, he was a god now. He probably could, too. Grover chatted throughout dinner, this time about what he would be doing next. He had a few meetings lined up in New England to conserve their forests. He’d be gone most of the winter.
Percy’s heart sank at the thought. Only Poseidon, Nico, and now Grover were acting like nothing had changed. Since threatening the Romans, Clarisse kept a careful eye on him, and Malcolm was sticking by Annabeth’s side like glue.
“—and you know, I really could use a companion,” Grover’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, “because pegasi are great, and all, but cars are so much more comfortable long term, and I don’t have my driver’s license, which wouldn’t be a problem if this wasn’t such a long trip…” Big, brown puppy dog eyes pinned Percy in place.
“You want me to…?” Grover nodded, adding in a trembling lip for appearance’s sake. Percy couldn’t help the smile growing on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, man, I’m in.”
Grover pumped the air. “Yes!” He turned to face Percy completely, one leg over the bench. “It’s going to be great. You’ll love the crystal clear lakes, and sunrise over the Maine coastline is to die for! It’ll be you and me all winter, and we’ll go camping, and hang out away from Camp without some stupid prophecy looming over us, and it’ll be awesome.”
Excitement bloomed in Percy’s chest, and for the first time, he could imagine the future. “All winter long, G-Man. Just you and me.” All winter with his best friend, with his brother. After the last five years of non-stop schools and quests and monsters and wars, it felt like freedom.
Even better, it felt like peace.
Percy’s eyes caught movement on the other side of the pavilion. Annabeth had stood, and was moving towards them. “Hey, Grover, I gotta go check on Tyson and talk with my dad. Let Chiron know I’ll be a few days?”
“Yeah, sure, man. Just don’t go missing again. I will come down there to find you.”
“I’m never gonna live that down, huh?” Percy left the table to Grover’s laughter. He didn’t look back; now that his war was over, now that he could stop and relax and sort through his feelings, he found he really didn’t want to talk to Annabeth.
Someday.
After his road trip with Grover.
He made a beeline for the beach, diving into the waves as soon as the water hit his hip. He would go to Atlantis. He’d find his brother, and get crushed in a hug. Then he’d find his father, and crush him in a hug. That was as far as his plan went, and that was okay. It was all he needed.
Things were looking up.