Chapter Text
A dryad comes through first― Sinéad, Eskel remembers, Queen Eithné’s right hand. She sniffs as she looks around the hall (cold and gray compared to Brokilon) but deigns to pass along information: many of them have assorted magic, and the pale boy is a King of Ghosts. The girl with a silver circlet is the daughter of a king, and accustomed to the privilege that comes with that.
Eskel and Geralt share a glance, and Eskel wrinkles his nose. She’ll be in for a rude awakening. In the meantime, Sinéad doesn’t elaborate on their magic. Eskel wants to ask her about it, but she clearly wants to get out of here, and he can get answers from Yennefer anyway. He lets it go.
Then the actual people in question come through the portal, and Eskel barely stops his eyebrows from rising. He knows, as soon as he sees them, that this is all Percy’s fault somehow. Sinéad neglected to mention their ages, but how else can he explain the scowling, heavily-armed children in orange and purple shirts, escorted through the portal by equally scowling, heavily-armed dryads?
Not just children. Beside him, on the throne, Geralt inhales barely audibly as a winged black horse steps delicately through, its hooves clattering against the hall’s stone floor. Eskel can see his fingers twitching with the desire to touch. Another horse, thankfully not winged, tosses its head as it comes through the the portal, and the girl standing next to him strokes his mane. The horses are followed by a lumbering black hellhound, taller and larger than any Eskel’s ever seen. It sneezes, then shakes itself, its thick coat rippling wildly. A boy, broad-shouldered and several inches taller than all the rest, grips her collar, which is the only reason Eskel gestures subtly for the Bears nearby to stand down. They huff, returning to their best simulation of parade rest.
Then the boy looks up, revealing his one eye, and Lambert steps forward, silver sword already in his hand. His best friend Voltehre, Eskel remembers, was killed during the Witcher trials by Old Speartip, the Cyclops north of Kaer Morhen. Seeing another Cyclops, this time in Kaer Morhen, must be… jarring.
But even as Lambert approaches, the blonde girl in the very front slides into his path. She stares him down challengingly, though she makes no move to draw the dagger Eskel sees sheathed by her side, and the rest of them come to a stop behind her. They are significantly less discreet, laying hands on various weapons. Or… other things. Is that a coin in the blond boy’s hand?
The dryads take advantage of the tension to slide out. The portal closes behind them.
Lambert looks at the girl. “That’s a fucking Cyclops,” he says eventually. His sword is still raised, and he’s Witcher-still.
“That’s our little brother,” the girl says, and several of the others nod. The tallest one, a girl with stringy brown hair and a crackling spear, snorts.
“That’s our fucking brother,” she says mockingly, repeating Lambert’s cadence. The Cyclops’s eye widens.
“I’m your… brother?”
“Yes,” the blonde girl says, not turning away from Lambert. The sylvan, comically small beside the Cyclops, lays a hand on his arm, then sneezes. “You’re Percy’s brother, Tyson, and that makes you mine.”
Lambert lowers his sword. “You’re Tyson?” The Cyclops nods, shuffling in place and hunching his shoulders. His fingers twitch. Eskel remembers Percy’s stories of a shy, clumsy boy who settles when he’s making something but is otherwise unsure with his bulk and presence. That image… suddenly becomes less difficult to reconcile with the monster in front of them.
“Huh,” Lambert says. “The story about finding you in the trash makes more sense.”
Eskel knows Lambert doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s running his mouth, accustomed to Kaer Morhen culture where he’s known as a brash, sharp-tongued fellow who speaks before he thinks, and whose more argumentative words thus carry less impact. But these people don’t know that. They assume he’s being serious, trying to rile them up.
The blonde girl lays a hand on her dagger even as Tyson shrinks away. “Say that again,” she challenges levelly. The hellhound boofs as if to support her, the sound bouncing around the stone hall, and a big black head shoves into the Cyclops’s side. His hand comes up automatically to pet it.
Best to cut this off now, before things get any worse.
“I apologize for Lambert,” Eskel says, and Lambert scowls, then moves aside. “He tends to speak before he thinks. He didn’t mean anything.”
Several pairs of eyes follow Lambert’s movement. The silver circlet girl’s face promises death. That’s the princess, then. They’ll have to remind her that she can’t order anyone’s execution here.
“Good,” the blonde girl says. “We owe Tyson our lives, many times over. You would do well to remember that.”
“We will,” Eskel promises. “I am Eskel Amber-Eyed, the White Wolf’s right hand, who speaks with the Wolf’s voice and commands in his name.”
“What, you share the same vocal chords?” a short brown-haired boy mutters. The hem of his orange shirt is speckled with scorch marks, and Eskel notices the dryads tense. The blond boy beside him, the one with the coin, steps on his foot, and he yelps.
The girl ignores them, keeping her eyes trained on Eskel. Though her body is completely still, she seems to be vibrating with tension. “Where is the Warlord?”
“Here,” Geralt grumbles. At least, Eskel can tell it’s a grumble; most would probably interpret it as a threat. The blonde girl doesn’t seem fazed, turning to him.
“Then where is Percy Jackson?”
“Who’s asking?” Eskel interrupts, even as his heart sinks. “Who are all of you? Where are you from?”
“My name is Annabeth Chase. And we’re here to bring him home.”
Achingly slowly, Geralt shakes his head. “That won’t be possible.”
Annabeth’s shoulders go back. Stringy brown hair’s fingers flex on the shaft of her spear, and a silver bow appears in the princess’s hand. Even the black winged horse flares its wings suddenly.
“Why.” It’s a statement, not a question. Eskel can smell the anger and grief, sudden and searing.
“We were fighting,” Geralt says slowly. “There was a flood.” He hesitates, clearly deciding whether or not he should mention Percy’s powers. “Percy saved our lives, but he drowned in the process.” Vague, but true. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Silence.
A snort.
Eskel frowns, drawing himself up.
But Annabeth is giggling helplessly now, sinking to the floor with her hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. The others are relaxing, elbowing one another and grinning widely in pure…
Eskel breathes out sharply to clear his nose, then inhales again. No, he’s not mistaking it. That’s definitely relief and joy he’s smelling.
“He died,” Geralt repeats, his brow furrowing. “Percy Jackson died.”
Annabeth’s laughter has a hint of hysteria, and the choppy-haired girl crouches to lay a hand on her shoulder. The others gather in close around them, still laughing and joking, their voices overlapping.
“Of course he did!”
“Drowning, can you imagine?”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Dude, that’s crazy.”
“Wait.” Annabeth freezes, and they quiet down. Still on the floor, she looks at Geralt. “Do you have a body.”
Geralt shakes his head. “We looked. We couldn’t find one.” Annabeth slumps against choppy hair, grinning deliriously. They burst into conversation again.
“What are you doing?” Eskel demands, cutting through their noise. They turn to stare at him, but he can’t bring himself to care. They’re implying… but then… does that mean…?
“Percy can breathe underwater,” scorch marks explains giddily. “And Po―” He pauses, visibly changes course. “Water is good,” he finishes lamely.
“Water… is good,” Eskel repeats.
“Hydration, man!” Scorch marks points his index fingers at Eskel, his thumbs sticking up in the air.
Percy can breathe underwater? That’s impossible; Rience, the traitorous fire mage, could still be burned. But Percy’s from a different world, with different magic and different rules. He controlled more water than Eskel’s ever seen anyone, mage or otherwise, even attempt. It’s not such a stretch to believe…
Percy’s alive.
But Geralt is frowning now, and Eskel can smell the guilt pouring off him. “We couldn’t find him,” Geralt rumbles. “We searched. Nothing.”
“Just hold another funeral,” Annabeth says cheerily, accepting the princess’s hand to stand up. “He’ll show up. It’s a law of the universe.”
“Another?” Eskel demands.
“Law of the universe?” Geralt asks.
The sylvan waves a hand. “Not actually. But functionally, yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” Eskel says, his mind latching onto the only thing he can make sense of in this conversation. “Who are you?”
“Grover!” the sylvan says with smile. “And because the dryads seemed to think I’m a sylvan, I’m not. I’m a satyr.”
Eskel acknowledges that correction, still feeling off-balance. Did they abandon Percy at the Dyfne, after he’d saved all their lives? Judging by the whisper of clothes as Cats shift restlessly in the rafters above (the Bears are stolid as always, but they’re frowning more deeply than usual) he’s not the only one thinking that.
“I’m Thalia,” the princess says. No title. Interesting.
“Clarisse,” stringy hair says.
“Nico.” Boy in black.
“Will.”
“Jason.” Coin boy.
“Piper.” Choppy-hair.
“Leo.” Scorch marks.
“Frank.”
“Hazel.”
Annabeth points. “And that’s Blackjack, Mrs. O’Leary, and Arion.”
“They’re lovely horses,” Geralt says, almost like the words have been pulled instinctively out of his mouth. He’s too solemn to look put-out at the interjection, but there’s a distinct eagerness coming off of him.
Blackjack stomps his hoof against the stone floor and shakes his head, whinnying. “He’s a pegasus,” Grover corrects. Arion snorts. “And Arion is… not your average horse.”
“Not like the two that offered to adopt Percy,” Annabeth says, amused.
Eskel is instantly on guard. “How do you know that?”
“Percy passed along a message. Oh, that reminds me: could I get a brazier, some food, and a fire? I have my own message to send.” Her eyes harden, and any lightheartedness vanishes. “And then we’re going to find Percy.”
%%%
Hey, Poseidon. He immediately recognizes the voice as Percy’s girlfriend’s. Annabeth. We’re in the Witcher world, and we’ve found the Witchers. Tell Apollo his information’s severely out of date: they’re consolidated and led by a guy called the Warlord.
“Yes, yes, hurry up,” Poseidon mutters. He doesn’t care about his idiot nephew or the history lesson; he wants to hear about Percy.
When we arrived, the Warlord told us Percy drowned in a flood! Annabeth’s voice is distinctly gleeful, and Poseidon chuckles. I thought you’d enjoy knowing that. I don’t know where he is now, but I’ll find him. After that, I’ll start trying to find a god here to send us back.
Hesitation, as though she’s feeling the words out. The Witcher world isn’t dead. But the gods are asleep: we met some dryads who said every creature with even a hint of divinity was banished to the immortal plane when the last demigod here died. If you could do some research on your end about―
There’s a scraping noise, and her voice vanishes. Poseidon sits up, tips his head to the side, jumps up and down. He hits his forehead a few times. It doesn’t come back.
%%%
“Well,” Alderman says, wringing his hands worriedly. “If it’s not too much trouble…”
“No, not at all!” Percy exclaims. He’s tired, but he had a good breakfast and he feels ready to face the day. “Anything I can do to help before I go? Just as a thank-you for hosting me.” Sally Jackson raised him with some manners.
“There are some creatures down by the lake,” Alderman says. “They’ve only taken a dog so far, but it means we can’t fetch water from there, which is hurting our crops.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll go take a look,” Percy says, touching Riptide in his pocket. “Piece of cake.”
“Cake?”
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks!” Percy closes his eyes for a moment and reaches out his senses, finding a large body of water nearby. He throws up a peace sign and heads out.
%%%
Gustaw looks after Percy’s retreating back. “I didn’t tell him where the lake was. And why did he show me two fingers?”
Basia shrugs. “Why didn’t he show you three?”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Exactly.”
%%%
“Oh, man,” Percy says as a slimy thing emerge from the water. “You’re one of the ugly guys.” The ones from the Caw Air Morhen lake who… honestly, he’s still not entirely sure what happened. Did they possess him or something?
No. No, it didn’t feel like the eidolons; it wasn’t possession. It was more like… when he hosted that Egyptian goddess, Neck Butt. He could tell when she wanted to do something, but he still had some control. He’s been surprised, at Caw Air Morhen. He wouldn’t be surprised now.
Although… he could still feel that urge, that emptiness inside the creature that was begging to be filled. And he could do that. Probably. It was just like those naiads in Rome, with Piper and Jason. Just… without Piper and Jason. Or a magical cornucopia.
Man, what he wouldn’t give to have them with him.
Still, Percy was curious. Yes, Pandora’s box (technically pithos) and all that, but also. It couldn’t really hurt to try. The ugly guy was slow, shambling. Percy had enough time to peel off his armor and climb a nearby tree, until he was way out of ugly guy’s reach. Ugly guy stopped at the base and stared up at him, and Percy was pretty sure he felt a wave of That’s not fair.
Not in the same way he could feel the emptiness. Just… vibes.
Percy took off his shirt and used it to tie his leg to the branch, his hands making a complicated seaman’s knot of some kind. Everyone always talked about the big perks of being Poseidon’s son, like controlling the ocean and breathing underwater. No one ever talked about being able to tie perfect knots, even though it was arguably way more useful in everyday life.
Then he closed his eyes, reached his hands and senses out, and pushed.
And then he was in that emptiness, and it was pulling him in, like Charybdis, and Percy flailed for purchase and found none. It was sucking him in, trying to take his life force, his divinity… and running smack up against Styx’s curse. The two tug-of-warred, each fighting for the ability to claim him, as Percy looked on in this spectral realm.
It was… weird. It was almost like he was in an elevator that had stopped in between two floors, so he could see the bottom of the top floor and the top of the bottom floor. The top half of his vision was gray, the same gray as the place where he’d met Melitele. It was featureless except for a sparkling, clear blob of water, spinning aimlessly.
Literally sparkling, like it had been sprinkled with glitter. Percy didn’t know if it tasted sparkling; he wasn’t going to try drinking it.
The bottom half had a misty, dull replica of the real world (because this was definitely not the real world). He could see the trunk he’d scrambled up, a few ferns and bushes nearby… and a sparkling, ocean-blue figure sitting the branches, waves gently moving across, almost like someone had taken a GIF of the ocean and overlaid a guy’s silhouette on it. That must be him.
More importantly, though, the bottom half had the silhouette of someone who was… vaguely human-shaped. They had two legs, a torso, two arms, and a head. Considering the background, maybe it was the silhouette of the ugly guy? But the outline felt… uncertain, like a earplug that was being continually squished out of shape and kept trying to inflate again.
Continually squished out of shape, because the silhouette didn’t have gently-moving ocean waves. It had a roiling, poisonous-green liquid that sloshed into every crevice but never fit quite right, as if the outline was a vessel in which the liquid didn’t truly belong. It reminded Percy, oddly enough, of Lilo and Stitch, Lilo coloring in that drawing of Stitch to show how bad Stitch was.
And… Percy cringed even at the thought of the word “poisonous.” But there was no other way to describe that color, especially because he could feel that it was not water. Unlike the sparkling blob above, which was pure, clean freshwater, this was anything but.
Percy took a deep breath, with whatever passed for lungs in this spectral space. Reached out. Focused on grabbing the liquid (not poison, it wasn’t poison) even as it tried to slip away, and pulled.
It felt like Akhlys had, but that didn’t mean anything, it was just really polluted water, and he could separate it from the outline if he really tried, and this was hard, but he was a godsdamned son of Poseidon and sure, tying knots was handy, but this was what his powers were for.
The (not poison) liquid sloshed. As soon as it left the outline, it vanished, dissipated into the air.
The sparkling water seemed to sense something was happening. It drifted closer the boundary separating the two rooms, tapping against it.
The last of the liquid disappeared.
The sparkling water got more frantic.
“Fine,” Percy told it. He reached out and carefully grasped it, bringing it gently across the border, and poured it into the outline. It also fit oddly, and he frowned. Had he done something wrong?
But now that he wasn’t focusing on the liquid and the water, he could feel how tired he was. A headache built up behind his eyes, even in this non-physical world, and his powers felt shaky when he tried reaching for the water again. The Charybdis whirlpool and the Styx fighting over him made him feel whiplashed, like his life was constantly draining away and getting refilled.
Ha. Water metaphors. Or was that a simile? He must be getting really tired.
This… wasn’t urgent. He could afford the time to take a break and try again.
Percy drew back. In the physical world, he opened his eyes and groaned as the headache manifested in real life. He swayed, hands coming down instinctively to grip the branch, and leaned back against the trunk.
Beneath him, where the ugly guy had stood, a naiad was sprawled on the grass, staring up at him in shock.