Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun illuminated Hermes’ curly black hair, giving it the slightest raven sheen.

‘Oh, Apollo is so trying to get his brother laid’ Percy thought with a grin that she did her best to hide in the clump of pale purple lavender flowers nearest her face. She breathed in their light scent in an attempt to distract herself.

Instead of voicing any potentially embarrassing thoughts of that kind, she softened her expression to display the barest of smiles and turned back over to her lover. “How long do you suppose you can stay for this time?”

The god’s eyes snapped open. Percy tried not to take it personally, she knew better herself than to let her guard down around anyone, especially around a god. That didn’t mean that she did keep alert.

“That’s not something I could tell you,” he smiled sympathetically. Something in Percy knew it was fake. Not that he ever gave a smile that wasn’t fake.

Still, Percy was fake too.

“Duty calls when it calls, I suppose,” she shrugged with another quick smile. “But that’s alright. What would you like to do in the meantime?”

Hermes’ smile turned a bit more genuine. She knew it was so by the way it sharpened, a little bit more of the monster he was shining through. “Wellll… I’ve heard you make such beautiful storms.”

Percy let out a huff of air that was the closest thing she would give him to a laugh. “Not on this island, dear.”

“Oh but a hurricane ripping through this field would look so spectacular!”

“It’s too near to my home and you know it.” Percy couldn’t help the roll of her eyes. Somehow, they’d had similar conversations before and he just couldn’t get it. “If anything happens to Circe and my sisters, I will destroy the thing that caused them harm and then myself.”

There’s a glint in his sapphire eyes now, and Percy almost regretted speaking.

“That sounds simply marvelous to witness.”

“Be careful, darling. I’ll find a way to kill a god too.”

His smile only widened, and maybe she should have known.

Maybe she already did.

Percy doesn’t remember when the nymphs first came to the island, and she doesn’t remember when she first called them her sisters.

But it doesn’t matter because family is always something gradual. As long as she can keep that family safe and happy, she doesn’t need to remember when she decided to devote her life to them.

Sometimes, that’s better.

Circe never liked the nymphs. She resents them, even, for imposing on her place of exile. The witch is stuck with them all.

Percy understands, but she also thinks that there’s something more to it. She won’t pry though. Just as Circe never pries about the grass stains on her clothes and the way Percy’s eyes glaze over as she gets lost in a memory.

Percy is a presence. She takes up space, but in an endearing way. Or so she’s been told. But she also doesn’t barge in on a space and force secrets out of people.

She’s kind. Polite. Non disruptive.

They call it obedience. She calls it masking.

It’s fine, though. Because people like her and it’s always easier when people like her. She says her lines and plays their games because why would she be difficult when she doesn’t know how?

She did, once. But she’s a girl and a fairly good student —or she used to be— so she got over it.

Percy loves Circe, she really does. But Circe is still a goddess and could never love the nymphs the way that Percy herself does.

Percy understands making a mistake and getting punished for it, or even being punished for existing as she is. She understands being scorned for being a waste of space. She’s used to it, and it doesn’t matter if that’s “okay” or not.

But she can do her best to make sure that Laurel and Birch and Hawthorn and Poppy and all the others don’t get used to it. Her sisters deserve far better than being born nymphs, being born as pieces in the games of the gods in the best-case scenario.

Percy doesn’t like games. She likes things straightforward and laid out, she likes things where it’s hard or even impossible to cheat at.

But for her sisters…

For her sisters, she would turn her heart into the kind so icy that it can usually only be found during a family game of Uno.

For her sisters, she would break all the rules and then make new ones.

For her sisters, she would mock life and cheat death himself.

In another time, a time that had simultaneously passed and not happened yet, Percy might have cut Hermes some slack. He’s a busy god, he certainly forgets many small things and conversations on the daily. It’s only human.

But that was before. Before Percy traveled back in time and actually got to know who Hermes was, is, in a more honest setting. And he is a god.

Gods do not forget.

Any talk of something simply “slipping his mind” is a mere frivolity at best, a lie at worse. (Not the worst. Percy doesn’t want to know what the worst possible situation could ever be).

The only thing he seems capable of forgetting (and forgetting frequently, at that) is that Percy knows he doesn’t forget things. She doesn’t dissuade him from this idea that she’s stupider than she is.

He’ll make his excuses about forgetting to get out of something he doesn’t want to do or to say something that he knows he shouldn’t say to her. She’ll pretend she believes him. Percy doesn’t like it, but it’s never been the time to bring it up. He can lie. She can listen and let her mistrust grow with every word that leaves his lips.

She wonders, sometimes, if it’s too late to say anything. That’s true for a lot of her relationships, but especially this one. Has the chance to say something really never appeared or is it simply long gone by, something that Percy was too afraid to realize, never mind to act on?

It might not matter. She’s never taken a chance, so it might as well have not existed in the first place.

No matter what way she likes to avoid the fact, she knows that Hermes hasn’t forgotten that Percy doesn’t play games when it comes to her family, when it comes to her sisters.

Well.

No games but her own.

It’s funny that he seems to think she thinks he can forget. She saw that look in his eyes the day she told him. Even if Hermes was capable of forgetting something, Percy’s dangerous loyalty is certainly something she knows he would force himself to remember.

I will destroy the thing that caused them harm, and then myself.

There are people on the island.

Well, there are always people on the island. Percy knows that. But she also knows the water and the ocean surrounding the island. She is less restricted than Circe in how she can interact with the outside world, and she would never say it to the witch’s face, but Percy’s father loves her more than Helios does Circe. That generally leads to some freedoms.

She’s never told Circe much about her relationship with Poseidon, and while Percy ABSOLUTELY has some form of Daddy Issues, even with her now being in the past and Poseidon not knowing a thing about her, he’s still trying to love her as best he can. That’s more than Helios can say, but neither of them is willing to speak for him. He can remain silent as far as Circe is concerned, and Percy just doesn’t feel like it’s a good time to unpack that.

Anyways, she’s getting off-track again.

There are people on the island, probably men because women never had the gall. Well. They never have the chance to have the gall, but Percy likes to think she’s a girls’ girl so she’ll use the former as her official reason. If asked.

Percy isn’t sure that anyone else knows. She’s not sure if she should do anything. Honestly, even if she wants to, there’s not much she can do to get out of this situation without arousing suspicion.

Hermes’ head is in her lap as they lay together in the meadow. Their meadow, maybe. She’s weaving a crown of flowers into his curly hair. The anemones contrast stunningly with the raven black, and she finds herself of half a mind to kiss him. She does not.

Percy weaves in the last flower, a small white moly flower into the back. She doesn’t want it to be the centerpiece. It’s enough a show of trust as it is, even though she knows it shouldn’t be. He does not know what the moly is, she thinks. She does not think so.

She pretends as if she didn’t willingly hand over a powerful piece of magic like a lovesick teenager. A lovesick teenager that she is, so maybe it’s okay.

She knows, on some level, that he might exploit it. She doesn’t know why she’s trusting him not to. That’s what relationships are, maybe.

There’s a shift in the breeze, and Percy knows somehow that her sisters are safe. Circe knows about the intruders and is dealing with them like she always does.

Percy can almost feel, if not hear, her mentor’s song on the wind. She relaxes.

But Hermes does the opposite.

His eyes must have opened at some point because Percy opens her own to look down at him lovingly and he’s already staring at her in slight shock. She feigns ignorance, careful lines of confusion painted in the crinkle of her brow, because he doesn’t need to know what she knows.

She can play the game when she so wishes, and Percy knows that this is the right time to wish it.

Perhaps it’s the best thing to do, for once. Percy’s never been good at cutting her losses but she might be learning. His gaze is gone, as is his head from her lap.

His voice is in the wind, inhuman but there. Ethereal, otherworldly, and Percy can’t make out the words he’s saying. Singing.

She knows that this is no mistake. It’s something he has designed for her not to hear. He doesn’t want her to know what’s going on.

But Percy knows the water. She assumed Hermes knew because he doesn’t ask, but she’s never exactly told him. She knows where he’s gone, because she was considering going there herself.

So she does not know the words of the song, but she knows the melody. And that’s enough to tune in like it’s some radio frequency. Like it’s a song, and Apollo wants her to hear it.

The sun shines brighter for a moment.

Perhaps Apollo and Hermes’ initial feud has not been forgotten.

Apollo is the god furthest from being human that Percy can think of, but he is not the cruelest. He has been on her side of heartbreak, and though that’s not what this is, not yet, they both know what interacting with a trickster god can contain.

Solidarity, then.

Percy can do that.

It’s not the kind of solidarity that she should trust, she’s well aware of that, but she doesn’t have the energy to think clearly. She’s getting sick of Hermes’ lies.

She hears his haunting little laugh and it’s so stupid because only now does it really click.

The god is taking amusement from this. From putting her family in direct harm’s way. Because Percy has no illusions that Hermes didn’t give the men a moly flower. (Some stupid little part of her hopes that he didn’t give them the moly flower, even though it wouldn’t change a thing if he did). He sounds too self-satisfied for anything else to be the case.

To a god, Percy realizes with a not-so-startling clarity, everything’s a game.

She knew that already, maybe. But when she looks deep inside herself, Percy has to admit that that’s not one of the many things she knows.

Now it is.

Chapter Text

He misses date night again.

Percy swipes a hand across her eyelid, messily trying to take off her makeup like it’ll work. Anything to get something done, but just as much to not have to move to do it.

It’s routine by now.

Percy allows herself around a half an hour, maybe, to mourn the evening that could’ve, should’ve, even, been spent somewhere else. She mourns the evening spent away from the island if she’s so lucky, or on some beach or another if Hermes is feeling uncreative. If nothing changes from the previous times.

(It has never changed from the previous times, not yet. But Hermes promised that someday he’ll take Percy to see the world, and he has no reason to lie. She has no reason to mistrust him. So nothing has changed, yet. But it will.)

Percy lets herself have the full half an hour this time because she isn’t that prideful. She believes in self-care. She’s especially upset this time and she’s not completely sure why but that calls for an extended pity party. Falling apart and everything involved with that.

It’s good that Circe is busy with renewing the island’s protections right now because Percy doesn’t think she could bear to face the goddess right now.

It’s selfish to say it, she knows it is, but she doesn’t want to be around her family, she doesn’t want to try to solve their issues or even spend time with them because she might just cry.

Percy comforts herself with the fact that breaking down in front of them, especially in front of Circe who always tries so hard to make her mentee happy, would be infinitely more selfish. So it might be cruel, but her sisters and mentor can last a half an hour (if not longer) without Percy’s presence. It’s for their sake, not mine, she frantically thinks, as if that’s any less selfish than saying it out loud.

She likes to think because she can say whatever she wants in the safety of her own mind, and only she can judge herself for anything she shares.

One of those things is shameful, but it’s still something that she’s tried and failed to quell. Percy loves falling apart sometimes because then she gets to put herself back together and stave off her emotions until the next time she breaks. She’s still up and functioning fairly well, so it’s clearly working.

It’s what’s best for everyone anyway, even if her heart wants to beat out of her chest sometimes and she wants to cry, cry, cry, scream, throw up.

It’s fine. It’s for the greater good.

So Percy lets herself have that half an hour (even though she doesn’t really deserve it) because her loved ones deserve better than dealing with her having a full-on breakdown.

It’s fine. It works.

Half an hour, until she starts the cycle again.

Percy laughs at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. Her hair is still a little messed up, and she smiles at that too.

“See?” She tells herself, with more laughter bubbling up in her throat, “there was no reason to get so worked up!”

There’s a knock at the door and Percy’s smile turns fonder. “Come in!” She calls out, even as the door has already started to open. “Hi Hermes.”

“Hi Percy,” he parrots back with a grin. “Are you almost ready to go?”

She shrugs her shoulders slightly, trying to force a comb through her unruly hair. Okay, maybe it’s a bit more than a little messed up.

Percy is so engrossed in her task that she doesn’t see Hermes approach, enough so that she startles as he appears to be right there, next to her. And that’s probably not good for a demigod but it’s fine. She trusts him enough. He’s liked her enough so far to not smite her and hasn’t so much as threatened her in direct words, so there isn’t much of a reason for him to do anything now. Like it or not, Percy’s started to trust him.

What are we but fools for love?

No. It’s not love. Attraction, enjoyment, perhaps some infatuation. But it’s not love. Not yet.

But… his hand is carding through her hair as his other hand gracefully wields the comb that he must have taken from her at some point. She does mean “wields.” Something about a task so menial, so unrewarding, so tedious to some degree that he could have done even with a snap of his fingers or not even done at all and he’s doing it with his hands. Maybe even to be near to her.

Hermes doesn’t know how to love as a mortal does. But he knows how to wield the comb as a lover, wield the flutters in Percy’s heart from the gentle action as a weapon. He knows how to wield her emotions against her as a god.

Is he an enemy or a friend? She does not know.

She does know that an enemy would be better than a friendly acquaintance because she wants him to feel strongly for her in some way. Negative or not, hatred is the sister of love.

She already knew it months ago, if not from the first moment that she saw him years in the future (years in the past for her too), but it’s with a startling clarity that she knows she will always see him as she looks at Aphrodite. She does not know if the goddess of love can take on the form of men, but Percy has a feeling that whatever magic controls it all will still make an exception for Percy. She feels too strongly for anything but.

And that’s awful, isn’t it?

Percy is still aware, on some level, that dating a god never ends well. If they’re even dating, because that would make it worse if they aren’t. Do gods even date mortals? Do they even date each other? Aren’t these relationships  (according to the myths, at least) simply comprised of sleeping together and being flighty lovers, leaving at least after searing a child or two?

Well. That’s to be expected. It’s what she signed up for, at least. Percy isn’t a quitter.

She’s a lover, and a fighter, and objectively divine, and objectively mortal, and powerful, and so so weak.

She is all these things, and if she can exist with this duality then how can’t Hermes do the same?

How could love ever be something wrong?

Hermes sets the comb down with a flourish, coupling it with a featherlight kiss upon her cheek. “You look stunning, Percy.”

A blush spreads across her face and Percy doesn’t know if it makes her look ditzy or sick, but she doesn’t care much. So what if mere words have her falling back into midnight teenage fantasies? Those fantasies are real enough for her, and Hermes is known to have a way with words. If not in the words he chooses then in the way he speaks them.

“So,” she trills (like the caged bird she may as well be). ”Where are we going?”

He smiles, and she’s already forgotten all about why her hair was so tangled in the first place.

There’s a reason why Percy has certain rules, certain time frames she gives herself to break down.

It happens again. It happens a lot. More often than she’d like to admit even to herself in the solace of her mind. Hermes is in there too, now. It was only a matter of time, honestly.

To think poorly of him now brings the demigoddess so much guilt that she wants to sob again, or break something. Maybe create a hurricane.

If she did, would that bring him back? It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Percy understands it, she really does. Hermes is the god of messengers and travel, for gods’ sake! Even if there maybe isn’t as much to do in ancient (… present?) times, he’s still insanely busy. Percy doesn’t expect him to be around constantly, or even frequently.

Still. It would have been nice.

Her hands are full of gauzy fabric sprinkled with a good amount of sand and the air is drier than the air on a tropical island normally should be. “Ugh,” she groans. “I am NEVER getting the sand out of this dress.”

Although… it’s nice to be able to scowl fully, out here on her own.

Percy has a nasty glare when she’s genuinely pissed, and even when she isn’t, Circe tends to fuss over her. The witch hasn’t admitted it yet, and maybe she never will, but she’s desperate for a family member who loves and respects her in her own right. Percy is happy enough to give her that, but sometimes she wants to just feel without having to worry about any guilt that Circe feels if she can’t help.

Percy feels a little bad about even thinking about it, but that’s quickly replaced with more irritation. Even here she’s tempering my fury.

Maybe it’s not quite fair to think that way, but Percy doesn’t care. She is young still, and she doesn’t owe it to anyone to think of them kindly.

Currently, that “anyone” in question is this gods’ damned SAND that never seems to disappear, try as Percy might to wash it away. What good is the use of the ocean if it can’t even help her with that?

With the crashing of waves on the shore, Percy can almost hear her lover’s voice cracking a joke. “Why do you hate sand while you live on an island covered in beaches?”

Percy knows, she knows that he isn’t here (is he?) but she still cannot bear to look around her to prove to herself that he‘s not. She closes her eyes and lets her head tip back so the rays of the setting sun will set her face awash in flaming shades. She takes a moment to pause and breathe before she answers. There is no urgency to respond to a voice in her head.

“I didn’t choose to live here. But I don’t really like the feel of it against my skin.”

“I can help with that,” he might laugh, before helping her get out of the garment.

Percy thinks of many more things in the half a second it takes to open her eyes and glance around herself.

She doesn’t think she can be blamed too much. His imaginary voice just sounds so near to her. (Near like he never is).

Is she no better than Orpheus? Oh, to fall in love with someone of a different world and for that love to stay alive.

For a second, Percy startles, almost thinking she sees a flash of sapphire blue, but it fades quickly. It’s not him. It will never be him because her lover is a god and gods only ever want one thing. One thing that Percy has essentially been offering up on a silver platter. She can’t help it, she’s just so desperate to have something with him.

How sad is it that the most she sees her own lover in a month is in a fantasy of his voice? But Hermes is a god, and gods are inherently flighty.

Even Circe herself leaves frequently. Percy doesn’t mind that so much because Circe is gone for good reason. The same goes for Percy’s father.

She’s met Poseidon directly once or twice since she was transported to the past, and honestly she wasn’t expecting him to… well, respect her as much as he does. That’s not why she loves him, not by a long shot. But Percy knows that he loves and respects her because he trusts her enough to leave her on her own.

That might sound awful to anyone else, but Percy is used to having her independence. She’s never had a father figure in her life constantly, and she doesn’t mind it staying that way. Sure, it’s nice to have received the offer to come join him in the oceans if she wishes, but it’s even nicer that he doesn’t insist on her doing so because he believes in her ability to keep herself safe.

(The so-called Ancient Laws must have been altered later on, maybe because Poseidon was willing to so readily offer for a mortal child to live with him. There’s no way that Zeus would have been chill with that in any world. Percy is simply in awe that she’s wanted that much, but she also finds it hilarious that her father was, is, such a nuisance to Olympus. Honestly, even in her original timeline, he still is.)

Anyway, the point is that Poseidon still doesn’t stick around much. He leaves just as fast as any other god.

And yet, Hermes is not any other god, which is why she loves him. He is unique in endearing ways, but this is one of the other sides to that quality.

He seems to leave faster.

Percy cannot ask for anything more, it’s her fault in the first place for choosing to love a god.

Still. It would have been nice.

Chapter Text

In enough time, they might become a myth of their own.

Her, dressed in a flowing white dress, tears like diamonds sparkling in her eyes. Him, standing stoic, no hint of love on his face. It’s still there, she knows that. And that’s enough. It has to be, because she’s definitely not getting anything more from him.

She falls into his arms, something short of a swoon, and giggles. The sound is bright as a bell, a single ray of the sunlight that dances over their heads and across their shoulders.

The man allows the corner of his lip to tilt upwards. Other than that, he watches calmly as the woman untangles herself from his loose but steady grasp. She is a knot made of only one rope, smoothing herself out to spring fully to her feet once more.

“I missed you!” She says, grin never faltering for a second.

“I have a busy job,” he deflects, tone just short of defensive. It is enough that she will not pry, however. He may do as he wishes when they are apart.

Even when they are together, he tends to not act purely in both of their interests.

“Of course, of course,” she placates, ignoring her now-habitual urge to sigh. When alone, she makes whatever noise she pleases, but not around him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

It reminds her of another moment, another question short of a plea, as she asks, “how long can you stay for?”

He reacts the same as ever, and there’s some kind of comfort in that predictability. There must be something kind in those laugher-filled eyes.

His laugh is vast as the ocean, and she is an island. His laughter surrounds her, protecting her more than much else could, but little pangs of hurt still make their way past the tides occasionally.

Is she his Aiaia, his Ogygia? His prison, his solitude, forever a reminder of the freedom he has lost?

No. He has given up nothing. She is not his prison, but he is her heartbreak.

“Marry me,” she says, and thinks no longer.

There is a painting hanging in the hall. A beautiful painting. A painting so lovely and realistic that surely it must have been touched, if not fully drawn by the hand of a god.

It would not be half a surprise if the great Apollo himself stepped forward to claim his credit for being the creator.

As it is, no one steps forwards.

Maybe for the best, maybe not. No one particularly wants to know what kind of emotional turmoil the artist must have been in to paint the bride’s face half so anguished.

The bride’s name is Percy Jackson, and she is no bride. Maybe once upon a time, but even then, it never fully happened.

Her would-be spouse is not someone fit for marriage, try as Hera might to fit him into that role.

Hermes takes delight in flitting from place to place with the aid of his white-feathered sandals. Percy prefers to stand in the surf of her island, staring out at the ocean for hours.

Well, it’s not her island, but it may as well be for how she'd definitely be Circe’s successor if gods found that sort of thing to be necessary.

He is motion, she is stagnancy. It is not by choice on either part, though Percy wonders if her lover sometimes has it better. Yes, he cannot rest, but she is trapped on this island, probably forever if she does not find some way to get off.

Although… her divinity keeps her trapped, too. More accurately, she is tied down by the dilution of it. Her semi-divine blood chains her to this world that is determined to beat her down into less than a splash of miserable tears.

Perhaps that drop of divinity can be the key instead of the cage.

Perhaps she may leave to be with her lover more often.

Perhaps the painting will tell the truth.

Hermes is the god of lies. Percy may be ready to take his place.

Hermes does not object to the idea of a relationship. In fact, his eyes sparkle enough to match their description as sapphires and his face is bright enough to resemble Apollo in all his glory.

He is, if nothing else, an entertaining partner. Percy knows this. He brings her things, stories of heroes and places far away that she’s not supposed to know about (and sometimes she doesn’t know about them until he tells her of them). Hermes thrives on gossip, and Percy is his eager listener.

She wonders sometimes if he tells stories of her. But that would be ridiculous because no one is supposed to know about them. Hermes can keep a secret when he wants to. He’s quite good at it, really.

Percy only knows this for certain because some secrets that he keeps, she already knows.

“Hm, and what was your involvement with him?” She asks as he tells her about Typhon.

“Why I ran, as anyone would!” He laughs.

She does not say a thing. Strength in weakness is nothing new. She will let him have this.

He takes much more, perhaps because of that choice.

As much as Hermes partakes in gossip, Percy partakes in silence. It is not that she doesn’t talk, she was in quite the habit of quipping back at her opponents, it is more that she does not know what to say to Hermes. She likes him, that is a certainty, but there is not much to know of beyond that.

It is not love, she thinks, she hopes, she prays.

To what god? Her father? Circe? Her lover himself? Percy cannot decide, but she does so anyway.

Maybe those unspecific prayers are the reason that the sun shines brighter on her hair, the flowers bloom sooner from her touch, courage fills her heart enough to face down a wild boar without Circe nearby. Maybe those prayers are the reason that a bit more affection shows on Hermes’ face as they dance together in the slowly dying sunlight.

But it is not enough for Hermes to meet her at the alter.

Honestly? The poets got it wrong. (Percy knows she has altered poems, by now. The lover of a god, and one that he has mostly committed to? Once that romance is discovered, there is no doubt that it will be immortalized in some way.)

Well, the artists got it wrong too.

Poets ARE artists, idiot! Percy is sure that a slight grimace crosses her face at the thought. On the other hand, I can’t really enjoy their artwork without being able to read it, so what does that matter?

She pauses, thinking back on Grover’s frequent complaints during their English class’ poetry unit back in 6th grade. Actually, she muses, I don’t think anyone is able to decipher poetry. Wait a minute… this is NOT what I’m supposed to be thinking about!

It takes her another moment, but Percy finally snaps herself out of the thought spiral and takes to perusing the painting before her once more.

The first thing she notices is the tears streaming down the would-be bride’s face. Percy’s face.

“Damn,” she whistles lowly. “That’s some anguish.”

“You still haven’t explained what it means!” Grover bleats. “Seriously Perce, why does it look exactly like you?”

“She,” Annabeth corrects automatically. “But yes. Please enlighten us Percy.”

Percy grumbles something under her breath that even she can’t decipher, but swipes a hand down her face and begrudgingly starts to speak. “So did I ever tell you about how I got stuck in the past that one time?”

“You what.” Annabeth deadpans. Grover is too stunned to speak.

“Hm. Guess I haven’t. First off: I never married him. Never even got close.”

“Clearly,” Grover finally mutters, gesturing to the look of anguish that the painting-Percy wears.

“No, seriously. I never even got a dress. As usual, Hermes likes to exaggerate.”

“What the FUCK do you mean ‘Hermes’???” Annabeth snaps.

Percy’s expression is the perfect picture of guilt. “Oh. Um. Oops?”

“I mean, the title of the painting is right here. It’s literally called the ‘Wedding of Hermes.’” Grover chimes in. Percy smiles a bit as he tries to help her out.

“You think I can read that?”

Grover does a stellar job at imitating Percy’s extremely guilty expression. “Oh. Oops.”

Aw, even right down to the dialogue!

“Percy. Explain.” Annabeth speaks in concise terms, which Percy is not-so-secretly thankful for, because her attention span is actually terrible. She doesn’t do secrets, unlike some people.

“So it’s really funny actually, do you remember those… twenty days” she has to grit this out and stop herself from screaming, “that I was missing? Right after the sea of monsters quest?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know that you’d do it again,” Annabeth huffs, crossing her arms.

“Not my fault! Either time!” Percy squawks. Grover is being no help, which kinda sucks because he’s supposed to be her best friend. “So speaking of time, those twenty days? Those were TWENTY YEARS for me!”

“What.” Annabeth deadpans her again, but she does not obviously distrust Percy.

That’s just how Annabeth reacts to things. She draws all emotion out of her words to make it seem as though she cares far less than she does. Hesitation will get any demigod, sooner or later. Annabeth is still alive, and there are numerous reasons why.

“During the fight with Luke, Kro- he,” Percy hastily corrects at Annabeth’s warning look, “was there too. I don’t know how, but he definitely was. And during the battle there was this flash…”

“Of golden light?” Grover chimes in, a slight grimace on his face. “Yeah, I saw that.”

“Yep. And when it all faded away, I was in the past, somehow.”

“Which is where you met Hermes.”

Percy made a sort of helpless shrugging motion. “Well… kinda. First, I landed on Circe’s island.”

Annabeth cannot even deign her with a response to that.

“And she may or may not have become my mentor and taught me a bit of magic.”

“You’re lying.” Annabeth declares, as deadpan as ever.

“She’s not,” Grover interjects, looking faintly sick.

“The link still didn’t break?” Percy asks, incredulous. But by the look Grover gives her, he can clearly tell that she is holding back tears of some kind. Well duh, he can sense your emotions even without the link.

Percy tells her thoughts to shut up, but it takes a lot of effort for them to actually do so. (They still don’t stop. Not like she thought they would.)

“Nevermind that,” Annabeth says, forcefully prompting Percy to snap out of her thoughts and continue the story. “How did that lead to this?” She gestures aggressively at the painting.

“Wait, wait, I’ll tell you!” Percy smiles at the memory. Grover’s expression is unreadable, but he almost looks… uneasy. Percy wonders why.

She shakes her head quickly, to forcefully clear it or something, and launches into the story.

Hermes found her for the first time curled up into herself as she gazed out at the sunset over the water. It was a beautiful sunset, offering a veil of soft orange light to cover the girl’s form.

For as cheerful as the color was, her entire manner was held in the exact opposite way.

He walked slowly but casually across the sand until he was standing a few feet from her body. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Circe.”

“No, I’m not,” she whispered. Her voice was something raw; anger and misery mixed together with a spark of joy. The girl had some madness to her.

Hermes found his interest peaked.

When he remained silent, choosing to simply observe her, she lifted her head to face him. Teary sea green eyes pierced into his own bright blue. “Leave.”

He grinned. “I don’t think I will, nymph.”

Her lips quirked. She had a knowledge that he didn’t, and though he’d never admit it (especially to a mortal, of all things), he couldn’t stand it when someone knew something that he didn’t. “I am no nymph, my lord.”

“A dryad, then? Although I suppose that’s the same thing.”

“You may be right, but don’t let my sisters hear you say it.”

“I’m a god,” he leered, “I will say what I want.”

“Not on my island, you won’t.” Her demeanor turned frosty. If it were even possible. She was barely warm before, and that argument could only be made in comparison to how she was now.

He laughed cruelly. “You’re not Circe, this isn’t your domain.”

“No, I’m not,” she agreed. “But I’m something worse.”

“A goddess? Here?” His eyebrow raised incredulously.

“A witch. Or a sorceress,” she conceded. “That may be the kinder term.”

Hermes didn’t ask why she thought she was worse than Circe despite being the exact same thing the older woman was. He had a feeling that it had something to do with how he knew many things about Circe and less than a handful of things about this new player.

“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried,” he scoffed instead.

“How about we do our best to not find out, Lord Hermes.”

Hermes’ light grin was back. “So you do know who I am!”

“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes. “I know my island’s magic, and I know deities. You’re no nymph, but you’re no witch either.”

“This seems a little unfair. What’s your name? Aside from sorceress.”

The ghost of a smile drifted across her lips. “I suppose you can call me Percy.”

“Isn’t that name a bit…”

“Male?” She said dryly. “Like I don’t hear that question every time I introduce myself. If it helps, my full name is Perseus.”

“How scandalous,” he grinned. There was something hiding behind that smile, but Percy didn’t know what it was. And when paired with the slight flutter in her heart, she didn’t particularly want to find out.

“Wow.” Grover says.

“Thanks,” Percy dryly responds. “I poured out a bit of my soul to you, and that’s how you respond.”

“I mean… I kind of expected it to be a bit more eventful. You being you, and all that.”

“Thanks… I think?”

“Grover‘s right, Percy. With you, it’s always something dramatic. It’s interesting that he found you first.”

“He was always finding me,” Percy laughs lightly. “You know I was trapped on that island too?”

“Oh.” Grover says softly.

At the same time, Annabeth says her name in the exact same tone.

“It’s fine, I got used to it.” Percy blinks harshly, but neither one of her friends says a thing about the tears that are absolutely not trying to fill her eyes. “I kinda miss her honestly. But I’d rather be back here with you guys.”

Annabeth doesn’t say anything, but she steps forward to engulf Percy in a hug.

“But you know,” Percy muses after they finally separate, “I was always the one looking for him. Gods are extraordinarily flighty, even more so than I remembered. He was always the first one to leave. Circe didn’t exactly know that we were together so we had some time limits. Somehow, he still managed to leave long, long before that time ran out. Every. Single. Time.”

“He’s a… busy god?” Grover offers weakly. Annabeth gives him a deadpan look that she doesn’t even try to hide from Percy.

“There’s no way you just said something to try and defend him.”

“No!” Grover yelps, scrambling to fix his mistake. “I thought it might make Percy feel better!”

The original suggestion didn’t lift Percy’s spirits in the slightest, but her friend’s slight argument makes her burst out into laughter. And if the slight gleam in Grover’s eyes is any indication, that might have been exactly what he intended.

Try as others might to steal his spot, there are numerous reasons why Grover is Percy’s best friend.

Percy has another dream of sapphire and ivory.

They’ve been happening for a while now, slowly but surely filling her heart with more and more longing. She is dissatisfied with how her relationship stands now, and it’s almost a shame that it’s taken until now to realize it.

Then again, that cowardice and overall denial may have offered her a bit more time happy and in love. And in the case that he reacts poorly and this all goes terribly wrong, Percy will hold that stolen time to her heart, as closely as she can.

Stealing something from the god of thieves? Hermes might be proud, if he weren’t the unwitting victim. Outwitting a god of trickery is also a pretty impressive feat.

It must say something of them that they are in a flower field again. This time, however, emotions hang above a precipice, like Hera precariously dangling above the gaping maw of chaos for the mere sin of wishing herself a better life.

Zeus tricked her into marriage, what was so wrong with her seeking a revolution to free herself?

Nevermind that, Percy reminds herself, as she gazes up into the eyes of her own lover. You are not trapped as she once was. Well, she amends, her eyes quickly flicking over towards the general direction of the main beach, you’re not trapped in any way other than the obvious.

“What?” Hermes asks, but she knows he has heard her. It is sweet, maybe, to offer her this slight way out. He should know by now that she won’t take it.

“Marry me.” She says again, but far more resolutely this time.

“Percy…” his voice holds warning, and she understands why.

But at the same time…

“Hermes. Look me in the eyes, please, and trust me when I say this: I love you. I don’t think I can live my life without you by my side. And I know that you’re immortal, but I can only hope that you feel the same way. And I would ask you a million more times if I could, beg you, even, but at the same time, I can only bear to ask you one more time. To beg you. Please, please marry me.”

“I- Percy… of course I care for you, but… like you just said… I’m a god. You’re a mortal. I want to keep this thing I have with you, but I can’t marry you.”

Percy nods once, pretending that her face isn’t streaked with silent tears, more falling by the second. Hermes does her the barest courtesy of saying nothing, too.

“That’s… I’d rather have this with you than nothing. So, I guess… let’s just forget about this, please?”

Hermes does not say anything, but he never brings it up again. That’s enough a declaration of love on its own, Percy tells herself. After all, he is a god. What was she expecting?

And as time passes, nothing changes. Not really.

The days grow longer and shorter and longer again. All the while, “how long can you stay?” turns into “when must you leave?”

In the end, Hermes is the same as any other god.

Percy’s father left her and her mother, the two women that he was supposed to love the most in the world. Well. The two mortal women, and that’s just the difference, isn’t it?

As soon as another pretty girl walked past him, Zeus abandoned his own wife. Oh, Hera got her revenge, but it’s not like it stopped. Zeus is as godly as a god can be, and he can’t even commit to his own immortal wife properly. Like father, like son.

And now… Hermes. Percy can’t bear to think a bad word about him, but it’s not bad to tell the truth to herself.

Hermes loves her more than he loves anything else, she’s sure of it, but he just can’t commit to a marriage with a mortal. Hopefully because he loves Percy so much that he can’t bear to make their relationship that much more real.

The lies mix in with the truths when Hermes is telling stories, and Percy can do nothing but hope and pray to a pantheon of gods that have never yet done a good thing for her that he draws the line at lying to her.

Percy may dream of a marriage and a shared home with a frequently present spouse, but she fell in love with a god. And she’s done her best to change it, but gods don’t do commitments.

It may as well be a law. Or maybe not, because there isn’t a law that Hermes hasn’t broken.

So. It’s not a law, it’s not a rule, but it’s something.

Just like them.

Chapter Text

It was just a single moment. It is always a single moment when it comes to them. Percy and Hermes are mainly a collection of such things, due to his busy schedule and her nosy family. So that’s not really anything new.

But all the same, Percy is thinking about moments, especially now that everything has passed over. Well, she hopes it’s passed over, because she really cannot be bothered to deal with her father’s temper tantrums right now. Her siblings are not her concern, and while Poseidon may not be the absolute worst option for a godly parent, he is still a godly parent.

Percy forgets that sometimes, but such times as this don’t offer that emotional solace. Which is fine. It’s literally, utterly, totally, and completely fine.

If Percy says it in enough different ways, in enough different dialects, so to speak, then there’s not a chance that it won’t someday be true. It will be. She knows it. (She prays for the first time in… a while).

The moment is one amongst many, but it goes like this:

Percy stands alone on one of the island’s jagged cliffs, thinking about jumping into the water below.

Wait, no, perhaps she should rephrase that.

Percy stands alone on one of the island’s jagged cliffs, thinking about many things.

There, that’s better. Don’t you think so?

No?

Alright. Perhaps a different way.

Her hair whips in the wind, tangling with the sea spray and the trace bit of sand that always seems to make it back in, no matter how thoroughly she washes her tresses every time. This is what it means to live near a beach, and Percy loves it.

She thinks about falling.

But only in the way that she briefly ponders about what it would be like to plummet from her perch on the slick gray cliffside, gaining speed until she is about to slam into the thrashing storm driven waves, then soaring upwards upon firm-feathered wings. She would be an eagle of Zeus, sporting feathers of bronze and ivory, or perhaps Athena’s beloved owl of oak. Or better yet, an osprey, belonging to no one. Free to flee this island, this Ogygia.

Well. “This Aiaia” is far more accurate, but it does not sound half as good.

You disagree? Well. This is not your story, so hush and listen up if you wish to hear more.

These thoughts are the kind that she only dares to allow in once she is completely alone. There is nothing wrong with having them, but the others just wouldn’t understand. They are not at all harmful, simply unachievable daydreams of a suffocated little girl.

She is 19 now. That has to mean something.

They’re nothing that Percy would even dare to bother to pursue, completely pointless due to her bloodline alone, nevermind the physical impossibility of sprouting wings all of a sudden, but it has never hurt a girl to dream.

That is not true. Her dreams are why Percy is hurting so much right now. She wishes she could just flip a switch in her mind and take away all her feelings, all her hopes and dreams (for they are one and the same), but the mourning process is slow, and she is bound to grow up sooner or later.

Perhaps a better word is “was.” It doesn’t matter much if Percy has already grown up. She’ll do it eventually, either way.

19 is not young, not for a demigoddess, so she must have some kind of wisdom in her, but Percy’s heart was hollowed out long ago to make room for swords made of two metals and whispering sea salt winds.

There is only one thing, one person, capable of slowing the storm enough for Percy to breathe.

And as the ocean air roughly embracing her shifts slightly out of its tight hold, she knows that he is here. Somewhere behind her, she is sure. The moisture has amassed to make a bit of a shield between them, though she is certain that he cannot see it. He may be a powerful god, but the blood of Poseidon courses through Percy’s veins, and Poseidon is older. Stronger. Percy’s knowledge of the water is stronger just the same.

But knowledge is sometimes as far as it goes, such as right now. Percy does not need the shield here. She does not want the shield here. But the moisture in the air crafts it all alone, and she does not want to fight herself in any aspect. It is too tiring. She is too powerful. She still has much to learn and do, it is not a boast to acknowledge her power.

She is the ocean. The ocean is she. And the ocean…

“The sea is angry,” she murmurs, not caring to waste a single breath on a greeting that will turn stale with the next few steps that will inevitably take him further from her. “Do you know why that is?”

She halfway knows, of course she does when it regards the ocean, but she also does not care to make certain that Hermes knows of her own knowledge.

“Some mortal hero,” Hermes dismisses. Percy’s back is to him but she can still imagine the dramatic roll of his eyes and the not-quite-delicate swat at the air to wave the statement’s potential impact away. “He hurt one of Uncle’s monsters, or something. A cyclops, if I’m correct.”

Percy’s lips quirk upwards, and her tone is light as she teases, “you’re always correct, darling. You could never tell a false detail in your life!” She does glean a fair bit of joy simply from teasing the god of lies about the truths he tells her. Something rare, but understandably awkward in practice.

Her expression drops as quickly as it had lifted as she turns around to actually see her lover, frowning in a manner that is somehow less than miniscule. “You wouldn’t happen to be referring to Polyphemus, would you?”

The god blinks, immediately suspicious. “Yes, I think that’s his name. How did you know?”

“I have my ways.” Percy’s lips twitch again. She comes closer to whisper into his ear conspiratally. “I’ve done the big man a favor or two, I’m usually told these things. It’s truly delightful entertainment for whenever you’re not here! Oh, I hope he doesn’t make that a third favor,” she mutters, eyes flickering back to the crashing waves. “I don’t need to deal with one of his vengeful sons, he’s enough on his own.” 

“I doubt he would have you come near any of his sons, especially if this Polyphemus has been recently injured.”

“Hm. I suppose you’re right.”

Percy does not deign to tell him that she has absolutely dealt with her monsterous siblings before, and there is no doubt in her heart that she shall be forced to do so again. Hades, she was whisked to the past almost immediately after facing off against Polyphemus, if you could even call it that with the way she mostly ran away.

But that’s alright, because there’s no shame in being a coward, as long as you’re alive.

Glory does not come from death, and even if it does, it’s the kind that ensures that you cannot bring any more honor to your name. Despite what people may attempt to argue, fame ends with a person’s life, or the only kind of fame that matters, at least. With death comes the inability to truly achieve anything more, and that alone can shatter honor and cast pride into the flames.

“It would be interesting though,” Percy muses after a moment of silence. “Add some spice to a dreary existence and all.”

Hermes’ breath ghosts across the back of her neck. “I could give you some spice,” he offers, and Percy can hear his grin.

The witch glances back to meet his sparkling gaze. “Actually… I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

She meets his lips in a searing kiss.

Something in the way that Hermes weaves lies with the loom of his lips is, in a word… intoxicating.

Percy recalls Circe once referring to the god in passing as a “laughing gadfly” of a god, with a bigger propensity for avoiding the truth in most to all capacities than for, well, just about anything else. Percy’s not feeling creative. Sue her.

Actually, please don’t do that. She’s broke.

(She’s nineteen. What did you expect?)

Anyway, she’s not completely sure why, but those qualities are some of the things that drew her to him initially.

Percy, on account of her ADHD she’s sure, is generally incapable of lying. She can sure as Hades try, and she can manage just as well, but she is also fond enough of talking, and seeks to garner good favor with friends and authority figures alike. So she does tend to find herself frantically overexplaining anything and everything that it’s possible to overexplain. And then some.

Even her music taste has to have a logical reason behind it, for gods’ sake. And it’s not like Percy functions off of logic, she just has to have a reasonable, defensible excuse for simply existing in any space.

So yes, such an anxious existence makes it tough to tell lies, to say the least.

It is not so much envy as it is interest that draws Percy to Hermes’ lying aspects initially.

He has to know. At this point, there’s no way that he doesn’t, he’s just too clever, and smart in general.

Maybe that’s why he keeps doing it.

It’s really Percy’s fault that her lover keeps lying to her, because, clearly, she likes it. And she has no right to complain when he’s doing it for her. She should be grateful, really.

But something inside her rebels at that thought. It makes her feel immensely guilty in a different way, but she simply can’t feel grateful for Hermes’ lies.

Maybe he’s a horrible person. Maybe she’s worse. Maybe it won’t make a difference in the end.

So she listens to him lie just to listen to his voice when he weaves together strands of falseness into sentences that make it all sound so pretty. It makes him happy. It makes her happy, she’s pretty sure. So she listens.

It is almost fitting that, in the end, Circe is the one to open Percy’s eyes.

The older witch doesn’t find out about Hermes, of course, that’s not how it happens. Honestly, who do you take Percy for? She might not be a natural at keeping secrets, but she’s still a many-times-proclaimed “unofficial juvenile delinquent”.

Which… fine. There are worse things to be called.

Anyway, that assures that Percy has certain skills that even mortal teachers were able to notice, and those skills have not dulled at all with time.

So, yes, Circe knows something is happening, but she is not even close to guessing that. Well… Percy shouldn’t be so presumptuous as to assume that Circe doesn’t know, but she can let herself have some hubris just this once, as a treat.

Percy trusts Circe in a way that she usually doesn’t. Shouldn’t. Maybe she even shouldn’t do so with Circe, but she can’t help it.

Because unlike with Hermes, Circe and Percy are joined together by more than single moments.

While they are absolutely leading their own separate lives, those lives are not separate in the same sense of the word.

They are not codependent, but Circe is Percy’s mentor and guardian for as long as she is in this time, and they spend many moments lit by delicately flickering candlelight together, with Circe either weaving on her grand loom or figuring out some new magical thing with her new batch of freshly harvested plants and Percy doing mostly whatever strikes her fancy to do, but tending to end up practicing her swordwork in some way. The room is vast, and Circe does not mind. Percy loves her for this, among other things.

These moments are softer than the ones that Percy has with Hermes. Rarely are words exchanged, rarer still do they ever interrupt the other in their work. They simply revel in the other’s presence, and that is enough.

They talk at other times, of course they do, but this pre-bedtime routine is fraught with nothing but peace.

So obviously something is wrong when Percy hears Circe’s voice speaking out from the grand loom once gifted to the older witch by the great inventor Daedalus.

“Far be it from my place to mention it, but have you been in close contact with another immortal? A proper one.”

If the question hadn’t caught her so off guard, Percy would’ve said something about how Circe is not an improper immortal in any regard. In fact, that which she holds in common with mortals makes her probably the best of them all.

But as it is, Percy doesn’t have time to think. “Ummm… why do you ask?”

“Your skin glitters, Percy.”

Percy looks down at her arm, flushing slightly at Circe’s laugh that is light as the twinkle of wind chimes in a gentle breeze. “No it doesn’t,” she decides to say anyway, to keep the silence from growing too vast again, even though Circe clearly means it in a different way.

“I don't mean it in the physical sense, and you know that. I can see the divinity on you Percy, perhaps as a blessing from my magic or a consequence of my immortality. There is an almost golden sheen like that of ichor upon your skin.”

“Yeah,” Percy concedes at last. “I have been spending time around another god.”

“I am NOT a god,” Circe huffs, and does not ask who it is that Percy’s been spending time with. There will be a problem if she ever does find out, but she doesn't so it is fine. For now. “But I feel it my duty, in a sense, to warn you. You are of course unpredictable as the oceans’ waves, on account of your father and your being who you are in general. But even the waves can be predicted to some degree.

”For someone who has all the time in the world to observe similar phenomena, it is incredibly easy to predict and track the waves, and even manipulate them to some degree. I trust you to make your own decisions, Percy, but you should come above all else in your own life.”

And that might be a testament of Circe’s love, how little she pays attention to her ward.

That sounds so backward, even to Percy who has and understands the thought, but especially when coupled with that bit of advice, it proves how Circe trusts Percy to not need her observation. That is not to say that Circe does not pay attention to Percy, but she resists her general urges as a god to know everything there is to know about a mortal that she’s in contact with.

Circe and Percy are extraordinarily close, even for two people in their situation of being trapped on an island together (not counting the nymphs because Circe really doesn’t like the nymphs) but the breathing room is something akin to Circe’s own token of affection. She does not intend to manipulate her ward in any way, as shown in the way that she does not spend the time to figure out exactly how Percy ticks.

Because Percy is not her own number one in her own life, and anyone who pays a great deal of attention should know that.

Percy puts on a wonderful arrogant act sometimes, and Circe trusts her enough to not try and look past that. It sounds so backwards still, but Percy understands the declaration of love within Circe’s words. She may not be adept at social cues, but Percy has always made time to understand Circe’s more cryptic messages. It is her own subtle declaration of affection to her mentor.

And, alone in the room as Circe has just left for bed, she realizes with a start that she has taken no such actions for Hermes out of anything but survival and a strategic advantage. And he has absolutely done nothing similar to what Circe has done for her.

And in her heart, Percy realizes.

Hermes knows what makes her tick, he has learned that from their time spent together, and he most certainly won’t be afraid to use it.

Percy wonders, not for the first time, if Circe knows more than she lets on.

She decides not to dwell on it

Chapter Text

It’s not like she likes him, at first.

Why would she, after all? Percy has experience with gods, young as she may be. By now, it has been years (at least for her) since she’d first met her father, and she remembers the dull pain of his words, telling her that she should never have been born.

What kind of father says that? A god, that’s who.

So, yes, clearly Percy knows what she’s dealing with. Hell, she’d met Hermes too, before all this. Technically she doesn’t know this version of Hermes, but it’s not as if she has a good read on his future self already. Percy’s Hermes, as in the Hermes of Percy’s time, was calmer than this one, she’s certain of this. Very sad too. She supposes losing a son can do that, even if it’s his fault for doing so.

She’ll never admit it outside of the borders of her mind, but Percy resents this a little. After all, that estranged son was the one to send her to the past. And she may appreciate Circe, they may even be friends, but this isn’t where Percy is meant to be. She’s not sure how much longer she can hold on.

It’s better when Circe’s around, usually. The goddess knows how it feels to be alone. Forsaken.

I’m not forsaken, Percy reminds herself. Any day now I’m gonna return.

“Never mind that it’s been three years,” he tells her, expression unreadable. He might be smiling, she can’t tell. There is danger in his gaze.

Percy shivers.

Even now, his voice and face haunt her whenever she feels any shadow of doubt about the gods.

“Get out of my skin!” She spits out to the empty air around her.

“Me?” A man’s voice asks softly. He sounds so meek that Percy doesn’t recognize him. Not until she turns around, eyes wide.

Well, she doesn’t so much turn around as stumble, having quite literally jumped in surprise at anyone being around and trying to turn to face him at the same moment. But that’s not really the point, is it?

“What.” She can only deadpan, dully glaring at the god standing before her.

Hermes is the last god Percy would expect to be looking so… adorable? No, a light shudder runs through her body, a shudder that she prays he doesn’t notice. Not adorable. Just pitiful. Unassuming.

Calm.

“What?” He mirrors her question back, already sounding less meek.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, a good deal of his nonchalance already returning. A faint glimmer of amusement starts to glow in his eyes, but it is dimmer than Percy’s future as an English major, a previously-thought-to-be altogether unobtainable achievement. But Hermes really is full of surprises, isn’t he?

“I couldn’t stay away, sorceress.”

“I can make you,” she offers, with a smile so fake that it verges on real.

“No you can’t.”

“You sound like a toddler,” she snorts.

Immediately, Percy realizes her mistake.

The seed of dread in her stomach only starts to grow and flower as she sees a teasing smile grow on his lips.

Wow, okay, maybe I should not be looking at his lips? One of the voices (THE VOICES) in Percy’s head wonders. For once, the voice is being helpful.

Thank you, little voice in my head! Percy smiles. Well, she doesn’t do it outwardly. That would be a little too weird, even if she’s trying to scare Hermes off. She has limits, people!

Anyway. Hermes is saying something, probably.

Percy shakes herself out of her thoughts, though as always it’s more of a 25-75 split (she is losing). Only to see that Hermes is very much Not talking.

“Take a picture, as the saying goes.”

“What?”

“Wait. Paint a portrait. Commission a portrait. I don’t know.”

Hermes looks confused, but the traces of adoration in his heart only grow. Unbeknownst to Percy, of course. People don’t like her, that would be weird.

Grover does, actually, but it’s still a toss-up on whether he’s actually a “person” or not. No, that’s a slippery slope, not going there. Look, Percy was sent to the past before she would have had the option to take any sort of ethics class. Probably for the best, because being a demigod and killing to survive is absolutely the most interesting ethical dilemma, especially when the monsters come back to life.

Actually, maybe if she gets out of all of this (when she gets back to her time) she can write a really good thesis. Of course she’d have to get through school and stuff, but maybe Grover can help her forge the documents explaining her absence.

No, that's a terrible idea. Percy loves him, by gods she does, but Grover is irrevocably and undeniably a coward. An amateur move, honestly, asking him for help with forging documents. That sort of thing is what you’d ask Luke to help you with.

Well. Maybe not.

“Are you gonna keep staring?” Percy raises an eyebrow, as if she hasn’t just spent a good few minutes staring off into space. “What do you want, anyway?” She continues, not allowing him even a second to answer the first question. Whatever. It’s not like there’s a guarantee that he would have satisfactorily answered the first question if she’d given him the chance to.

“You’re pretty when you laugh.”

You haven’t seen me laugh, Percy’s inner voice snorts.

Oh hush, you’d be the prettier laugher, a different sounding voice chastises. Although we are just the same train of thought but divided, so that point may be moot.

Percy wants the voices in her head to shut up. She wishes she had that one frequency around that makes her brain go quiet, but alas she is no longer in the age of smartphones.

Oh what I wouldn’t give for some caffeine.

Sometimes caffeine helped, a little bit. But it’s exceedingly hard to explain this need to Circe. The only few times she’s tried, Circe managed to make an equivalent that actually gave Percy more energy, which honestly could be explored as an interesting demigod alternative, except for how that’s not really why Percy was seeking the chemical in the first place.

All this in the time it takes to formulate a response. There is some spillover into her talking, of course. Percy’s mind does not work that fast.

“Am I.” She is clearly not laughing now. Still, her surfacing annoyance makes itself visible enough to him, and like kindling it feeds the dying embers of his amusement at anything that bothers her about him.

“By the way you’re acting, one would almost think you don’t want to see me!”

In lieu of verbal response, Percy fixes him with a look.

“Any other girl would be falling all over me,” he pouts. He pouts. Percy has to suppress a smile. Just a little. She’s not attracted to men acting like children, don’t get her wrong, but there’s just a bit of humanity in that action. It lets her forget, for a second, that his very presence on this island is simply to mock her inability to leave it.

Of course, having the thought brings it right back.

Percy no longer has to fight the smile.

“Tell me a story,” she says, instead of pulling out her sword to slit his throat. It wouldn’t do much, but it’s the thought that counts. Hermes could (and would) smite her with less than that.

“What?” Hermes looks bewildered. Really, it’s just more proof that he’s only here to disorient her, but Percy doesn’t care all that much. A sad existence, perhaps, but if he’s going to keep talking, she may as well get some information out of it.

“Tell me a story,” she says, harsher this time, though somehow less demanding. She does not know what will happen if he smites her, how Circe will react. The goddess (“not goddess,” Circe huffs) has fallen apart for much less.

He tells her of a mortal musician, and his quest to bring his wife back from the dead. Percy sheds tears as if she’s never heard it before.

She hasn’t. Not like this. Not like how every day, every hour, minute, second she is frantically trying to look over her shoulder, back to her past. Back to where she belongs. Back to where her very heart is tied, in many more ways than simple legal documents can even dream of emulating. Documents cannot dream, for they have no heart. Oh, how Percy wishes she could be like that.

She has not heard this story for its morals of temptation, and early triumph, and desperate, aching love.

“You tell stories well,” Percy tries to say. The words form on her lips, ready to be sung out as the most glorifying prayer she’s ever whispered. She tries.

All that comes out is “leave.”

(Percy curses herself nearly every day after, because of that word. She really was asking for it, wasn’t she? Begging, practically.)

It’s always her fault in the end, isn’t it?

Hermes takes her off the island, once. Much as she yearns for her freedom, Percy is ready to beg him to never do so again.

It is reconnaissance, apparently. A godly affair. Zeus needs to decide if he should allow a mortal hero off some island or whatever, and Hermes is the godly messenger so obviously he’s the best pick to scout out that island. Percy doesn’t care, it’s an actual off-the-island date for once.

It goes to Hades, of course.

No, worse than Hades. The Fields of Punishment, maybe.

Hermes is off doing gods know what (he’s totally singing a song to the mortal hero. Percy almost might think he’s wooing the guy, but somehow she doesn’t think he is. It is the sort of thing Hermes would do, she just feels that he’s not doing so now), which, naturally, leaves Percy free to… talk to the probably scary woman keeping the hero trapped here.

That’s just wonderful, isn’t it?

The first thing Percy notices, watching the woman tend to her many plants, is that she looks like Circe. The same caramel hair, though Circe’s has lighter streaks going through it (like a lynx, kind of. That’s what Circe has said, but Percy wouldn’t know). They style their hair similarly, though Circe wears her braid tighter so it will last longer with all her wilderness exploring, and this woman’s dress is far less torn and stained. That is not to say that Circe doesn’t care for her things, but she lives her life messily. It is the witch’s way. Something about this woman is unsettling. Too perfect.

“Hello?” Percy speaks tentatively, deciding that she’s analzyed just enough of the woman for her to know of Percy’s presence. The woman’s shoulders tense, but that is the only hint of surprise in her demeanor. Slowly, too slowly, she rises to her feet and turns around.

Sea green is met with caramel brown.

This is no woman.

“Greetings, dear,” the goddess smiles serenely. “What brings you here to my island?”

“Business, I fear,” Percy laughs good-naturedly, but she fears nothing about it. She’s ready to leave earlier than scheduled, if she can. “The Olympian kind.”

The goddess’s eyes flash for a moment, but only for that split second. Percy knows what she saw, but she’d be hard-pressed to defend that claim in a court of law. Well, gods don’t abide by anything so silly as laws, but that’s a completely separate discussion.

“Well, what a surprise. I wasn’t aware that a new goddess was born in the time I was away! Or informed, I suppose.” She laughs, and Percy joins her, but the air rings with danger. “Oh! This is so terribly impolite of me, I haven’t even enquired as to your name!”

Percy knows better than to just give someone her name. This is not a story of fae, but she knows that Odysseus was only pursued by Poseidon because he gave his name away to Polyphemus.

Oh, THAT’S the hero that Hermes is currently talking (singing) at. But if Odysseus is the man trapped, then this goddess must be…

“You’re Calypso,” Percy realizes. The goddess takes the snubbing of her own question in stride, and smiles.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Percy wishes she paid more attention during Annabeth’s briefly-held mythology lessons when she first came to camp. Especially the ones on the Odyssey.

Now, don’t get her wrong, Percy has (like most other teenage girls she’s met) had a Greek mythology phase. It was one of her most long-lasting hyperfixations as a preteen, and she has some knowledge to show for it. However, she has always had a terrible memory, and an even worse disinterest in everything Odysseus. All she needed to know at the time was that he had a long journey. Boring, unnecessary, she knew enough about him and his quest. That mindset is not proving to be especially useful now.

What was the thing with Calypso?

“So, you’re here with Hermes?” The titaness (because Percy can remember that much, thanks) raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Percy answers shortly, eyes already scanning the rest of the beach for her partner’s form. He’s probably too busy serenading the hero, out of Calypso’s sight.

Percy can’t blame him. Calypso’s gaze is… intimidating, to say the least.

Just her luck that she was picked to be the distraction.

“What are your domains?” The titaness asks pleasantly.

“What?” Percy’s eyes snap back to meet Calypso’s caramel pair. They are soft, and almost sad, but they still pierce through Percy’s soul, as if the titaness is seeing her in all her entirety.

“You are a goddess, are you not? Hermes would not bring a mortal to my island. He would not be so foolish.”

Lie, LIE, Percy’s mind snaps at her, recognizing the threat that Calypso clearly holds. Instead, Percy panics.

“I’m not a goddess.”

Calypso is taken aback, but not by much. “Why, Hermes has gotten slower. Or he just doesn’t care much for you.”

Percy wants to prove her wrong so badly. To take her by the shoulders and scream “he is my partner!” into the know-it-all titaness’ far too gentle face (she is a far thing from gentle, an immortal and a titan, to boot), but she refrains.

Something in her face must say it just the same.

“No he’s not, darling. You will never be equal to a god.”

Because Percy has never been good at making wise decisions, she lashes out. “Neither will you.”

And there, there is the rage she knew was hidden just below the surface all along. Calypso takes a single step forward, smile quickly collapsing into a sneer. A goddess, a titaness, an immortal in her true form.

Percy does not get to learn what the immortal will do, because in the next second she is pulled away, held in an almost-familiar grasp.

“What are you doing?” Hermes hisses, when they land back on one of the beaches of Aiaia. “Why would you provoke a titaness like that?”

Percy wrests herself from his grip, feeling like something close to a petulant child as she glares up at him.

“I would have been fine,” she snaps.

Hermes rolls his eyes. “You’re not equal in power to a titaness, Percy. You’re not the same as her, and you’re going to die trying to prove that you are.”

“Careful, it almost sounds like you care.” Percy’s words are cold, but her tone is colder. She wants to bite into Hermes like some kind of fucking dog, to tear away at his flesh and make the ichor rush forth like a fountain. She wants to get it into his skull that she’s not some pretty princess who can’t fend for herself, she’s a woman, who may be young but is no less powerful for it.

He looks taken aback. “Sorry?”

“You should be,” she spits, just as bitingly. “You always treat me like some helpless little mortal child who’s barely worthy of a passing glance. We’re supposed to be partners, but you’re treating me like one of your worshippers!” Percy stops, breathing heavily. Her eyes are locked on the god, just waiting for him to respond.

He does not.

Hermes just looks at her, not quite impassive but wearing an emotion that Percy can’t read, especially through the veil of her untamable anger.

He says nothing, maybe waiting for something. Maybe for the same thing that Percy is.

A response that’ll make it all better. A response that will prove she’s not just a faceless worshipper, to interact with on a whim and discard even sooner. That they’re partners, and that Percy means something, anything, to him.

He says nothing.

Chapter Text

“Why, I was not expecting a visitor!”

A man’s laughter echoes, the acoustics such that Percy wonders if she is in a bathroom capable of housing the extremely large bathtub she’d supposedly died in all those years ago. Fun times.

“What?” She asks, volume just short of a whisper as she opens her eyes. “Where am I?”

“Take a look for yourself!” The man gestures. Percy takes enough of a glance at him to register wavy black hair streaked with gray and sharp ice blue eyes before she gets distracted by doing as he suggests.

She spins around, taking in her surroundings.

Everything is white. The floor is smooth, an untouched landscape of snow, although Percy swears she can see a faint glimmer of gold just barely outlining the tiles. She jumps as a crack appears at her feet, and flinches again as it closes up just as suddenly, as if there was never any damage at all.

As she surveys the rest of the floor and the area as a whole, she finds that this is not an anomaly. More tiles crack and repair. There are spiderweb fractures climbing up the pure white marble pillars, only ever staying at one length; snakes traveling ever further upwards, never growing in length. There is even dust that falls like the purest snow from the domed ceiling, though some of it glitters a barely visible icy blue. But as the dust reaches the floor, or really any other surface, it fades away into thin air.

“What is this place?” Percy gasps, not completely sure if she should be in awe or fearing for her life about the possibility of the ceiling collapsing.

“My humble abode. She’s nothing special, you should see what I’ll build in the Underworld once the mortals forget about me.”

Percy blinks slowly. “Ok.”

“Oh, see, I think you’re a little confused,” the man starts speaking again, and Percy can already tell that he’s a yapaholic. Well… it’s not like she has anything better to do at the moment. “What you keep asking, my dear, is the where. You really should be asking about the when.”

Oh wow, this guy loves his dramatic emphasis words, doesn’t he? Like, yeah, of course Percy loves being dramatic, but wow. Or maybe she’s just a hater, the world will never know.

“Soo… you’re a time god, aren’t you?” The god nods eagerly. “What do you need with me, then?”

He fixes her with an incredulous look.

“You of all people should not be surprised about getting my attention. Aside from the fact that you have and will have the tendency to capture many gods’ attentions, my successor made poor work of you. I do respect the strategy, no hate to you, darling, but it really could have been brilliant. But the execution? Oh, what a disgrace!”

“Wait, successor?” Percy frowns. “So you’re not Kronos?”

The god looks almost offended. “Why, of course I am!” He laughs, though that seems to be his default response to almost everything. He would get on well with Hermes. “I’m the original, in fact!”

“Chronos,” Percy gasps, a reverence she genuinely didn’t even know she could muster in her tone.

His name holds more weight with this intent, she realizes. There is no logical reason why other than it being the intent about who she’s speaking about, and that does raise a few questions about exactly how names themselves have power. Does this suggest that there is no purpose to using epithets and titles like Kindly One instead of the names themselves?

But that’s not the point right now, Percy reminds herself. You are speaking to a primordial, there is no time for getting distracted. Ha, time.

“Perseus Jackson,” he says back, his smile never fading for a second. “You shouldn’t throw names around so freely like that. My nephew might actually think we’re talking about him. Personally, I try not to. He’s such a drag, and clearly his method is sloppy. THIS is what happens when you don’t let the literal creator of time teach your son how to control his powers, sister.”

“Okayy,” Percy starts slowly, trying to think as she speaks. “When are we, then? And when are you from?”

“I am every version of myself that I have and will ever have been.”

“Is that even possible?” Percy frowns, too confused to really add on to her question in a more meaningful way.

“Time transcends,” Chronos shrugs with a smile, turning away from her. “You’ll find that it always ends up as it should.”

“Of course you would say that,” Percy scoffs.

“See?” Her… great-great uncle(?) laughs. “I’m not going to do anything about your impertinent comment. Time will teach you better than to run your mouth.”

“I don’t need to learn anything of the sort,” she huffs, crossing her arms in a manner reminiscent of a stubborn child, but Percy doesn’t really care.

“Oh, but don’t you? Not even when it will cause the fall?”

Her eyes snap back to him from where they have been tracing one of the cracks on the pure white floor. “The fall?”

Chronos simply laughs, turning away again to walk off into the mist like some mysterious movie character. As the white mists reach out to envelope his form, she hears his voice calling out, sounding farther off in the distance than he really is.

“Good luck, Daughter of the Ocean. It was a delight to meet you! I only hope that our next meeting can be face to face.”

The world fades away around her, and Percy wakes up in her pitch dark bedroom with the ticking of a clock ringing in her ears. The ticking of a timer. The ticking of a bomb.

It was another fight, probably. There have been too many to count, but that’s the likely thing.

They’ve been fighting a lot recently. Percy thinks it started a bit after the whole Calypso thing when she was 25. Obviously she doesn’t see Hermes any more than she used to, perhaps even less frequently now, but when they are together there’s a good chance they’ll start fighting about something.

It’s usually not a huge disagreement. Percy wants Hermes to show up more frequently, he explains why that can’t happen, Percy gives him the cold shoulder for most of the duration of his visit (until he eventually, inevitably, wins her over again) and takes even longer to return next time, just to spite her. That’s the most frequent one. Sometimes it’s something insensitive he’s said, a story or joke told in poor taste, or they get too close to getting caught by Circe even though Percy “should be beyond such childish fears by now” and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him the full truth.

But it will be how it will be, it’s not as if Hermes is being all that truthful himself. It’s not in his nature.

Hermes, by virtue of his domains, is almost a human. By godly standards at least. Just as Zeus and Poseidon are storms, and Hestia is fire, and Dionysus is madness incarnate, so too is Hermes made of lies. He is more connected to humanity by his domains, gods do not really need a messenger to deliver things, even if it’s easier on their time (but what is urgency to a god? They have all the time in the world, Percy does not. She resents them, too, for the fights she and Hermes get in).

That is not to say that Hermes is human, but all his domains are so connected to and  reliant upon humanity that it’s no wonder that they seem to often like him best. He makes a good act of being human. Percy tries to see through it, and sometimes she can’t.

He’ll get better with time, she must admit. The Hermes who she met on the beach years in his future was as human as it gets, perhaps more mortal in demeanor than even Percy was herself.

She wears death on her sleeve now. The chance of it hangs off her skin, like some ornate sleeve pattern. She thinks it would be sapphire and raven black tulle, if it had a look. Delicate and light, but in his colors. Something to get tangled in, and easy enough to snap, but beautiful and fitting enough that she does not want to.

Percy has always had a weakness for that which entices her.

Perhaps she is delusional, desperate to hold some advantage over a god who likes to not-so-subtly flaunt his powers, but Percy likes to think that it is envy in Hermes’ eyes, when he thinks she’s not looking. When immortality is brought up, Percy’s lack of it. When Hermes tells a story of the souls he leads down to the Underworld, how he will never be one of them.

Every step closer to her death is another strip of raven tulle draped around her arm. Or perhaps a feather.

After all, her mortality feels like freedom in some ways, her golden wings (which are colored like the bruises that they really should be). 

It is of note, or it is another thing that should be of note, at the very least, that no other god is likely to face a dilemma quite the same. Poseidon, isolated as he is in his court of sea folk. Hera, perched upon her Olympian throne, ready at any moment to swoop down to murder any mortal at all connected to her husband in painful, tragic ways. She certainly does not envy mortality, no. That is Hermes’ burden alone, forever intertwined as he is with mortals on the grounds of his domains. Or perhaps on the grounds of his lover, who can truly know?

It would be a tragedy if Percy truly loved him, so it’s good that she doesn’t, and that he does not really care for her. It’s a surprise at this point why they’re still “together.” Every moment spent apart, but they are still somehow woven into the same scarf, too short a thread, too uneven the length, scratchy, tight, suffocating. Ugly.

They are beautiful separately. Together, they might be somewhat. But not really all the same. It is the probably-ugly sneer on Percy’s face as she spits insult after insult at this god who cannot stay with her. The cruel glint in Hermes’ eyes that lost all intriguing qualities long ago, now only spiteful and vengeful. So full of everything, everything except love.

She wants to flaunt it.

Percy, mortal and therefore powerless in Hermes’ eyes, without wings on her sandals to carry her far away, without a magical stick (“for the last time, it’s called a caudecus”) to use as her crutch. As her proof of living.

Hermes, immortal, and able to take flight at any moment that he so chooses.

And yet… they won’t both die in the end. Hermes is doomed to live the same repetitive cycle of empires rising and falling, slingshotted from culture to culture around the world until he is naught but a shade of himself. Percy, on the other hand, will be a shade in the literal sense of the word. Still, she doubts that she’ll lose as much of the color from her smile as Hermes will, even when she is a literal gray projection of her soul.

Hermes does not know what Percy’s game is, but he hopes, prays, as much as a god can, that she does not take it too far.

She has more power than she seems to notice and far more than Hermes will outright acknowledge, but Percy still manages to be overconfident in her abilities.

Honestly, trying to fight a titaness, even one as untrained as Calypso?

Hermes feels a smile start to form on his face.

He quickly schools his expression.

This is no time for attachment. Not to a girl so reckless.

Not a girl. A witch.

Or, a sorceress may be the kinder term.

In the end… oh gods, in the end…

It’s a sunset again. Always a fucking sunset. Percy hates Apollo, just a little.

No. He’s not the right person to hate.

“What, pray tell,” she almost hisses, “are you doing here?”

It’s been years, years of Percy talking to herself and making flower crowns all alone, but this time is different than the last. Than all the others.

“I wanted to see you.”

“No, Hermes, no you didn’t.” His name is scraped against her tongue as it exits her mouth, tasting like rust and rot. It’s been so long. Dust seems to fill her gaze, fogging it up. A daughter of salt water has no need for tears. Who brought up tears, anyway? Not Percy, that’s for sure!

“Why do you think I’m here, then?” She can hear the grin forming in his voice.

It’s an odd question, not in form, exactly, but in style. In response.

Normally Percy would fix him with a look of some kind, almost disgusted that he would ask her such a thing, more for the bit than from any accurate sort of emotion. He would go on to, sure enough, treat it as rhetorical, both of them knowing the answer.

That being said…

Percy’s heart has long since been filled with dust.

“I think you’re here because you’ve got a message to deliver.”

It’s a lie, of course it is, but Hermes loves lies. Suggesting his actions to be purely in relation to his duties will hurt him, an agony of the heart that gods aren’t supposed to believe in. It’s not just the question, it’s the fact that it’s Percy reducing him down to his domains.

That’s how she hopes he sees it, at least.

“I’m here because I miss you,” he says again.

No, not again. He said he wanted to see her. Wanted. Past tense. Wanted to see her. Just to look at her.

“Well I certainly don’t miss you.”

All good things come in threes, all of the best things. All of the worst things too, for that matter. Fate, fate, fate, spin, measure, snip. Something starts to burn, crackling and warm in Percy’s stomach.

All things that mean something come in threes.

“I know that’s not true,” the god clocks her lie, now that he’s more focused. “The way you always used to try to get me to stay is proof enough of that. That kind of love doesn’t just disappear so quickly.”

“What the hell do you know about that kind of love? And so quickly? It wasn’t just a week, not even a year. It’s been six FUCKING years, Hermes. That might not be a lot for you, but I can assure you it’s felt like a lifetime. And yet…”

“You say you hate me,” Hermes sounds conflicted, which is an intriguing concept. He used to thrive in being the confusion, flitting and flirting around everyone that he could find, and Percy’s sure that he hasn’t changed so much, but she also doesn’t care as much as she does. As much of a paradox as that is. A false apathy, perhaps. Or a false presence of emotion.

Still, she does not turn around to look at him.

“I never said I hate you,” Percy shrugs one shoulder.

“But you do.”

“And I’m well within my rights to.”

“I’ll never understand you mortal women.”

And Percy could rage about that. Start spitting (completely true, by the way) insults and talk about how this is why no mortal women will ever love him because it’s really not that hard, but… she’s tired.

“Did you ever love me, Percy?” Hermes asks suddenly. Though it’s really not that sudden, Percy supposes. Still.

She wonders what to say. She wants to sit in a field of flowers with his head in her lap as she braids flowers into his hair. She wants to tear out his throat until his ichor waters those flowers, until he cannot make a single sound, to ensure that he will never have the chance to say her name ever again.

She thinks of the first option. Yes, once. Maybe even still.

The fire in her stomach, ever present, abates a little. Percy feels a chill run through her at the absence. Her vision seems to turn a bit gray, a bit more dull.

But…

“No, I never did. And I hope, pray, that you’ve never come close, either.”

And the fire roars.

It is all a flash of light, in the literal and metaphorical sense. Everything feels like a blur but it very well might be. Percy’s skin is on fire, prickling like her entire body has fallen asleep and gone numb except for the needle-like prickling. The fire is spreading, spreading, spreading, creeping ever closer towards her heart. It starts to climb up her neck, racing, as if to make up for all its waiting earlier, until it covers her mouth and nose, suffocating her. It reaches her eyes, and Percy just knows that her eyes flash gold for a moment.

With her last bit of strength, Percy whips around to meet the sapphire eyes of her former lover with her own sea glass and molten gold mixture.

Oh, when did he start crying?

There is a flash of golden light, and Percy disappears. Her body, in the span of moments, crumbles to dust and reforms anew, over and over again. She has plenty of time to think.

All bad things come in threes. All of the worst things, the evil things, the things that make your skin crawl and rot fill your heart until it shrivels and cracks. Truths and lies come in threes, separated or mixed. Of course it was a lie, three lies, that did her in.

She’d known since day one not to let a god near her, to make her one of his lovers, to not fall for someone clearly so much more powerful than her.

Do not fall in love with a god.

Do not take the fall for a god.

It was the love that led Percy to the edge, of course it was, it’s always emotion with her. But it was the lying about it…

She always finds comfort in that which she loves. In the lies, for the liar god that she just had to fall for, despite all the warnings.

Unless that’s a lie, too.