Chapter Text
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The Lighthouse Keeper
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.Chapter Five.
Just Your Typical Olympian Family Reunion (Part 2)
……………………………………
You know, in the Before, Percy could never figure out why the Olympians didn’t do more to keep Zeus in line. Sure, when he was a kid, even well into his twenties, he’d been intimidated by several of the Gods—y’know, before he’d gotten tired and bitter and grimly determined to help as many of the Demigods as possible, even if it meant bowing his head to Gods he no longer had even an iota of respect for. But Zeus? Zeus had always been a constant source of frustration and sarcastic “oh, of course Zeus said that” kind of energy.
If Before-Him had been able to See and Feel what Zeus was actually like?
Well.
God-King didn’t seem nearly as narcissistic anymore.
Zeus sat tall and stern upon his Throne, his skin the same ethereal color as Imperial Gold. It was crossed periodically with arcs of blue-bright electricity, random and dangerous, with white-hot flares dancing where cloth and skin met. He wore a long chiton made of shimmering material, almost liquid in appearance, that was every shade of blue the sky could be, shimmering and shifting in a dizzying, never-ending way. The himation he wore over the sky-chiton was made of clouds, twisting and swirling and drifting over him, pouring rain into parts of his chiton and held pinned at his shoulder by a gold, glittering eagle pin that seemed to breathe. His beard and hair, which Percy remembered as being plain black, were now the ominous black-gray of thunderstorms that promised devastation, curling ringlets like tornadoes frozen in time down to his shoulders and collarbones.
Thick, dangerously-sharp bull horns curled out of the mane, wrapped in a coil of never-ending lightning that sparked and glittered in a spectacularly eye-catching way. A wreath-crown of platinum-and-emerald olive leaves, mixed with oak leaves, with glowing gold olives and bronze acorns, sat on his head, shimmering with a Power that tasted like Divinity Itself. His eyes, glaring out from under stormy brows at the room at large, were the same glowing blue-white of his lightning, so bright it left after-images every time Percy blinked, the bright color peering out of pitch-black depths.
In his right hand lay the familiar, teeth-rattling, hair-raising form of the Master Bolt, but in his left hand, Zeus held a Scepter that made Percy’s neck ache with the need to bow. Something that channeled just as much Divinity as the wreath-crown, but somehow with more purpose, and he was reminded, forcefully, that God-King was not just a Title, but a Domain. And Zeus, who claimed the Domains of Law and Order, Destiny and Fate, Weather and Sky… The God of Kings… Who held Dominion over the Gods Themselves…
This Zeus? This was the Zeus who had remained Seated upon the Olympus Throne for over ten-thousand years. This wasn’t the businessman-looking God who made Percy think Workaholic-Lawyer-Asshole that had been the Before-Zeus to his Mortal Eyes.
This was the God-King.
…Yeah, okay. If he looked and felt like this to Gods? Not bothering with security-checking people made sense… As did Luke’s ability to steal the Master Bolt. Hell, Mortal-Percy hadn’t felt anything near as intimidated by Zeus as God-Percy was, and he had nearly been smote multiple times by the God.
Godsdamned, what the fuck.
“Breathe, pup,” Proteus murmured behind him, one flipper-hand brushing against the back of his neck, making Percy take an instinctive breath as the gills that had formed on his neck flared, ear-fins pinned tight and Lure off completely, instinctively attempting to not draw attention to himself. “You’ll get used to it. It takes a few millennia before Lord-Uncle's Divinity stops being so overwhelming.” Kym shifted her weight next to him, and in a casual-seeming shuffle of forms, suddenly, his half-siblings were between him and Zeus. Kym’s towering-in-comparison form especially standing directly between them, one of her hair-tendrils, drifting back and flicking his Lure teasingly, making it flicker half-heartedly as Rhode slipped one of her sand-made hands into his, the warmth of the beach on a sunny day seeping into his clammy skin, grounding him.
“Just breath, just like the tide,” Benti murmured from his other side, the two Goddesses pinning him in protectively as Proteus and Aethusa guarded his back. “Just like the tide, little brother.”
“The first time I saw Him, I hid behind Mother,” Aethusa murmured to him without shame. “He’s… A Lot. Especially for those from other Domains.” Letting out a slow, shaky breath, Percy forced his attention to shift away from Zeus. Immediately, his ADHD took over, letting his gaze bounce to the nearest Olympian, and thankfully one of the furthest from Zeus, which immediately made him feel better, tension dimming and neck no longer aching.
Dionysus was sprawled on his Throne, bored-looking and grumpy as he’d almost-always been in the Before, and yet he, too, was drastically different. His skin is pale, a warm-toned marble, muscles covered in just enough fat to make him look welcoming instead of intimidating, unlike other Gods, and glittering gold-and-silver leopard rosettes spun and flickered across his skin in teasing, mesmerizing movements. His barely-on chiton was a dark, wine red with flashes of pale champagne-gold and coiling grape-vines twisting through the folds. It was held shut at his shoulder with a twisted knot of vines that draped down his arm, ending at his hand where fresh fruit sprouted continuously for him to absently toss into his mouth as he watched the world around him. His hair was a dark purple that was almost black until the light hit it, the color of blackberry juice and grapes and blood in moonlight. His face was bear of facial hair beyond his eyebrows and thick, curling lashes, unfairly pretty on a cherubic, pouting face that was still inhumanly handsome by Mortal standards. He had ram horns curling delicately from his temples, gold-splashed and blood tipped, threatening to bore into his own skull if they grew any longer. His eyes were almost human, regular iris on white sclera, but that iris was swallowed by his pupils, until only a thin ring of sky-blue denoted the color, and in those pupils there were visions of twisting bodies, dancing forms and howling laughter, blood and sex and madness made truth.
Distantly, Percy heard Zeus talking, but the echo of music and madness drowned out the God-King’s voice as he opened the Council with some weirdly-polite greeting to all the Sea Deities who were gathered, Percy couldn’t bring himself to actually care much. Instead, almost against his will, he found himself turning his attention to another God, fascinated by the differences.
Demeter was a statue made of the same gold as Zeus, but darkened by time in the dirt and sun. Her chiton was made of shifting, golden wheat and sighing green grasses, with a dark brown shawl of freshly-turned earth that shimmered into the golden-brown tones of freshly baked bread. Her feet and hands were both covered in thick mud, and twisting, flowering vines seemed to twist under her skin, breaking through it to flash new growth and blooming flowers before withering away and sinking below again. Her hair was black as fertile, wet soil, her thick curls occasionally writhing and wriggling like something was living beneath them, and her eyes were shining gold irises without pupil on clear blue sky-colored sclera, a springtime sun helping plants grow. A curling, golden wreath-crown of wheat wrapped around her head, coiling through a few loose ringlets of her hair like a snake, and water—life giving rain—dripped down to soak into her hair on occasion. She held a platinum sickle in her hand, glittering and cold as winter and plague and pride-in-ones-work, ready to reap harvests and lives interchangeably and without hesitation.
Percy tore his eyes away to focus on the next God.
Hermes was almost beyond comprehension to look at. One moment, he was a pale golden man, classically Greek in feature and lean form built for running, and the next he was a twisting wind made of whispering and murmuring words and sighs, and then he was a shadow of something with too many eyes and grasping hands. Then, his form settled as Zeus turned his head to look at him, and, suddenly, he was in the form of a man—or, at least, a facsimile of one, like the others.
A dust-spattered, knee-length chiton made of an almost see-though material, as if the wind itself had decided to cover him, hid very little from view as he sprawled on his Throne with an impish smile and devil-may-care aura. A short chlamys made of soft, black wool, studded in constellations and the flickering lights of highway traffic rested on his shoulders. Curly golden-brown hair rustled in winds that only he could feel, ruffling the pure white feathers that grew from the small wings that rested on his temples, folding back to blend into the rim of the tradition Travelers Hat he wore, which looked like it was made of paper covered in never-ending writing in thousands of different languages. His eyes were gleaming, his iris an almost ultra-violet color on pale green sclera, shaped like a rabbits—no, like a hares, round and black-lined and one wrong move from retaliation, with a goat’s pupil barring across it. Ink, dust, and blood spattered his arms, his fingernails practically dripping it beneath curling, short black claws, as he gestured with cheerful aplomb to the room at large as if to say See? I Told You They’d Come. Martha and George coiled and twisted around his other arm as he held his caduceus, a glowing silver mist rising from it to form a screen that flickered and flashed with too-much-information, and strawberries bloomed from his Throne’s armrests for him to pluck and toss into his mouth with a chortle.
Apollo glowed beside him, skin so darkly tanned he was made of living bronze, draped in shimmering whites and golds of shifting sunbeams, almost painful to look at straight on so Percy had to look at him from the side as he pretended to pay attention to Zeus and Hermes discussing… Delayed packages and damaged roads?
Oh, they were talking about all the issues his Dad’s Tantrum was causing, huh…
…Anyways, Apollo!
His hair was long and glittering gold, curly waves of warmth and heat and the urge to dig your hands through just to see if it was a soft as it looked. A wreath-crown of bay leaves and laurels twisted around his head, the ends curling around the base of the pair of short horns that sat, black and gleaming, at his temples, reeking even from across the room, of rot and hospitals and death and blood. A pitch-black Raven perched on his shoulder with three glowing gold eyes, its golden talons responsible for holding his shimmering clothing in place at the God’s shoulder. A silver quiver with molten-gold arrows rested on the opposite shoulder, a gold bow with a sunbeam as a string leaning against his leg. Apollo’s irises were made of glowing golden light, much like Percy’s own (much like Kronos’s were/are), only it radiated out of his face in a way that swallowed you whole and consumed your focus until you didn’t even realize you’d blinded yourself. Looking away from them had the word green tinged, like stepping in out of the snow, the rest of the world looking darker than before. Percy blinked slowly to make his eyes adjust, and realized he’d been staring at the shining lyre resting on Apollo’s lap as his oddly delicate-looking fingers stroked the strings...
And, wow, now that he wasn’t blinded by the literal light of Apollo’s eyes, he realized the God was small in a way none of the others had been thus far. Not child-small, or height small, really—although he was definitely the shortest God amongst the Olympians—but lean and delicate looking. Long limbs, thin fingers, relaxed shoulders…
Apollo was pretty, and he worked it. The smile he flashed towards his Sister was gleaming, white wolf fangs bared in play instead of threat, and showing off the dimples on his cheeks.
…Huh…
Thoughts for later.
Artemis was her Brother’s Opposite, as she always was. So pale she could match Kym in her translucence, the golden ichor in her veins pulsing and easily seen. Dressed in a chiton made of bear hide, black as night with glittering stars spiraling slowly through it and the smell of campfire smoke and blood seeping through the air. Her form was still that of a child, Percy’s physical body’s age, with curly waves of blood-red hair pinned back by a wreath of twisting bones and cypress leaves. Shimmering, silver antlers arched back at her temples, like mercury made solid, with strings of bloody fangs hung between the racks like grotesque spiderwebs.
Her eyes were black and round like a deer, with an iris that was the moon, shifting through the phases without pause, and curling eyelashes so red the looked like blood seeping out from under the lids. A glowing Celestial Doe, golden and docile, curled in her lap as if it was a stuffed toy, and hands covered in fresh-and-drying blood, tipped in bear-like claws, stroked over its spine with gentleness. A golden quiver filled with mercury-silver arrows rested on her shoulder, and a bow made of starlight with moonbeam-string rested against her leg, opposite again as her Brother’s.
She makes the part of him that is Reckless Battle long for the thrill of chasing something down. The feel of blood and meat in his mouth as he rips and tears. And, with the pulse of his heart in his throat, his eyes are pulled from her to lock on the familiar-different form of Ares.
Ares.
Ares.
Ares.
ARES.
Ares is draped in a chiton of blood and a chlamys of ragged black boar’s skin, the boars head—with blood red eyes and gory tusks—rested on his shoulder instead of a regular clasp. His skin was almost copper-tinged, covered in smears of blood and gunpowder and trench-mud, and his eyes were the same blazing fires in dead-black holes as they’d always been, because, in this, there was no need to ever hide his nature. His hair was short and black, curls tacky with blood that dripped from unseen wounds, sinking into the wreath-crown of vulture-feathers and dog-teeth that coiled there. Gold-toned scars pulsed over taut muscles, and gauntlets of drakon-scales covered his forearms, black-and-green scales on glowing Imperial Gold. His personal Helm rested in his lap, red feathered plumage on Celestial Bronze, dented and scratched and spattered with dry blood. His shield leaned against his leg, and his spear rested in his hand, large, blunt fingers tapping its shaft as those flame-bearing eyes bored into first his Father and then Percy’s Father, a cruel, eager grin curling his lips, exposing blood-tinged dog teeth bracketed by cruel, curving tusks.
Everything about him made Percy want to fight. Made him long for the burning pain of bare knuckles hitting flesh, of a sword in his hand and muscles burning from overuse and teeth bared in a grin that was a promise to drag his enemy down to Tartarus with him and damn the consequences.
Rhode squeezed his hand gently, the coarse feeling of her sand-skin pulling his attention away from where it had locked onto Ares, and he glanced up at her to finger her gentle sea-eyes looking at him with a small, tender smile on her face. Huffing softly at her as he forced his Domain back down, Percy wrinkled his nose at her before turning his attention away. Demeter was now speaking, bringing up ruined harvests and devastated farmland and slaughtered farmers, and beside her, Athena shifted in her Throne, catching Percy’s gaze.
Back in the Before, Percy could remember comparing Annabeth and Athena and the Goddess coming out Wanting in his eyes. There was nothing humane in Athena’s gaze, nothing of his Wise Girl’s enthusiasm or glee or exasperated fondness. After Tartarus, it was even more evident to him, how different Annabeth was from her Mother. And now, seeing the Goddess free of Mortal Cloak, he wondered if he hadn’t been seeing through her thin veneer of Humanness.
Athena, more than any of the other Olympians, was a Statue. There were no imperfections, no creases in her pale blue chiton made of finely woven material or her dark gray himation made of owl feathers. Not a hair was out of place from where the dark gold ringlets were pinned back out of her face. The wreath-crown of olive leaves was fresh and vibrantly green, its olives aesthetically and evenly positioned to show off their vibrant greens and blacks. Her skin was pale, Imperial Gold, an attempt at making her Father’s skin softer, but all it did was make her seem less Alive and more Creation. Her eyes were the color of steel daggers, shaped like an owls and just a sharp and predatory, with no warmth to soften it at all. The blue-plumed helm of Imperial Gold she held on her knee was shining and without any sign of use, the same for the short sword sheathed in dark blue at her hip.
Everything in its place, everything in order, all attempts at personalization buffed out and pruned away.
If Ares made him want to Fight Someone, Athena made him want to Drown Cities. She was the Antithesis to all that was the Sea, and the fact that she had, at one point, been considered a honorary Princess of Atlantis, a Child of Triton, baffled him now just as much as it had in the Before. Triton, after all, despite his strict beliefs and rigid training, was made for adaptation, for discarding plans at the first sign that they wouldn’t work out. If Athena was a dagger, then Triton was a whip. Just as dangerous in the correct hands, but flexible and capable of pulling others close just as much as he flung them away.
Annabeth had been steely determination, hungry curiosity, fierce protectiveness, clingy possessiveness, and terrified vulnerability. Athena was just cold calculation and vicious Order.
In other words, Athena was more Roman than Greek, especially considering her Roman Aspect, Minerva, who had been the most Greek of the Romans.
Shaking his head as the owl-eyed Goddess spoke up in measured, steady words—even those considered and set out like pieces of string plucked for a project—about how the Mist and Mortals were dealing with the storms, Percy dragged his eyes away, heavy distaste weighing on his tongue. Instead, he turned his eyes on Hephaestus, and blinked slowly in surprise.
The Hephaestus of Before had always claimed that Automatons were better than Living Beings. That he preferred them above all else, even when he Gifted his Demigods with various Aides and Blessings. Somehow, Percy had though that he would be less… Well, less Divine, somehow. More twisted or more Human. After all, that was why Hera threw him off the mountain, wasn’t it? For being ‘too ugly’.
Hephaestus looked like the male version of Rhea. Like a softer, warmer version of Kronos. He looked like a perfect mix of his parents, almost painfully perfect and, if it weren’t for the twisted scars caused by Hera, he’d have been even more Perfect Heir material than literally any of their other kids.
He was the largest of the Gods there, muscled and broad and chiseled from Imperial Gold as if hand-crafted, stained with soot and flecks of heated coals dotting his forearms. He wore a dark chiton made of coal, hidden beneath a leather apron that was smeared with grease with pockets stuffed full of odds and ends and little tools. His hair was dark bronze, perfectly coiled ringlets of metal-given-life, with a curling beard that smoldered at the end in an unending flame. His eyes were dark pits with glowing metal irises that looked like they’d been pulled fresh from the forge. A gold-gilded bulls horn, thick and strong, arched up from his temple, it’s twin nothing more than a ragged, jagged stump amongst twisted scar tissue, its center leaking smoke and oozing molten gold ichor that evaporated as soon as it started to drip off.
If it wasn’t for the heavy scarring, the broken horn, the metal hand that looked like it had been pulled from a Transformers movie, the thick, delicately-jointed brace on one leg, Percy would say, without a doubt, that he had another Uncle, that there had been Seven Kronides, the Zeus had been a Fraternal Twin.
…While he didn’t condone her actions in any way, shape, or form, Percy could understand, distantly, why Hera would react the way she did. He still had nightmares about Luke Castellan, sometimes, and a few of the Hermes kids in the Before had been forced to learn, painfully, to not approach him from behind unless they wanted a trip to the Infirmary.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder could hit you out of nowhere.
Still, despite that, Hephaestus was much better looking than Ares, in Percy’s opinion, and that thought pulled his eyes to Aphrodite…
She was naked.
Just.
Tits out, legs folded beneath her, slouched over her Throne like it was a loveseat, and completely naked.
Just.
Why?
Percy shook his head a bit, bewildered, because while he remembered the Goddess’s face pulling him in and projecting all of his romantic wants onto him, making his heart flutter and face flush, that was all in the Before. As a Mortal Demigod, and then as an Ascending Demigod. But now, here, as a God?
…She is incredibly beautiful, yes. She is mesmerizing and stunning and eye-catching. Her body is voluptuous and soft, pale like the sea foam she rose from, tiny, pearlescent scales trailing along her ribs and hips, making her shimmer enticingly under the light. Her wreath-crown was a twisting nest of dove feathers and dark red roses and pale pink seashells, glittering upon a tumble of dark curls that shift into a thousand different shades of color when she moved, like anemones under the sea. Her eyes were half-lidded and sultry, a soft dove-gray iris on a bed of pink-and-red rose petals, with a mouth the color of freshly spilt blood, curled into a saccharine-sweet, almost mocking smile as she let her head loll so that a dove made of glittering gold-and-silver could drop a treat into it, making her every movement into a show.
So, yes, she is incredibly beautiful.
But, most of all?
She’s lounging, naked, almost spitefully so, in the middle of the Olympian Council, and eating Nectar-stuffed Oreos.
…
What an Icon.
Percy shakes his head, lips threatening to tug into a grin despite himself, and turned his eyes away from the Goddess of Love even as she moved an arm to purposefully make her breasts look bigger with a sweet pout on her bloody lips, successfully derailing Ares from where he was complaining that all the shit weather was interfering with the war across the sea. Like that mattered to the Gods, seriously.
Avoiding looking at his Father, Percy turned his eyes on the only remaining Olympian he hadn’t noted yet, and found himself being stared at in return, making him stiffen.
Hera was the tallest of the Olympian Goddesses, chin held high and shoulders straight, with a spine made of Stygian Iron. She glowed the same shade of Imperial Gold as her husband, but colder, the deeper gleam of traditional wedding rings. Her long chiton was the white of wedding dresses, pure and unnaturally clean, whispering with the sighs of devotion and unspoken I Do’s and promises. The himation that draped over her artfully was soft, golden cow hide, glittering with little studs of emeralds and sapphires. A silver, sleeping peacock held the himation to her, its tail feathers glittering and the ‘eyes’ on them blinking as they flickered through various colors and shapes of iris.
Her hair was dark blond, tumbling artfully from the clasp made of starlight-colored lilies that held it back from her face. A wreath-crown of golden peacock feathers, Celestial Bronze lilies, and ruby pomegranate seeds circled her head, resting above eyes that shifted constantly, flashing from familiar golden iris to the same seafoam green of his Mom’s eyes, and then changing again, becoming the eyes of different Mothers and Wives before circling back to that damningly familiar Gold.
Percy wondered, briefly, as they held eye contact, if she hated her mirrors as much as she’d hated looking at Hephaestus’s untouched face as an infant. He wondered if she changed her eyes as often as she could, to avoid seeing her own Mother’s eyes—her Father’s eyes—staring back at her from her face.
Those eyes sharpened on him, as if sensing his thoughts, and Percy turned his gaze away without thought, instinctively turning his attention towards his own Father as if against his will.
Poseidon, in his Memories, was always something just to the left of human. He played the part well, because the Sea was ever-changing and adapting and, of the Big Three, he was the most up-to-date with what the Mortals were up to. But, he’d never quite managed to get the emotions right. The Sea was… Consuming. Too-Much. It was Possessive and Wild and Prone to Rage.
Poseidon in his memories talked to Percy like he was a coworker you saw once in a blue moon. All “You’ve done well” and “keep it up” and “You’re one of mine”, but never actually speaking of their connection. The first time they met, he told Percy he was a mistake, to his face and, sure, Adult-Before-Percy realized he meant that he regretted Percy’s hard life and that it would only get worse from there, but, at the time? To the little, exhausted, traumatized Child-Before-Percy?
It had tainted every conversation they’d ever had, after.
This Poseidon, however? This one wore his emotions so plainly it was painful to look at him.
His body was tall and lean and the color of dark Celestial Bronze, with glittering scales of Imperial Gold and Stygian Iron and a teal so bright it glowed swirling around his skin in chaotic, ever-shifting waves. He wore a chiton of water, the dark blue-black of the Abyssal Depths, wet and clinging and radiating a cold that would usually make Percy’s bones ache but now made him feel comforted. His himation was made of churning foam, the kind stirred up by tsunamis and dangerous rapids and riptides, aggressive and tugging and threatening to drown. His hair was black as pitch, as tar, as oil, curls and waves weighed down by the Rage and Grief that roiled off of him like waves crashing into cliffsides.
The long, lanky clumps twisting behind him like the tentacles of the Kraken, sliding and creeping along his Throne’s back in warning as the other Olympians continued to talk at Him. His crown, a glittering thing of shells and pearls and coral, shone with an ominous light, flecks of bioluminescence beckoning someone to dare come closers, just a little closer, as sweet a Siren’s Song as Percy’s Lure, as Kym’s hair-tendrils, as Benti’s anemone. A Predator lying in wait.
His face could be carved from marble, from stone, for how still and hard his expression was, mouth set in a deceptively soft line despite the tension of his clenched jaw. His eyes were swallowed by his pupil, the inky depth poured from his iris and swallowing his sclera like a shark’s, cold and dark and dangerous as he dragged them from one speaker to the next without a sound. His Trident, something he usually left in its holder on the side of his Throne, was in his hand, grip firm and deceptively gentle in appearance, but it gleamed as if freshly sharpened and treated, the tines glinting hungrily, looking almost red in the light of Olympus, as if there had been blood but it had been washed away, for the most part.
…Percy had never seen his Dad this upset before, and it made one of his Domains twist in his chest. Messenger of Worried Parents unfurled within him, and, suddenly, he could Hear his Dad. Could Hear him Praying.
“Please, please let him live. Don’t take my child from me, not like this, Damn You, not like this.”
“Where is he?! Please! Please, where is my Son?!”
“He’s not even a decade, please, Fates, Khaos, Whomever will Listen! Please… He’s only a child… He’s practically an infant, please—"
Shaken, Percy blinked rapidly, forcing his attention back to the present, almost overwhelmed by the desperate, terrified Love his Dad had. For Him. Little, loser Percy Jackson, the Forbidden Child, the Bastard Child, the little Mortal Hero. His Dad Loved Him.
…He Loved Him…
Percy stared, blankly, in Zeus vague direction, glad not for the first time that the scars on his face made him hard to read. His Lure was dim and drooped, pressing against his forehead like a lost child, and his hand tightened on Rhodes as he slowly blinked.
“Enough!” Zeus’s voice rang out, a Command for Obedience, shaking Percy from his stunned stupor. “I have heard more than enough. You will cease your tantrum, Poseidon, or it is my Wrath you shall face.” Percy flinched a little as thunder boomed, the air suddenly sharp with crackles of electricity, and his siblings closed ranks tighter around him in an instinctive act of protection, and they weren’t the only ones. Every Sea Deity closed ranks, the Stronger or Older ones stepping in front of younger and less-powerful siblings, those who held no Domain’s that could be easily used here, or could be used at all in this situation, found themselves hidden from view, hands on their weapons and muscles tense. Percy suddenly found his Lantern in his hand and his Rug tight around him, its hold protective, as he instinctively glared towards Zeus’s voice, as Kym had risen to her full height, her hair-tendrils thrashing with fury as wisps of storm clouds spiraled around her shoulders.
“You dare tell me not to Rage, Brother?” Poseidon’s voice was cold, a deep rumble like the shifting of tectonic plates, like devastation and death and the Abyss Itself. “You, who could not bare the thought of your own child’s death, so you turned her into a tree? You?” Thunder boomed again.
“Watch Your Tone, Brother,” Zeus growled out, even as cold winds began to whip around them all. “You should be glad your latest bastard is missing, or else I would have struck him down myself.” Immediately, everything shifted.
The ground shook viciously with an earthquake, the air turned wet and cold as wind shrieked through the room with the strength of a hurricane. Every single Sea Deity straightened as their heartbeats synced up, pounding like horse hooves as Predatory gazes locked onto Zeus. Slowly, Poseidon, God-King of the Seas, rose to his feet, his Divine Weapon in hand and a black rage on his face as his hair coiled around him like tentacles, sharp teeth and gleaming eyes flashing throughout it.
“Touch My Son, Zeus,” Poseidon spoke, slow and inevitable as a Death Itself, the entirety of his Divine Power brought forth in Warning, in promise. “Touch Him And I Will DESTROY Your Daughters Tree And Bring MILLENIA Of War To Your Domains. No Child Of Yours Will EVER Be Safe From Me, No Law Held Honored, No Prayer Answered. I Will Rip From You Every Storm, Shake The Very Foundations Of Olympus, So I Swear On The River Styx And Khaos Itself.”
A gong-like toll sounded, alongside a rumble of Thunder that had nothing to do with Storms or Zeus, as Poseidon Swore with his very Divinity, and Zeus reared back from where he had risen in response to his brother’s show of Power, a look of utter fury and disbelief and calculation flashing across his face as he stared at Poseidon as if he had never seen him before.
“Oookay, let’s all just calm down for a minute,” Hermes’ voice cut through the air, the Messenger God obviously leaning hard into his Diplomacy Domain as he stood from his Throne with arms open and a serious expression on his face. George and Marth twisted themselves around their staff and Hermes hand as he stepped forward to stand between the still ready to fight Sea Deities and the two glaring Olympians. “No one wants the two of you to go to War, alright, not even Ares because he knows his kids will get slaughtered,” he said, shooting a look over at the War God as if to challenge him to deny it; Ares didn’t, because even though he was a dick about it, even Percy knew he had a soft spot for most of his kids. “All our kids, Mortal and Immortal alike, would suffer for it, and no one wants that, okay?”
“We’re not asking you to give up on your kid, Uncle,” Hermes continued when no one said anything after a moment. “Anyone who knows anything about you knows you love your kids. We’re just asking you to stop the world-ending catastrophes while you look, okay? Not only are you running me’n the other Psychopomp’s ragged, but you’re also overwhelming everyone with so much extra work, you’ve single-handedly clogged the entrance to Hades for at least the next century, and you’ve got the Monsters and Demigods so stirred up that they’re crawling out of the woodwork! Hades’ sake, Uncle P, even one of your Monster-kids has been going around and rescuing Demigods, even going so far as to Bless their Travels!” He threw his hands up a little, theatrical and imploring as his head-wings, flickered, the wings that unfolded from his ankles fluttering as well. “You can keep looking for him, Uncle P. Just, maybe don’t kill our kids and lovers while you do it?”
Silence reigned, not necessarily uncomfortable, but poignant. A held breath after a devastating earthquake, to see if another tremor would turn your world upside down.
Slowly, mouth pulled into a small frown, eyebrows furrowed, Poseidon turned his face away from where he’d been staring down Zeus, to stare, now, at Hermes.
“What… Did you say,” he dragged out slowly, voice still echoing the Crushing Depths, but less cold, more the twisting strength of a deep-sea current than a crushing hold. “About Blessings?” Hermes paused, tilting his head, his wings all twitching faintly in confusion.
“Um, that one of your more Monster-kids was Blessing the Demigods he found with safe travel?” Hermes said slowly, cautiously. “And, don’t get me wrong, Uncle P, I’d normally get a little pissed about it because, y’know, that’s my Domain and all, but considering how many of my Daughters have made it to Camp for the first time in decades, I’m seriously not mad.”
“Hermes,” Poseidon said again, something slightly more Urgent beginning to pull through his voice, and Percy found himself shifting his weight and squeezing Rhodes hand as he glanced to the side, only to find his eyes locking on Hestia’s where they glowed with gentle understanding at Her Hearth. “Hermes, none of my Children have the ability to Bless Land Travel. Who did you find that could?” Hermes stilled, his winds slowly arching in confused shock, and, just as Percy looked back towards him, the Messenger God turned to look at him over his shoulder.
“Well… That one?” He said, pointing at Percy, who immediately winced a little, instinctively ducking down and hiding his face in his Rug as Kym turned to look at him, bewildered, and unintentionally exposing him to the entire Olympian Council.
“Um…” he managed, staring back at the Gods as their combined focus landed on him, including several of his Siblings, some of whom literally, climbed onto taller siblings to try and catch sight of him. Self-consciously, he pulled his Rug closer, a small frown making his scars pull as his Lure lit up gently in flickers of soothing light, gills flaring. His Dad stared at him, frozen still, even his hair-tentacles slowly sinking down into regular-hair behavior.
Awkwardly, Percy lifted the hand that wasn’t clutching at his Lantern, and offered a little wave.
“Hi?”
Smooth, Jackson, he thought to himself with a wince, hunching his shoulders and scowling reflexively to himself as everyone somehow managed to stare harder.
Real fucking smooth.