Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I am the spirit of Delphi, the voice said. Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.

The Oracle regarded me with its cold, dead eyes. Then she turned unmistakably towards Zoë Nightshade. Approach, Seeker, and ask.

Zoë swallowed. "What must I do to help my goddess?"

The Oracle’s mouth opened, and green mist poured out. I saw the vague image of a mountain, and a girl standing at the barren peak. It was Artemis, but she was wrapped in chains, fettered to the rocks. She was kneeling, her hands raised as if to fend off an attacker, and it looked like she was in pain.

Then suddenly, the image...glitched. There was the sound of thunder, and a crack split through the image, covering Artemis' face.

She gasped and spat, black flies falling from her mouth, turning her still-obscured face upwards to speak;

“Five shall go west to the archer in chains,”
“One shall be lost in the land without rain,”
“The bane of Olympus shows the trail,”
“Campers and Hunters combined prevail,”
“The Titan’s Curse must one withstand,”
“The sun or stars, the Huntress sees her end.”

“This is Atlas’s mountain,” Zoë said. “Where he holds–” She froze. Her voice was ragged with despair. “Where he used to hold up the sky.”

We had reached the summit. A few metres ahead of us, grey clouds swirled in a heavy vortex, making a funnel cloud that almost touched the mountaintop, but instead rested on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old boy with golden hair, cracks running along his skin and tattered silver Hunter garb: Apollo in his sister’s clothes, his legs bound to the rock with celestial bronze chains.

This is what I had seen in my dream. It hadn’t been a cavern roof that Apollo was forced to hold. It was the roof of the world.

“IT’S A TRAP!” Apollo yelled. His voice was strained. He was drenched in sweat. I’d seen a god in pain once, briefly—Ares, but that was nothing compared to the way Apollo’s shoulders shook, the weight of the sky too much for him. “Zoë—you have to choose me! Choose the sun and-”

A booming voice spoke behind us; “You dislike him, don’t you? You won’t listen.”

We turned. The General was standing there in his brown silk suit. At his side were Luke and half a dozen dracaenae bearing the golden sarcophagus of Kronos. Annabeth stood at Luke’s side. She had her hands cuffed behind her back, a gag in her mouth and Luke was holding the point of his sword to her throat.

I met her eyes, trying to ask her a thousand questions. There was just one message she was sending me, though: RUN!

“Luke,” Thalia snarled. “Let her go.”

At the same time, I heard Apollo beg Zoë again; “You have to—you’ll die if you don’t! Please!” He sounded nothing like how he had when we first met—all smiles and airs dropped and gone. He was desperate to relieve the burden of the sky even if that meant Zoë took it.

Luke’s smile was weak and pale. He looked even worse than he had three days ago in D.C. “That is the General’s decision, Thalia. But it’s good to see you again.”

Thalia spat at him.

The General chuckled. “So much for old friends. And you, Zoë. It’s been a long time. How is my little traitor? I will enjoy killing you.”

“Do not respond,” Apollo hissed, panic thick in his voice. “Don’t challenge him!”

“Wait a second,” I said. “You’re Atlas?”

The General glanced at me. “So, even the stupidest of heroes can finally figure something out. Yes, I am Atlas, the general of the Titans and terror of the gods. Congratulations. I will kill you presently, as soon as I deal with this wretched girl.”

“You’re not going to hurt Zoë,” I said. “I won’t let you.”

The General sneered. “You have no right to interfere, little hero. This is a family matter.”

I frowned. “A family matter?”

“Yes,” Zoë said bleakly. “Atlas is my father.”

“AND THAT DOESN’T MATTER!” Apollo yelled again. “You are not your father, Zoë—do the smart thing and let me fight him BECAUSE YOU WILL DIE!”

In the dream Artemis guided me through, Apollo had willingly taken the sky from Annabeth, which didn’t match up with how he was insisting to be free now-specifically wanting Zoë to hold the sky in his place. He was still pulling the helpful angle, and while I was sceptical, did we really have a choice? Apollo was a god. He was our best chance at winning—as long as, of course, we suitably grovelled and even then, how many fingers was he willing to lift?

The horrible thing was: I could see the family resemblance—and I wasn’t so happy about Zoë fighting Atlas instead either as the other choice. Atlas had the same regal expression as Zoë, the same cold, proud look in his eyes that Zoë sometimes got when she was mad, though on him it just looked evil. He was all the things I’d originally disliked about Zoë, with none of the good I’d come to appreciate.

“Let Apollo go,” Zoë demanded.

Atlas walked closer to the chained god. “Perhaps you’d listen and take the sky for him, then? Be my guest.”

Zoë’s eyes narrowed. My stomach sunk. If Artemis had been captured instead of Apollo posing as her, would Zoë hesitate? Probably not.

Apollo opened his mouth to speak again, but his head was thrown back as Atlas swiftly backhanded him. Apollo’s head lolled, and he coughed, before he tried to spit on Atlas’ loafers—the Titan moving out of the way just in time. I spotted a strange stain on the cracked marble close to where Atlas had been standing. With how Atlas moved away as quickly as possible, it didn't seem like Apollo had been respectful.

“I think I will have all the Olympians take turns carrying my burden, once Lord Kronos rules again, and this is the centre of our palace. It will teach those weaklings some humility—not that this one has learnt just yet.” Apollo isn’t fazed by the Titan’s glare, and…honestly I don’t know what to think anymore.

I looked at Annabeth. She was desperately trying to tell me something. She motioned her head towards Luke. But all I could do was stare at her. I hadn’t noticed before, but something about her had changed. Her blonde hair was now streaked with grey.

“From holding the sky,” Thalia muttered, as if she’d read my mind. “The weight should’ve killed her.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why can’t Apollo just let go of the sky?”

Atlas laughed. “How little you understand, young one. This is the point where the sky and the earth first met, where Ouranos and Gaia first brought forth their mighty children, the Titans. The sky still yearns to embrace the earth. Someone must hold it at bay, or else it would crush down upon this place, instantly flattening the mountain and everything within a hundred leagues. Once you have taken the burden, there is no escape.” Atlas smiled. “Unless someone else takes it from you.”

///

I reached down and felt Riptide back in my pocket. I couldn’t fight Atlas, even with a sword. And then a chill went down my spine. I remembered the words of the prophecy: The Titan’s curse must one withstand. I couldn’t hope to beat Atlas. Unfortunately, Apollo was right. He was the only one who stood a chance.

“The sky,” I told the god. “Give it to me.”

Apollo shook his head, another crack spiderwebbing up his bronze skin. Golden light seeped through, like his godly essence was dripping out. “No, Percy—the sun or the stars. If you take the sky Zoë will die! The stars are her fate—her death if she doesn’t pick me!”

I didn’t really get it. Atlas wasn’t the Titan of the stars, as far as I knew, so how had Apollo made the jump to her death? Still, coming from the god of prophecy himself, it was terrifying. I wanted to pretend he was lying.

He might not have been, but Zoë would never listen.

“Then protect her properly,” I said. “Don’t stand by.”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I took out Riptide and slashed through his chains. Then I stepped next to him and braced myself on one knee – holding up my hands – and touched the cold, heavy clouds. For a moment, Apollo and I bore the weight together. It was the heaviest thing I’d ever felt, as if I were being crushed under a thousand trucks. I wanted to black out from the pain, but I breathed deeply. I can do this.

Then Apollo slipped out from under the burden, and I held it alone.

Afterwards, I tried many times to explain what it felt like. I couldn’t.

Every muscle in my body turned to fire. My bones felt like they were melting. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t have the strength to open my mouth. I began to sink, lower and lower to the ground, the sky’s weight crushing me. For a brief moment.

Then Apollo rejuvenated me.

Golden light seeped from him into me, like the auras of immortality and youth Artemis granted her Hunters. The sky didn’t get lighter. I just found more strength to hold it.

Chapter Text

Briefly, I entertain the idea of making Percy a god.

Like with Emmie, I could split off a piece of my divinity and give it to him. It wouldn’t make the sky less heavy, but it’d lessen the burden.

I reject the idea almost immediately.

Percy never wanted to be immortal. My stomach corkscrews at the idea of forcing it on him, even if the rejection was technically by a version of him that had yet to exist.

But there was another way to ease his burden, without granting him divinity.

Giving him my blessing.

It’d be dangerous, as Poseidon could consider it as an attempt on my part to make Percy my Champion. Still, his wrath is the only drawback I can think of—disregarding the power I’d lose from my already limited strength.

I had wanted Zoë to hold the sky—the best plan I could come up with in six days, no matter how horrible it was. She not only had more strength to spare as a former Hesperid and as a current Hunter with my sister’s blessing, but she’d be trapped in her position. If she was holding the sky, she couldn’t fight Atlas and die by his hand as she had before. Or—that was the assumption, as I never learnt the exact specifics of the battle but knew that she had perished.

But I should’ve known. Zoë was far too stubborn to agree.

I may not have been Nico di Angelo—his possible future who saw possibilities of death—but I was a god again. Possibly. And it didn’t take that to see Thanatos lingering.

I make my choice as Percy takes the sky.

I relinquish the weight.

My body isn’t dragged down for the first time in six days, the putty that it’s been molded into finally allowed to rest. The slush that forms my bones begin to return to solid. I take a full, deep breath and take a step forward, almost collapsing.

Guilt drops into my stomach.

For a brief moment, Percy holds the sky completely on his own.

Then I re-gather my strength, and give it to him.

Through the cracks in my skin, my power seeps out and into Percy. As his paling face regains warmth, more cracks etch throughout my body. I take another step, and my body almost gives out.

The next breath Percy takes isn’t as brittle.

My limbs have regained the feeling of being blenderized, except far slower. Granting Percy a blessing shouldn’t have taken that much from me…unless…

I was a god again.

But I didn’t have all of my power.

Atlas laughs, loud and booming. “Truly, the Olympians are weak—even losing such a shred has crippled you!”

He throws his javelin.

I watch as if in slow motion. My body feels as heavy as the sky, as unmoveable.

I can’t help but see Caligula’s spear.

Then a body slams into me, pushing me aside.

I stare in horror as the javelin impales Zoë.

It pierces through her stomach and pins her to the ground like an animal strung by a tack. Zoë gasps and blood drips out of her mouth. Her bow clatters out of her grip.

For the first time, I notice the bite in her side.

She chose to save me.

She chose the sun.

My limbs feel wooden.

I move them too late.

I reach for the javelin, but Zoë slaps my hands aside. The motion causes her to cough again, blood dribbling down her chin. “Lord Apollo—don’t be foolish. Waste any more power and Atlas will win.”

“Healing you isn’t—”

“In thy crippled state, it is!”

Tears fall from my eyes. Zoë looks startled to see them.

“Sentimental and foolish. You won’t survive the coming age with that stupidity, boy.”

You swear to save them and you can’t even save Zoë.

YOU PROMISED.

YOUR FAULT.

“Don’t waste this.” Zoë’s breath rattles in her lungs, shorter and harsher each time. Her fingers flex, and she turns her head slightly to her bow.

My eyes brim with more tears.

Atlas approaches, each footstep like thunder.

I take the bow’s grip. Zoë nods.

His shadow falls over me. I see it raise its fist.

I drop and kick his legs out. As Atlas falls backward, I summon an arrow and fire at his jugular.

Two more arrows sprout from his trapezius muscle and jugular notch before he reacts. As Atlas lunges I shrink to a hummingbird worthy of Frank Zhang, dodging his arms and flitting to scrape my tiny claws across his face.

He roars and reaches at me, but I switch to a bee and fly out of reach. I fall back into a human body and kick with all my strength. Atlas’ arms fly up and block, but he’s sent staggering back. Away from Zoë.

My ankle smarts as I put weight on it, but it doesn’t feel sprained. I lift Zoë’s bow and draw, shooting two arrows at once.

Atlas lifts a hand and catches them mid-air, snapping the shafts. “This is pitiful and weak. Have you nothing better, you so-called god?”

“Are you worthy of being a god?”

Zoë continued to bleed out behind me.

Thalia and Luke continued to fight.

Percy tapped into more of my blessing as he held the sky.

The answer had always been no. But I was all these people had right now.

When Atlas lunged again, I dropped Zoë’s bow.

I’d never be able to beat Atlas in any physical form.

So I stopped trying to.

I let him grab me and lift me by the collar of my dress. I breathed in his horrid breath—like he hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth even after getting released. I stared into his cold eyes, colder than Zoë’s would ever be, colder still when killing his daughter.

I screamed.

My voice carried the same strength as it had when I killed Commodus, maybe more, but Atlas was no minor god. Still, his hands flew to his ears, dropping me immediately as pain wracked his face from the onslaught of sound. I landed on smarting feet and grabbed him by his wrecked breastplate. I spun on my heel and threw him at Percy.

As Atlas slammed into him, Percy curled up and rolled.

And the sky fell, trapping Atlas beneath.

I didn’t waste time listening to Atlas scream obscenities. I turned and sprinted the short distance to Zoë.

She gurgled blood with every rattling breath, face paler than the moon. My sister’s blessing no longer looked like a healthy glow but like the shine of a corpse. I grabbed her wrist for the simple act of checking her pulse, yet Zoë found the energy to scowl at me.

“Don’t-waste-thy-time,” she gagged out.

Her pulse was weak, but it was still real.

It was there.

She chose the sun.

I summoned what embers I had felt over the last days still driving the sun. All of my essence, together. I didn’t go supernova, or warn the mortals about my true form. The future tickled my ears again and whispered no need. I simply didn’t have enough godly power left.

My hands tightened around the javelin shaft.

“The stars,” she murmured. “I can’t see them.”

No.

Her scream rattled my ears as I pulled the javelin out.

YOUR FAULT.

I poured all I had left into Zoë.

As my body split further, barely threaded together by gold, hers mended. The wound in her stomach closed. The poison from Ladon’s bite was flushed out. Her skin lost its grey sheen.

She took a deep, long breath.

I fell to my knees.

My vision wisped at the edges. Purple dots coloured the ground. My stomach turned, but there were no contents to upend. No matter how much my limbs shook I stayed upright. I teetered on the cliff between blacking out and dizziness, unable to tell how long I lingered doing cartwheels on the edge.

“-Apollo!”

A steady hand hooked around my shoulders and pulled me to my feet.

Zoë was warm.

Too warm.

A golden aura layered her skin, the same as Percy’s. I raised my head and there he was, standing and facing the cliff edge. “They’re coming!” He yelled.

I stared blankly. Who? I simply didn’t have the strength to comprehend. All of it had been wasted fighting and healing.

Then I saw it.

Accompanied by a faint buzzing noise, Kronos’ army came over the hill.

Zoë raised her bow-when she'd picked it up or how she was planning to aim it while still supporting me, I couldn't tell you. Percy uncapped Riptide. Thalia looked shaken, along with Annabeth, as if both were too in shock. I’d likely missed something.

I’d love to claim that I thought we had a fighting chance. I didn’t think we did. Zoë was only freshly healed, Percy had recently held the sky, and I didn’t want to ask Annabeth or Thalia to fight considering what I could see of their mental states. And of course, the four of them had to deal with a crippled god. Without a miracle, we’d be overrun.

Then, strangest of all miracles, a Sopwith Camel swooped down out of the sky.

“Get away from my daughter!” called the pilot, and his machine guns burst into life, peppering the ground with bullet holes and startling the whole group of monsters into scattering. Just when I’d thought I’d seen all the brave stunts humanity had to offer, they pulled off more.

“Dad?” yelled Annabeth in disbelief. Honestly, I had both difficulty and ease seeing how Athena could favour such a mortal.

“Run!” he called back, his voice growing fainter as the biplane swooped by.

I needed to get my friends to safety.

I glanced around at all of the gathered demigods. Percy, Zoë, Thalia, Annabeth. “Were there any other questers?”

A sick expression came to Percy’s face, but Zoë shook her head. “No more.” Her voice wavered.

I didn’t think too hard about it. I couldn’t. My brain might as well be polar ice caps melting out of my ears.

I concentrated on all of the power I had left.

…and found nothing.

I staggered, even with Zoë’s support. How could there be nothing? I wasn’t mortal any more. I should still have power to give.

“Apollo?” Percy’s voice was filled with concern. He glanced at me.

“I can’t.” I didn’t close my eyes. I refused to look away from their faces as I admitted how powerless I was to help.

“You can. You can get us out.” Percy’s face doesn’t turn with disappointment. Instead he glances at the horizon of monsters, faltering less and less, and his expression steels.

“You’re Apollo, man. We know you can.”

It was like a dam broke.

Power—less than before, but still flooding through like the Nile compared to the desert surrounding it. But the gold threading together my skin wasn’t some hidden vestige of strength I had kept. I was under no illusion that it was. As a god, I drew strength from belief.

And these demigods believed I would come through.

It wasn’t easier to wade through the muck of my mind and gather my power. It wasn’t easier to summon it to the surface and concentrate it. It was so, so difficult compared to before.

But I found the strength to do it anyway.

I snapped my fingers.

We disappeared from Mt. Othrys.

For my first time on Olympus since my trials, I ate white marble floor.

As I raised my head sluggishly, I could hear laughter.

The Olympians sat on their thrones.

Why were they so tall?

Not all of them were occupied, but most were. Ares didn’t bother hiding his amusement, laughter loud and booming and absolutely horrible on my ears. Aphrodite hid her own snickers behind her hand with more mocking dignity. Hera turned up her nose, swathed in extravagant peacock feathers.

I didn’t look at Zeus’ throne. I was too busy staring at Artemis’ vacant one.

My exhaustion hit me.

“Apol-”

Later on, I’d investigate to see if Aphrodite’s complaint was right, and my head falling unconscious against the marble floor had truly cracked it.

Chapter Text

Something that irked me was how utterly unproductive I had been while holding the sky.

Six days in the same corner of the world, holding a burden that got increasingly difficult was no excuse to not plot! If Atlas could eventually enter such a state of zen (I ignored how I had nowhere near any of his strength) then I could’ve found a way to muster up a better plan to save Zoë, even plan what to do with the glorious chance I’d been given.

Alas. I was too busy holding the sky.

So no. I had no idea how to save all of my friends.

Unfortunately, while passed out I could not plan. Neither could I upon awaking, when greeted with the mirage of Styx.

For the Winter Solstice, the purple-and-black dress she wore was woven from midnight, violet running across it to colour the dress like Chaos. A tiara sat on her head, ink-dark hair pulled from her face into an elegant bun. Her face was as beautiful and angry as it had been when I saw her six days ago in the possible future.

“What oaths did you break?”

“What?” My voice came out dry. My mouth tasted like the Styx—the waters, not the goddess. I’d never learnt what Styx tasted like and personally didn’t plan to.

Still. She was aware I’d broken an oath I’d never made? How?

“Here.”

I stared at the glittering visage of my sister.

Artemis was wearing the exact same dress that I’d—well, I assumed I’d stolen, from her to be kidnapped in her place. She paired it with a silvery tiara and sandals, auburn hair tied back from her face in a loose braid. Her face was as beautiful, cool, and serene as it had been in New Rome.

I wanted to embrace her. I wanted to hold her tight and never let go. Yet she’d have far too many questions, so I settled for internal sobbing, screaming, and bottling up my emotions to cry out later.

She thrust a pitcher of nectar at me.

“Drink, little brother. Your strength’s been reduced to nothing. Or was that the result of the oath you supposedly made?” Her eyes flicked between me and Styx.

I took the pitcher, studying the golden contents. Would I burn up if I drank? Hopefully not. Then again, I wasn’t sure what I was now—not even a minor god seemed likely, since I’d been unable to muster up a true divine form.

A small sip tasted like liquefied Jackson-Blofis family lasagna. I swallowed back a sob and took another sip. This time it tasted like bread and cheese from the Waystation. A third sip cleared my head in full, leaving behind the lingering taste of Camp Half-Blood barbecue.

Artemis eyed me. “Was it really so horrible, holding up the sky for six days?” Oh, if only she knew.

I set down the pitcher and studied the room. I was sitting on a Greek-style sofa bed, in a white marble chamber with a columned terrace that opened onto a view of Olympus, the air smelling of jasmine and roses. The city of the gods was crowded with demigods, minor gods, and nature spirits all…leaving. Some rode pegasi or simply flew, others sat on extravagant palanquins carrying them away.

My blood ran cold.

“Is the winter solstice over?”

With what my spotty memory could recall, I’d served as a voter but hadn’t brought up any agenda or acted as a deciding vote, only backing all that my sister had said. Perhaps I’d been assigned a role…or two, but I couldn’t remember what. Zeus had been far more active in the Second Titanomachy while we as good as lounged around for the Giants’.

“Yes, you’ve been unconscious for a while. Father assigned us the task of hunting the worst monsters Grandfather and the Great Stirring have summoned, albeit I doubt you have the strength for it. You gave a fair amount of divinity to Zoë.”

Divinity? —oh.

The golden aura she’d had.

“I thought I blessed her?”

Artemis stares at me in disbelief.

“Blessed—what? Apollo. Zoë’s string was cut. Severed entirely. You restored her, by making her a minor goddess. She awaits choosing of a domain, but the prophetic line has been fulfilled in whole. She chose to save you, and by doing so, you brought about her end. The end of her tenure as my lieutenant.”

Right. That made sense. Zeus permitted Artemis’ recruitment of mortals, allocated her allies with ichor, but drew the line at any goddesses outright joining her Hunt. It was a strict mortal-girls only. Which meant making Zoë a goddess…had effectively killed Zoë the Huntress.

The sun or stars, the Huntress sees her end.

“Where is she? Were her and the other demigods sent to healers?”

Artemis raises an eyebrow. “They were sent some nectar and ambrosia, and I believe Zoë looked them over. They’re alright.”

I heave a sigh of relief. Everything’s not over—there’s still several drop-offs I have to make and possibly not enough divine power for them, but what’s important is that for now, they’re as okay as they can be.

Styx makes a cough with millennia-long practice of hey, are you done ignoring me? Godly Edition to make targets feel especially small. “Apollo, did you or did you not swear upon my waters in the future?”

Artemis’ nose wrinkles. I stared consideringly at Styx. She showed some awareness of whatever power had brought me back, considering how she had been the trigger, but not the specifics? Or rather, she considered the trigger a heavily-broken oath, of which I fit the criteria. Yet she didn’t know what oath?

I prayed she never did. No hole I could crawl into would be deep enough to encompass my stupidity.

“What did you do to me?”

Styx’s lips stretch into a smile. Despite her beauty, it feels like I’m staring into Chaos itself, watching it grin at me with blinding teeth. Why I ever thought teeth that shiny was a good idea was beyond me.

“You must have committed huge amounts of suffering, or foolishness.” Completely true. “I have only cursed a handful, but the purpose is to act as the ultimate punishment for breaking my oaths. My curse exchanges something of the oath-breaker in exchange for sending them back in time.”

Something…of…

A chill ran down my back. I stared down at my body. I had bronze skin, eight-pack abs, muscled arms and wore nothing but a bedsheet from the waist down. But faded cracks peppered my skin, scars a few shades lighter than my perfect tan. I didn’t have the scars of Lester Papadopoulos, or rather never had, yet the cracks seemed to etch a reminder into my skin, a reminder that any Olympian could erase if they so desired.

“I sapped a piece of Orpheus’ musical skill in exchange for the variations now known. I stole Adolf Hitler’s powers drawn from his father along with his sanity, preventing him from summoning new allies or resurrecting the old to his side to prevent a second loss in the Second World War. Make no mistake, they exchange their power for a chance they waste.”

Reliving the suffering. Watching deaths occur that could’ve been prevented. With what embers I had, how could I hope to prevent all the pain I had caused? I wasn’t an Olympian. I was barely Apollo. I had less than the sum total of the strength of a minor god.

Artemis’s hands flashed, and she held two long hunter knives the length of her arms to Styx’s throat. “Are you mad? We are on the verge of a war! Return my brother’s power!”

“The exchange cannot be reversed.” Styx retorts, unfazed by the weapons held to her throat.

This…didn’t make sense. My exchange with Styx over Chaos hadn’t been friendly, but it hadn’t felt unfriendly. She had encouraged me to save them, to prevent their deaths and hurt and pain. She had given me a second chance.

For the sole purpose of continuing my punishment?

Yet it was an angle I could believe. Styx was hatred itself taken form, on top of being a goddess. Us divine held grudges like no other. It wouldn’t be out of character for her to send me back just to watch my pain. It actually fit far too well.

But something told me that wasn’t the case.

The amount of terror suffered in recent years, even just the past three, had been on a scale unlike any other in history. The Great Stirring of millennia-old enemies, followed by the Second Titanomachy, which preceded the Second Gigantomachy not a year later. During that, Delphi had been seized. The future had been choked. Decimation after decimation suffered.

Was that why my return had cost so much power?

And there lay where I decided to place my faith.

“Thank you.”

Artemis drops her hunting knives. Styx’s mouth falls open. It’s eerie to see Hatred shocked.

I was a god before my goddy-ness was unmade. I had my power sapped, yes, but among the many things my trials had taught me was that a god’s power could be regained. Unlike Adolf Hitler, unlike Orpheus, I had no true limit to which I could be sapped. Styx had not taken all I had. I still had something left, something that could be built upon.

And even the smallest bit was more reliable than it had been in my trials.

Styx could’ve been hateful. She might have purposefully brought me back for the sake of suffering through the worst period in history again. But I had a chance to change it, to make the best outcomes even better.

I wouldn’t trade it for peace in the future, not when I could give so many others real happiness they never got to have.

Something in Styx’s expression…softened, almost. She studied me. “What changed you?”

“Suffering.” I replied dryly. But not just mine, watching others’ suffering. Being forced to confront truths I had dodged more than Zeus’ lightning. I’m not sure if Styx sees that in my expression, but whatever she sees has her body…relaxing, almost.

“Your punishment is to suffer further.”

I laugh mirthlessly.

“That’s not what matters.”

Jason. Crest. Leo. Octavian-yes, even him. Before Gaea twisted him.

Michael. Lee.

So many more.

I’d endure suffering for millennia if it meant they didn’t. I’d carry the sky for eternity if Zoë got to live once more. All of it didn’t matter so long as it was to me and not them.

Styx’s expression changes again. She looks…furious. She dissolves in a cloud of black dust, and Artemis stares at me. Her hunting knives lay on the ground. She doesn’t move to pick them up.

“Don’t tell Father?”

I couldn’t let this circulate back to him. Even if I had to beg and cajole Artemis. Zeus never reacted well to prophetic knowledge. Complete and total knowledge of the future, especially coming from me? I’d be stomped back to mortal again before I had a chance to explain. And I couldn’t relinquish what power I had. That power was the sole difference, the only thing I could use to ensure my friends’ changed futures.

Just a bit is enough.

It has to be enough.

“Do we win?”

It took me a moment to realize she was referring to the Second Titan War.

I smiled. It felt like pulling teeth.

So long and so little to go.

“Yes.”

Artemis purses her lips. She finally bends to retrieve her knives, sending them away in a flash of silver. “Then wouldn’t your information be useful?”

“I need you to take my place.” I can’t hunt the monsters alongside her. My memories are fuzzy, but I recall killing a few over the next year and a half at her side. “I’ll be too busy. I won’t have time.”

“Why not? What will you be busy with?”

Stopping the Triumvirate from seizing Delphi. Visiting my children to make sure they are okay. Establishing better goodwill between the Greeks and Romans. Finding my companions and ensuring their safety. Locating Meg McCaffrey.

Would it be so terrible, to tell my sister?

“Please.” I meet her eyes. “Trust me.”

Artemis’ eyes roam my face. Her composure…breaks, somewhat, emotion taking over her face for a brief moment before she wipes it clear. “You saved Zoë. Fine. I won’t inform Father you aren’t by my side, and I’ll keep your power deficit to myself.”

“Thank you.”

Zoë doesn’t have a domain.

I have a way to solve one of the first problems on my long list.

Chapter Text

Whilst it would never be the same, Zoë was glad she was able to continue the Hunt at all.

One might think she had grown tired of it, after millennia spent earning her reputation as Artemis' best hunter through her own merit and deed. But Zoë loved her sisters and loved the chase, loved the feel of the draw of her bow. Loved being able to dedicate her all to a single cause that accepted her efforts and returned them. She was not careless enough to assume her adventures for eternal would last, but allowed herself to enjoy the Hunt as it was in present.

She would miss the Hunters, but she could still see them.

It was the best possible outcome, yet still she felt hollow.

She would have a palace in Olympus made to house her, at Artemis' request during the Solstice. Zoë did not believe she deserved such an extravagant place, yet Artemis had met her eyes and shook her head.

So she deferred to her lady.

Perhaps she would find a use yet when it was built.

... Hopefully.

Artemis had offered her and the questers, as well as the retrieved girl, her palace to freshen up and clean their wounds. Zoë had given them all ambrosia and nectar before letting them to the showers, with a spare warning to Percy. For care's sake.

After her own cleansing, Zoë could not help but contemplate her changed image in a mirror. Rather than the comforting chill of her lady's blessing, warmth blanketed her akin to that of the sun, shining just enough to enrich her without overwhelming with heat. Her eyes were not silver-touched but golden-hued. While her median temperature had always run cold, even among her sisters, it was warm for the first time. Warm to the effect that one might assume she was suffering a mortal fever, based on the basis of what had once been her normal. Yet she knew that was simply not possible.

Apollo, against every previous action she'd ever seen him make, had given her far too much of his divinity for that.

And yet...there was a way to connect his action to his character.

The Hunters saw Hemithea, not often, but often still.

Perhaps she was assuming the worst. Yet preparations for the most horrible possibility ensured one's safety. Zoë would merely wait to view the outcome, and Apollo's intent towards her.

She wore a new warm parka overtop a plain shirt and pants, finished with tying the laces of a pair of boots. Such clothing hid her curvature more modestly. Zoë rejoined the questers in the main drawing room she'd dismissed them from, finding only Percy and Annabeth conversing.

"Thalia left," says Annabeth the moment she enters.

"I see." While Zoë would have preferred to discuss with her on duties as lieutenant, provide helpful advice, the girls would welcome her suitably. Zoë had faith in them.

"...is it okay if we go?" Percy asks hesitantly. Zoë inclines her head. "You are dismissed."

With a smile, Annabeth takes Percy's hand, pulling him out of the room. Her infatuation with Percy seems equal to his. If, in time, he changes and hurts her, Zoë should make it known to Annabeth that she shall strike him down without question.

She does not exit her lady's palace. Instead, Zoë lingers and observes the festivities from a terrace, turning away from too-eager merrymaking she spies in shadowed corners, and some corners not even shadowed. The moon rises with her lady's vestige and falls, and still Zoë sits and watches the partying with her eyes while her mind drifts. She has not missed Olympus, and she wonders if she will ever find her place here.

There is a short cough from behind, and Zoë turns.

Apollo has returned to a more divine form, with skin the tone of bronze and hair spun straw, to match eyes of hewn gold. Albeit his skin now carries cracks that follow the path of those that had been across his skin when his power waned. He is dressed in a dulled yellow chiton, belted with a leather strap, that falls to his knees and exposes part of his chest. Zoë notes the accessibility of his clothing, the ease at which it can be removed, and internally seethes at having not attempted to practice summoning of a bow prior to his visit.

"This isn't a Hemithea situation. You're probably thinking that."

Yes, yet in which context? Hemithea, by all accounts, escaped Apollo before being violated or further cursed for her deferment. Zoë can only hope Lady Artemis is close.

"I wanted to offer you something-and no, it's not companionship in any physical nature. You don't have a domain yet, right?"

Zoë draws her eyes purposefully over his exposed skin, especially in contrast to hers. She raises an eyebrow to express her doubt. Apollo squirms, which would be uncharacteristic of him if he truly wished to bed her.

"Swear on the Lady's waters that thy do not wish thee harm."

Apollo winces, pulling a hand along his nape. "About that...Styx might be angry with me...so not a good idea. But I'll tell you what it is exactly before I ask you to agree. That cool?"

"...Did you chase her."

Apollo splutters, gaping openly. "I–no!"

Zoë crosses her arms.

"No! She's upset at alternate carelessness! I can't provide specifications and I am unable to swear but if I could I would!"

This floundering deity is one Zoë is unused to dealing with. Apollo has not always been flawlessly unrelenting in advances, yet he never stumbled as he does now. There is a genuine desperate hope for her to not consider the worst of him.

Zoë relents. Out of curiosity. But she keeps her caution.

Apollo has already been extremely generous. To expect him to gift more, without strings tied, would be truly foolish.

"What domain is it thy wishes me to seek?"

"More like... I'm going to try giving you a sub-domain of mine without losing it? You're aware of my son, Asclepius."

"God of medicine."

"Yes. But I'm still god of healing. I still have it. Have you heard of the three subsets of prophecy?"

That is...so old Zoë has almost forgotten. She has not been asked about them in two millennia, and she does not exaggerate the number.

"...if I am not mistaken, they are Earthly Prophecy--"

"The Delphic Oracle, that my grandmother gave me. Go on." Apollo nods.

"...Heavenly Prophecy..."

"Formerly overseen by Krios and his Oracle with Draco in the Far North. Honestly haven't tried it, Python was one too many for me." Apollo shuddered.

There was another Oracle? Zoë...Zoë had forgotten.

"And?" Apollo prompts.

Zoë shakes her head.

Apollo nods. "Okay. Then do you remember Asteria?"

Asteria...Zoë has not heard of her aunt for far too long. Her domain...

"She was the Titan of nighttime divination and dreams."

Apollo nods. "Divination regarding astrology. The stars. Do you want to make a trip?"

"...To?"

"Delos. Where her essence is now. Honestly, I want to outright give you my domain over that, since regarding prophecy I've sort of got everything, except Aunt Asteria might appreciate getting asked first. So...yeah."

The sun or stars, the Huntress sees her end.

"When?"

Apollo blinks. "What?"

Zoë glances over him. The cracks are not yet erased, implying a lack of strength to do such. They appear to verge deeper, according to what the drape of his clothes implies. "Thy does not have enough strength, doesth thou?"

Apollo's face falls. He purses his lips. "How many know of my lack of power?"

"So long thy continue to present a carefree appearance, I believe thee will have no issue."

He sighs, rather despondently. "Hope it's that easy, but given my luck? Not likely. Thanks, though. Meet you, in uh...Sis' front gate in a week?"

"...Is that all?"

Apollo ducks his head in a repetition. “Yeah. Enjoy immortality, Zoë.”

He turns and begins his stride to the doorway. To her position Zoë remains rooted, staring after him.

Not a single flirtation had been made by Apollo. Nor any request as ‘repayment’ for the debt of her life. Possibly he sought to increase what she owed, with the offer of a domain, yet the lack of flirtations and innuendo implied otherwise.

She does not know what to make of this alien god. In six days holding the sky has changed him, or rather…brought out what once had been. Zoë has almost forgotten what had been so long ago, that Apollo had not been so vapid. Free in giving his affections? Yes. But this kindness he offered, the respect…if this was the true god that had at last been unearthed, Zoë hoped he would stay.

“I apologize.”

Apollo turns his head, golden hair brushing a shoulder. “For–oh, you don’t want–”

“It is not that.” Zoë had not realized the quest was to locate another god, none of the five had, til Artemis herself appeared in their path. Her lady had sped their travels and granted them much-needed knowledge (Zoë will admit herself irked by the specific vision of her past with Heracles directed to Percy) against the commandment Zeus had issued that prevented the other Olympians from hunting for Apollo. She had gestured to them to search for Nereus. Upon their return she was so distressed by Apollo’s state that she rushed to his side first, and asked Zoë to overlook the health of the questers.

But Zoë had wished to leave, upon hearing the deity meant to receive rescue was Apollo.

Of course, she was chastised by her lady, and perhaps only two thousand years of companionship prevented her from a jackalope transformation. Despite Artemis’ frustrations, her twin Apollo was still. Zoë had been out of line.

She saw that now.

Yet she was still hesitant to express such.

Most mortals heard mere tales of Apollo’s wrath. Over two millennia, many times Zoë had borne witness to myth. She had been flirted with, and flirted with, and flirted with. Artemis’ protections prevented Apollo from outright advancing, but despite her warnings and Zoë’s rejections Apollo did not cease his dalliance.

And she had not been unique.

So Zoë acted cowardly. She did not state the reasoning behind her apology. Yet Apollo’s eyes filled with understanding. “It’s okay. I get it, I’m a jerk and many don’t want–” He tossed his hair. “–this. To each their own. I’m sorry it took too long for me to learn no.”

In a stunned stupor she stands as the god leaves.

This Apollo is one she prefers for certain.

Chapter Text

It is the wise choice.

That doesn’t stop me from pacing outside the Jacksons’ door, wishing I’d gone with my original plan of heading to Camp Jupiter first.

Over the six holding-the-sky days, I’d pushed myself up further, summoning just a bit more strength, by dreaming that once I was freed I would go visit Jason Grace. Possibly Octavian too, if he happened to be there. And awake. And coherent. And not high on another latte and far too little sleep.

…The sleep deprivation needed to be extracted before it could take root, and transplanted with proper rest. It was only one factor in why Octavian had been desensitized to listening to intrusive thoughts and voices, but even the first was a foundation to build upon.

But I lacked power.

I didn’t have enough to move across America in a snap of my fingers. So I began with checking on the closest group to devote fretting to.

I’d taken a conventional path to the Upper East Side through a path no god, save perhaps the most recently turned or weakest of minor, would traverse—public transportation. After successfully locating a wardrobe in my palace post-shower, which I barely remembered the layout of, to change into human-appropriate winter attire. Feeling somewhat mournful, I had donned a silver parka, a plain black shirt (I had no Led Zeppelin merchandise, I would have to resolve that) but joys of joys, I had a pair of hot pink lamé pants! Matching those with a pair of winter boots, I felt cheerfully Lester, or as depressingly close while being a mild half-pseudo-god who couldn’t even make himself look like the human he wished he could be.

For some odd reason, the Mist hadn’t seen fit to mask the strange looks I received on the Metro.

Although that might’ve been my newly-mixed Lesterpollo appearance. I had the classic looks I’d once preferred—just young enough to pass as nineteen at most, golden blond hair that felt a little peculiar in terms of the length I’d grown used to, bronze skin and aureate eyes—but the scars were unfamiliar to both skins, even Lester. I hadn’t erased the cracks that now spanned my skin, but I hadn’t attempted to. I’d have to check at some future date, to see if they became an unfortunate identifying feature if I tried to disguise myself, but for now I saw no issue with them.

Should I have looked into the future to see if they were a precursor to an underlying problem to come?

That was how Sally Jackson found me—a completely unfamiliar stranger having ceased pacing in front of her apartment door, studying a scarred hand far too intensely.

Very far from the first impression I’d wished to re-attempt.

“Ah—Mrs. Jackson! My apologies. Is—”

My tongue tasted like ash.

I wanted to say something. Anything. Yet any variation of Is Percy at home felt like it would shatter me along the new scars on my skin, reducing me to a splintered, sobbing mess in front of a woman who had never had the unfortunate memory of having to support a useless god.

Just say you’re Apollo.

JUST SAY YOU’RE APOLLO.

I should’ve gone to Camp Jupiter first.

But would it have been better? To break down in front of the hero whose life I had lost uselessly, and the descendant I led astray so wildly before getting killed? To see them so young and so unhurt, yet to be torn by the Apollo-shaped knife thrown into their lifelines?

It wouldn't have been. Yet in the moment, staring at Sally Jackson, it felt like it was.

I take a step back, worrying my index finger against the space between my thumbnail and finger pad. My nerves pump ice instead of blood to my heart, turning me to a newly-made glacier crafted by Khione. “Sorry. I—um—”

“Hold up—Apollo?”

Percy was home.

Dressed in jeans, socks, and a familiar Led Zeppelin shirt.

He’d yet to outgrow it.

Of course, this was what pushed me to burst into tears.

“Whoa—dude! You okay?”

Warm, unfamiliar yet comforting arms encircled me firmly. I was brought back to an isle that existed millennia previous yet all the lingering warmth gone despite its survival against Kronos’ sands, to a scant moment where I had still received motherly embraces from Leto.

But stronger than that memory, was the comforting squeeze I had received from Jo at the Waystation.

Sally Jackson, the mortal I saw how Poseidon had loved so easily, was hugging me.

Percy joined her more cautiously but still joined her, wrapping his arms around me. I tried to stifle my tears—crying out the pressures I’d suppressed the past week wasn’t what I was here for, and was just another burden the Jacksons never needed to bear from me. Yet Sally merely tightened her arms, patted my head, and whispered, “Hey, don’t worry. It’s okay. Just get it out.”

So I cried. I cried like the child I prayed the Jacksons would still receive.

I had to see Estelle still born.

I couldn’t live with myself if I undid her birth.

Even if she’d be another precious life to guard from Zeus’ eyes.

Heavens how could I do this?

The worst part of the Curse of Styx wasn’t reliving suffering. It had to be reliving knowing you might hurt others around you and they’d never realize or know.

What if I made their lives worse? I was Apollo. I destroyed more than I made. I took more than I gave. Returned to a godly state, could I hold onto memories that were never created?

Lessons remembered though unmade.

Just this once, I swore not to defy the line of a prophecy.

I wouldn’t search for a loophole. I wouldn’t look for a gap to exploit. I’d take it as it was, out of my own free will and choice.

I would remember, and make things better.

I would not accept anything else.

Chapter Text

Hi sorry, so this isn’t an upload. Unfortunately despite being sick (went from sore throat to mild fever to nose being a bitch at me) due to sleeping it off I couldn't get through a backlog of homework or write a new chapter (that I was satisfied with, chapter 6 has the largest count of discarded Percy POVs thus far GO BOTHER ME ON MY TUMBLR FOR THEM)

Anyway this is the update on the changed line to the Curse of Styx prophecy. It’s been altered from “Time’s domain he will claim” to “Maze raises as camps wane”

Okay so I’m really sorry about that. Mainly because I know it’s difficult to keep up when the author is constantly making alterations, but trust me when I say that they’re for the benefit of the overall story. I also try to alert immediately that the alteration happened, and I’ll place it in the notes.

BUT TO CLARIFY; I am not going to write a plot line halfway THEN CHANGE IT. I WILL NOT DO THAT. the changes I make will either be erasing plots before I can truly start them in favour of ones that make more sense or really niche tiny details relating to character writing. Like changing (in chapter 2, there should be a note on that crap lemme go check) Apollo missing his shot to him hitting it. I am not going to change my mind about things like Zoe's domain after having already written it. Again I will be changing MINOR SET-UP FOR MY FUTURE PLANS details or that tiny thing in scene x that I keep mentally bickering with myself over! So do not worry about reading this fic then returning a bit later to find previous chapters totally different. At most I might add BONUS content to provide more context, like the addition of the prophetic scene to start off chapter one.

That being said, I am doing this without a beta, like all my other fics (so if any of you want to be mine shoot me Something at my tumblr @shadowuserannie or drop a comment lmao) and this is very much unplanned. So apologies for the changes. Also I'm down to talk on there if you want! be prepared for much rambling though--

(and apologies to my first long comment saying they’re going to be analysing this fic IM SORRY BUT ALSO I PUT THIS IN HOPES YOUD SEE)

As penance here is what the OG line was meant to mean; basically Apollo was supposed to claim Time from Kronos, that was how he was supposed to travel back in time before I fully conceived the Curse of Styx and named the series. That plot line…meh…just cause it’s not in the prophecy anymore doesn’t mean the future is set…ahhh I phrased that badly. OKay so I'm not going to change my mind and re-add that prophetic line, but that doesn't mean I won't possibly recycle the plotline.

AGAIN. Major changes to plot will be far before those plots were meant to kick off. Minor changes will be in notes.

Chapter 6 is still coming! ...

...eventually...

...when I figure out how to write it...

Chapter Text

Athena looked almost sorry for me. “Kronos knows your flaw, even if you do not. He knows how to study his enemies. Think, Percy. How has he manipulated you? First, your mother was taken from you. Then your best friend, Grover. Now my daughter, Annabeth.” She paused, disapproving. “In each case, your loved ones have been used to lure you into Kronos’s traps. Your fatal flaw is personal loyalty, Percy. You do not know when it is time to cut your losses. To save a friend, you would sacrifice the world. In a hero of the prophecy, that is very, very dangerous.”

I balled my fists. “That’s not a flaw. Just because I want to help my friends –”

“The most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation,” she said. “Evil is easy to fight. Lack of wisdom… that is very hard indeed.” Her eyes narrowed. "The Council is not very forgiving. They will remember your deeds and your mistakes."

Mistakes? That was how she referred to me getting mad that half of the gods were laughing at Apollo for stupid reasons? After he'd saved us?

I could feel my nails digging into my skin. "After he-"

"Gods do not give aid freely." Athena cuts me off. "Often it is transactional, and Apollo has always been more conditional in his help. The conditions vary...but exist. You should not give your loyalty so impulsively."

It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d sat in the Jacksons’ apartment.

The décor was much the same, save a few alterations. There was no high chair at the dining table and the corners lacked baby-proofing. There was a cabinet where a beanbag had existed, or rather a cabinet existing now before it would be replaced by a beanbag. Picture frames layered the walls yet barely covered half of the friends and family to come—Tyson, Grover Underwood, Thalia Grace, Annabeth Chase. However, it was still warm, cosy, and homely—a multiversal constant.

I brushed elbows with Percy as I sat down at the dining table, drying my tears with a tissue. In the split second of contact, I located his heart rate (74 bpm), his blood pressure (102/69), and his current injuries (none). My blessing had done its job. Even now, it clung to him still-giving his skin a healthy glow despite the winter.

My singular purpose was fulfilled. Yet I did not leave. Simply because I could not see any physical damage did not mean the experience had not left its marks on Percy, even if he now lacked a grey streak in his hair to match Annabeth Chase. If they wished to continue matching, he would have to dye his hair.

A heavenly smell brought me out of my thoughts; the steaming mug of hot chocolate Sally placed in front of me.

Percy took his own cup off the dining table and sipped. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Gratitude, S-Mrs. Jackson.” I stared down at the snot-filled tissue, hot embarrassment welling up inside me like a kettle whistling with boiling cocoa. “Apologies for the intrusion.”

“Call me Sally, I don’t mind—”

I willed myself not to burst into sobs again.

Strangely, this was easier after having already exhausted my tear ducts.

“—and don’t worry about it. Percy told me you gave him your blessing to hold up the sky. You’re more than welcome here.”

I racked my brain. How much time had passed since the winter solstice? It couldn’t have been too long since Zoë had still lingered in my sister’s palace, but she had been watching festivities that usually carried long after the council meeting was past. I couldn’t recall how long I had spent unconscious. “Sorry, how long has it been since the winter solstice?”

“…Yesterday, noon maybe. It started the same day we arrived on Olympus, it ended, I, uh—” Percy’s cheeks pink, and I guess the cause immediately. “Did you dance with Annabeth Chase?”

His face turns even redder as Sally squeals, unfortunately close to his ears due to the seat she’d taken next to him. “You did?!”

“Mom! Really?” Percy glares at me. A small wave crests over the top of the hot chocolate before fading.

I raise my hands in surrender. “It was only a guess.”

Percy huffs. “It’s not a big deal.”

To be fair, considering what their relationship would become, it wasn’t a big deal. But I resisted the urge to further encourage young love, largely because I wasn’t Aphrodite. And this was one part of history I did not look to taint nor change—Percy and Annabeth revolving around each other even as they fall and rise.

My heart went from soaring at the joke to dropping back down with leaden weights at the reminder of all the suffering they would endure together—and what they had already endured.

Thanks to my blessing, there were no grey streaks in Percy’s hair.

But that did not mean the trauma had been erased so easily.

To distract myself, I took a sip from the mug of hot chocolate. As expected, nothing short of utterly delicious. It’s thick and creamy, with a hint of cinnamon, settling in my stomach like warm lava. I remind myself not to display poor table manners and inhale it all in one go.

“This is divine, worthy of the chalice of the gods!” I pay my compliments to the chef as deserved, and Sally smiles, crows’ feet wrinkling in the beautifully mortal way I’ve come to appreciate. “You’re welcome.”

“…Soooo…What are you doing here?” Percy asks the question the same way an exhausted hero asks the gods; anything else in the sort of tone implying further tasks would be met with their blade.

The lava in my stomach turns to ash. Clasping my hands around the mug of hot chocolate in order to retain its warmth was a failure. “Ah…” I cast about for an excuse.

What do I say? You were closest by? Demigods don’t believe gods pull calling cards out of concern without a reason. Even if I had come here with the sole intention of checking on the Jacksons’ wellbeing, I was more likely to ask if I had been bodyswapped. As Ella the harpy would put it; Invasion of the Body Snatchers, directed by Don Siegel, 1956.

“…What have you heard of the Labyrinth?”

If my memory served me correctly, Clarisse La Rue should have gone on her scouting mission through a not-yet-de-evilized maze and returned recently. Not that the Labyrinth hadn’t been suffering for a while, seeing as a scant few years after the death of its creator, Medea had corroded part of its corridors to create the Burning Maze.

Oh, right. Daedalus wasn’t dead yet. It was still evil.

I really wanted to hate the Curse of Styx.

“…The Labyrinth? Like Daedalus’ Labyrinth?” Sally asks, lips pursed.

“The one that formerly contained the Minotaur before Theseus defeated it, yes.”

“Wait, that Labyrinth? Dude, I beat the Minotaur before, already. Guy definitely wasn’t in the maze.”

When had he—? Oh, right. I’d been paying a modicum of attention to what I had considered entertainment two and a half years ago in timeline years, five and a half years ago in Curse of Styx years, and five years ago in Lester Finally Woke Up And Realized Using Demigods As Entertainment Is Bad years. Percy had bested the Minotaur, less importantly but still vital to being able to look Sally in the eye was whether or not I had actually considered saving her due to her beauty before Hades interfered. I couldn’t remember, perhaps fortunately. If I had, I would not be able to look at her again without wishing to die in shame, not that I didn’t already.

“Yes, well, like much of many things the Labyrinth has also been reborn. Over the centuries, gathering power, crawling under the skin of the earth like an infestation.”

Percy frowned. “Okay, great. Another thing to worry about?”

It was curious that he was unaware of the Labyrinth’s existence. My faulty memory had likely caused this issue; awaking his curiosity of his future and an early warning months in advance. Oops?

“Perhaps. Come time, Chiron will inform you in full.”

“So I’m going to have a quest in it in the future. Great.”

…Double oops?

“I actually wanted to know all you knew of the Labyrinth, but it seems unfortunately little. So…Sally, may I ask you something?”

“What is it?” She tilts her head, lifting her mug of hot chocolate up to sip.

“You are a clear-sighted mortal, correct?”

“I am.”

Percy blinks. Another wave crests over his mug, followed by a slightly higher one. “What does that mean?” he asks, turning to face Sally.

“Clear-sighted mortals are rare mortals who have the ability to see through the Mist.” I take my own measured sip of hot chocolate and vaguely wonder if I have a chocolate moustache, wiping at my mouth. “All of my Pythias have been clear-sighted, and Ariadne was too. That was how she really guided Theseus through the Labyrinth.”

“…” Percy’s fingers twitch, as though itching to draw Riptide. “You want my mom to lead you through the Labyrinth?!”

Oh dear. I had not meant to imply that. I’d wanted to subtly lead Percy into using Rachel as a guide from the get-go, but I couldn’t even recall if he’d met Rachel yet. I shake my head wildly. “No! I have my own clear sight—if anything, any mortal’s is inferior. No offense.”

Percy doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? You don’t seem to have a lot of godly power left after holding the sky.”

My breath hitches. Right. Percy Jackson had been one of the rare demigods to witness my weakness, my lack of power. Even if the reasoning he attributed was wrong, the conclusion was correct.

But if he and Zoë could come to the same answer, then who else could? The questers present for certain, but…even memories could be viewed. Evidence could be learnt.

“Percy,” says Sally sharply.

“Did you come here to ask me to do a quest for that prophecy you said?”

My throat closes up. I stare in horror. Faintly, I manage to ask, “What?”

“Percy—”

“Priest’s son mends Fates’ strings,” Percy spits. “The sun’s destruction he will bring. It’s you, isn’t it? You’ll be destroyed.”

It was.

But not in the way Percy thought it was.

The sun’s destruction he will bring.

No one would destroy me.

I would destroy myself.

Somehow, some way, that was what the prophecy meant, because I was the priest’s son.

Papadopoulos.

That was what the name given to me meant.

A name only I would know, that only I would remember.

To anyone else…

“How did you learn of that prophecy?” My hands feel clammy. “It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

This was bad. It was a safe assumption that the Titans knew about the prophecy because Atlas had been there, but the gods? Zeus?

A prophecy listing gods’ bane so soon after the rediscovery of the Ophiotaurus?

If Percy had been sent that dream who knows how many others knew of it?

And would take it upon themselves to interpret the words?

“PERCY!”

Rising spirals of hot chocolate abruptly crash back down into their cups.

Sally levels a glare at both of us. “Calm down.” It sounds like an order.

I lean back and try to remember how to breathe.

I now have to assume that Kronos or others are aiming to get the prophecy out to as many as possible. The likelihood of Zeus summoning me about it has gone from a possibility to a certainty.

I dig my nails into my scalp. My throat feels like it’s breathing solid Greek fire straight from the mouth of the Burning Maze. The edges of my vision begin flickering. I hate when that happens.

The prophecy implies someone who is capable of changing the Fates’ design.

Breathing isn't helping.

And there is nothing Zeus would fear more.

So I stop breathing, something I dearly missed being able to do.

It is why he killed your son.

I sit up straight. I smile, all teeth. The person speaking doesn't feel like me.

"Thank you for the hot chocolate, Mrs. Jackson. I must-"

"Wait!" Her hand reaches out-possibly to grab me by the arm.

"-be going."

I teleport away.

I have not missed the headache.

Chapter Text

Joys of joys, I had to relearn having powers.

It had not been my intention to actually leave. However, perhaps due to my emotions having been jockeyed around on a tightrope wire, toying with my state of mind, I had been panicked enough to accidentally activate my powers. I had simply wanted to not have to fight nor argue with Percy further–and to not have to deal with such an emotionally taxing explanation–so my subconscious simply…removed me outright.

I would have teleported back if I had not passed out.

When I came to, I blinked up at the night sky. Disturbingly, for something as small as teleporting, I’d been out for hours. Artemis was already tugging her chariot along Ouranos’—

I turned my face away and the stench hit me.

Trash bags. Of course I had landed amongst those above me.

The putrid solvent formed from moldy food and drink had already seeped into my clothing and dried, no doubt leaving with it the stench. It had to be a sign of said smell having rotted my brain that I seriously considered lying back down and passing out again, simply because I did not want to return to a reality where all the emotional bonds I had created only existed in my memories and a possible future I had to divert for the sake of hundreds if not thousands of lives. I did not want to have to get up and deal with the nightmare of having left such a negative impression on Sally and Percy Jackson and leaving them with it because I was not wholly convinced I would not split apart into Kronos-sized atoms should I attempt teleportation again.

I let myself have a sigh, then pulled myself up.

It ate at me to curl my fingers and let a small bit of power ebb through, cleansing me of the waste after I staggered off the garbage. I felt better for a moment, then immediately went back to awful.

Past Apollo wouldn’t have thought twice of using a tiny ember to clean himself up. Present Lester shouldn’t be wasting what embers he had. I tried to rationalize that the stench would have only attracted more attention, except I had no idea where I was and could only see trash bags cast in shadows.

The moon shone brighter, and I blinked, adjusting to the light. Trash bags were flattened from the impact, having acted as my cushions, and scattered about yet had been stacked against a brick wall now splattered with sewer green goop. I heaved them back in place, simply because I could hear Jo’s lecturing in my ears should I leave them.

After dusting off my hands, I glanced around properly.

My breath caught.

A beach had been at my back, with wooden docks and a small, floating Greek trireme. It was a distinctive shoreline I wouldn’t forget.

I dashed around the brick wall–the back of the dining pavilion, where the back door of the kitchens opened for trash disposal–and the sight that greeted me was glorious.

The cabins for the demigods, intact and whole. Grass and ground free of giant footprints or any other taints from the Second Giantomachy and the Colossus’ attack. Hestia’s hearth burns at the very center, yet deliberately, intentionally, missing a little girl stoking it. Moonlight seemed to give the camp a glow, like a heaven finally reached.

Yet the cabins were a rectangle, not a greek omega. Yet there was no Parthenos next to Thalia’s Pine. Yet perhaps it was simply my imagination, and the camp felt…cold.

As if there were too little people calling it home.

Not yet.

Never will that happen.

I won’t let that happen.

In a trance, I step towards the cabins. The grass crunches with night dew beneath my feet.

Dionysus must still be on Olympus, partying for all the time Zeus has allowed him–or has he already started on the war tasks he was assigned, that I do not recall? I half want to call out his name, to hear a reaction. A hysterical giggle erupts from my throat.

That’d wreck everything I wanted to do in an instant.

If he was here, I’d be a goner.

If Hestia was here, I’d also be.

My feet carry me to the Me cabin. I hesitate, staring at the door. It’s such a small obstacle. All I have to do is push it open.

The hinges don’t creak. If they had, my children would have likely complained to me about it a short enough time ago that it’s still good now. Cardea would be happy with me.

A stripe of moonlight shines into the cabin, casting a glow upon the residents. Three beds are occupied. Two by heads of blonde hair, one a short mess of curls and the other slightly longer than shoulder-length, straight and braided for the night. One by a head of black hair in two plaits long enough to fall over the pillow and brush the floor.

Will sleeps perfectly normally for a ten-turning-eleven-year-old, bundled up cozily beneath his blankets and hair sprawled out like a sunshine mess. He doesn’t snore-–unlike Lee, who’s kicked off his blankets by accident and rumbles loudly with drool pooling at the side of his mouth, all of a lanky sixteen-year-old with some growing still left to do. His sister, Anodyne has earbuds in to block him, blankets half on half off with her mouth open and glasses left askew on her nose.

Lee. Anodyne. Sweet, beautiful Lee and precious, beautiful Anodyne. My children. Those who were once mine, lost and returned to me.

I wipe my eyes. I cover my mouth and choke out the sobs I still have to give.

I step tentatively in and pray the boards will not creak.

I brush the hair off Will’s forehead, first. I can’t face my dead children quite so fast. I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, and ebb the slightest of blessings in–just a bit more of my power.

He lived the first time, but what of the second?

Anodyne is next. Her death flashes through my mind as I move to slip her glasses off her nose–glasses that had been broken and bloodied and folded with care as they were tucked into her shroud with her body. I brush the hair on her forehead aside gently–she would cut the thigh-length locks a month from now, on a reconnaissance mission but not the mission, the one that snuffed out the light I lit. I press my lips to a forehead coated in dried, cold blood and set alight in another life, and give her just a bit more of my power than Will. She will not die next year. She cannot. Not again.

Lee is last. Lee who was too busy shooting in front of him to look behind, before archery could not save him from brute force. Lee, who is alive and breathing and safe with uncrushed bones and flesh and brain, with hair untainted by blood brushed aside as I bend to kiss his forehead, golden power seeping into him. He will not die either. He will not meet his end.

None of my children will meet their end.

And yet they already did, once before.

I step back from Lee as my throat closes up.

You had more power the first time, yet what did you do with it?

A board creaks under my feet as I back away. I don’t quite have the presence of mind to freeze. Anodyne shifts, mouth slipping closed.

How can you defend them when you have so little left?

You had it all the first time and still they died.

My vision of my children flickers. The mirage of Anodyne, alive and well, flickers to the mauled image of her corpse. The mirage of Lee, breathing and whole, to the crushed remains of blood and flesh and bone and a wooden bow.

My breath stutters as my foot passes through the door.

The moon shines through the open crack, through the windows, as sharp as my sun to cast upon Lee and Anodyne’s faces, illuminating them clearly for me to see. Whole. Safe. Alive.

Lee stirs.

I close the door with a sound louder than it should be and break into a run.

Away.

Away from the dead I will not accept.

Away from the alive I cannot see.

I run until I pass the hearth, and something crinkles under my boot.

I stop and glance at the hearth. It still glows, warm and homely, bereft of any tenders. I bend and pick up the–the card, not quite as glossy after some time spent out to rot in the grass.

“4,000 attack power, 5,000 if opponents attack first.” A voice reads to me a few months and a future away.

Hades.

I break into a run.

“Were there any other questers?”

How could I have forgotten—how could I have wasted so much time?

“No more.”

The woods swallow me. I trip over tree roots but catch myself before I can fall. I let memory carry me to the landmark not yet desecrated, that I would not mind seeing reduced to ruin again.

My fingers brush across the stone with the memory of another life, and a blue delta glows beneath them.

I’m coming, Nico.

Chapter Text

Labyrinth, sweet Labyrinth. Did you really need your mildew?

Alright, perhaps I was being a tad unfair. Apologies, my dearest maze, but you sorely needed a cleaning crew. The corridor I tumbled into was from one of the older ages, constructed from decaying marble ribbed with cracks and ankle-trapping pitfalls, and tarnished bronze sconces filled with torches that lit the moment I approached. I pulled one from the walls and lit the passageway in front of me, glancing about the dust-bunny floor for recognisable traces of Nico. Ragefully discarded Mythomagic cards, perhaps?

At least this time around, I should require no guide. Rachel Dare had—would—act as the guide for the Labyrinth quest led by Annabeth Chase, with her clear sight, and after the Labyrinth grew less hostile satyrs could use it to navigate to places of nature and do important networking with environmentalists. But, well, in slightly flawed theory, with my godly powers returned I should be able to see traps and guide myself. If I could track down Nico.

I glance down at the Hades card—a former prized possession of his—and focus. I can envision Nico as a child—still a child—holding the card aloft, proudly declaring power stats and attack combos, gleefully playing with whomever would listen. Nico’s Hades card had been a favoured counterattack in combination with Athena, capable of dealing 300 damage, 200 if one chose to use the special power and utilise another card because “wisdom is found in numbers.”

His aura glows faintly around it—but still extremely strong for an inanimate toy of plastic, showing the care and love and how much the owner treasured it. I focus on that small bit of emotion Nico had poured into the card, the curling dark-purple-grey-black of his aura, and commit it to memory. I look up.

There.

A few tiny handprints at the corridor bend, glowing against decomposing white. A boy who had stopped to catch his breath for a few moments, leaning against the wall, before continuing to run.

I have to catch up.

Around the bend is a split in the corridor, with one progressing to more Roman styles—quick pause for a shudder—while the other keeps with the current, more ancient part of the Labyrinth. Nico had gone with familiarity. A good thing, as another glance down the Roman corridor shows arrows with half-disintegrated fletchings embedded in the walls, so old I’m shocked at the quality of the make if they lived that long, and a single thrown rock against a tile.

No dust has settled on the rock. Smart boy.

The older corridor ends in a room with half of the spiralling marble columns fallen, and the other half covered in cracks. I eye the erosion dubiously and sidestep the eight-foot chasm that has opened right before the doorway in a single harried jump. The room was once painted, but the glorious art has decayed—only the memories of the painters, their blood and sweat and tears, remain. I spare a moment to appreciate what their efforts might have once been as I pass.

I freeze as I get to the other doorway.

Golden dust—still some lingering, not all gone or blown away—coats the frame and floor. I lift the torch to better illuminate the doorway. A handful of rust-brown drops have been scattered against the frame, the exact height for a ten-year-old with an injured hand.

Or something worse.

I swear under my breath and call up more of the dregs of power I have left. My eyes burn and I’m forced to blink before I can properly see the lingering traces of Nico’s aura, which should be stronger after his blood was spilled, however long ago.

I test the blood with a finger. Dried but not for long. A day, possibly, at most. Twenty hours? Twenty-four?

Left, right, right. Change in building style from Late Greece to Renaissance. Dead end—no wonder the trail doubled for a moment, Nico had doubled back. Right, left. Still no pint-sized Nico in sight, and the blood was thinning out. That was good…but the trail was running cold.

Or had I lost it?

I stopped, boots skittering against the floor. Nico’s aura still suffused the air, faintly. He had been through here, or he’d doubled back, or he’d run through extremely quickly. What for? His injury?

Pain explodes across my back.

I wheeze like a self-immolating monk as I’m sent flying into a wall, face-first. I eat centuries-old brick and crumple to the floor like monk ashes, and for a brief moment I wonder if I should feel pity for myself, before proceeding to mentally slap myself, then properly react.

I duck and roll under the weapon thrust at me, and a glance back shows an axe buried in the wall. I glance at my attacker and—of course it’s a Cyclops because why not. The Cyclops is thankfully dressed in more than a loincloth, in some wooden Viking armor plates complete with a wooden helmet of curved twin horns, and I take a moment to absorb the bizarre image before I scramble away from the next axe thrown.

Fast, but not fast enough to strike a determined, bitter son of Hades running on adrenaline for his life. Hopefully.

I grab the handle of the axe buried in the wall and hurl it back at the Cyclops at twice their own throwing speed. The axe hits dead-on in their eye and I reflexively wince as the Cyclops crumbles to dust.

I dust my hands off, spit out the cement dust still in my mouth and glance around the corridor again. Nico’s trail has faded, or rather I have to tap back into his residual lingering aura. Monsters typically pick up auras with their noses, but gods are infinitely more dignified because we rely on eyes and tell no one technically scent is something we too can use.

Sharp pain rattles through my brain the moment I try to access my clear sight, akin to a bowstring being pulled back at full draw before being smacked into my forehead. And yes, despite being a god of archery and perfect aim, I knew what that felt like even prior to my trials.

I scowl and kick a pebble, because it makes me feel better when the second try feels like a repeat bowstring snap. The pebble skitters no more than a metre, and I give it a betrayed stare before I try for the third and un/luckiest time.

Success, if you ignored the three bowstrings snapping in different directions on different sides of your head, at the same time, repeatedly.

Nico had proceeded on quickly and intelligently, yet…I picked up my pace, following the oddly twisting corridor that turns right without a fork. Why hadn’t the Cyclops given chase? They were slow, but not that slow, and a monster’s stamina outweighed that of a minimally-to-consistently exercised ten-year-old. What were the odds it had been a group with a single scout looking out for more food, left behind?

Be okay be okay—

Nico di Angelo cannot die.

For all I knew, my interference in changing time may have doomed him to meet an early end.

And that is unacceptable.

My feet pick up speed—through a disturbingly human (for the implications of my godly state) adrenaline or through my own power. Perhaps both. The trail of purple and black turns thicker, like ooze. The walls turn to brighter, more recent Venetian mosaics not quite as eroded.

I’m so, so—

BANG.

My head hits the wall first this time. I cough and splutter out more concrete dust as a shadow looms over me.

“NO!”

The shadow’s head falls off it’s neck.

I blink at the shadow for a moment before turning my face upwards, vision half gone.

Nico di Angelo stands in a circle of golden dust, hand extended, two skeleton warriors around him with their weapons raised as several Cyclops linger fearfully back. One more warrior stands over me, sword held aloft, left as a testament to which one severed the head of the Cyclops dissipating in front of me. For a moment, rather than this mirage of a child, I see the warrior who put fear in Kronos’ eyes.

Dried blood coats his extended hand. Freshly shed blood drips from his head, then nose and corner of the mouth. Nico sways, then drops to one knee.

He’s so small.

I have no bow. I have little power. My only true weapon is my rage.

I scream.

THEY WILL NOT HURT HIM.

Gold flickers along Nico’s ears, covering them. A protection formed from pure instinct. Each Cyclops’ face erupts in pain as they scream not soundlessly, but with voices far too weak to rise above mine. They fall to their knees first, clawing at their ears, still sobbing in agony as their heads disintegrate last.

Is the wrath of the sun so different from sound?

I cannot help but think of Ascelepius, and ashes, and nothing to bury.

I rise to my feet woozily, and almost immediately fall flat on my face and black out.

Fine, immediately.

Have I been keeping count of how often I’ve passed out recently? I likely should.

When I come to, Nico has moved from his circle of raw ten-year-old intimidation to crouch in front of me, poking at my face. It’s half-obscured, as one of my eyes appears to have been welded shut. By tilting my head, I get a glance at his nose, scrunched up in curiosity with the blood on it still fresh and dripping. His pupils are of a normal size, which gives me hope that the list of injuries does not include concussions.

Shame wells up in me. I should have been faster. I should have been better. I had chased smoke into the maze in hopes of saving Nico, yet he had been the one to save me—while injured, at that.

“How’d you do that? Who are you?” he asks suspiciously, prodding my cheek. “Are you from Camp Half-Blood? Why do you have those cracks on your skin? And why are your pants that colour, did you lose a bet?”

I swallow, not due to my dry throat, not due to the damage likely inflicted upon my larynx, but by the abrupt breathlessness striking me as the realization hits; this Nico might as well be a baby compared to his future self. The Nico of the future was a survivor of places gods themselves were crippled by–and not minor ones, but Olympians. Nico di Angelo is—was the strongest survivor I know—knew.

Knew.

He will not be alone.

I swallow again.

He will have others to lean on, people who will pull him back before he can fall into the pit.

My throat itches and burns.

He lived and survived so much but now I can make it so that he doesn’t have to.

I break out into a coughing fit.

If Nico says anything, it is lost on me. I hack phlegm up onto monster dust as he rubs circles on my back and I contemplate the sorry state I am reduced to. Blood drips through my vision—the colour of rust.

But I thought I could protect Nico, and look at him now.

“Are you okay now?” Nico asks, concerned and oh-so young that I want to cry. He’s just lost Bianca. How is he saying that to me?

I gulp in air greedily. I clear my throat, and though it feels like gargling roadkill… “Are you hurt?” I ask, voice akin to pavestones dragged against gravel. The Muses would faint if they heard me now. Likely I've burnt far too much power to even tell if Nico himself is close to fainting, as his older self had been prone to.

“...Head. And my hand. Also a really big headache.” Nico mumbles, and I nod. I fumble for the pocket of my parka and unzip it, extracting a flattened and crumpled packet of ambrosia. “Are you aware of what godly food is?”

“Ambrosia?” He asks, taking a piece. “Not too much but it’ll heal us, right?”

I nod and bite my own crushed square. It tastes like hot chocolate sliding down my throat, like a timeline where I hadn’t teleported away from the Jacksons, and I swallow the wasted possibilities as the taste turns to ash and my throat mends.

Nico chews on his piece, and no visible longing takes over his face as the cut on his forehead closes. “So, who are you? And why are you here?”

“…I’m here because the Labyrinth is the one place it’s almost impossible to navigate, much less to find anyone. Not even the king of the gods can see some places here from his throne in the sky.” I get to my feet, dusting off my pants. A glance around the room show the skeleton warriors gone, and a fresh crack where golden dust has not settled. “My name is Lester.”

“Who are you running from, then?”

“I’d prefer not to say. You?”

Nico’s face closes off into a scowl. He folds his arms together, even as his eyes scrunch at the corners as if he might cry. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Do you have a safe place to be?”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!”

The ground shakes at my feet—shakes with Nico’s power. I stumble and catch myself. Note: still be careful about volatile ten-year-old sons of Uncle Hades, even if they weren't quite as prone as to staring you down across the Monopoly board if you tried to apply prophecy to the dice.

Nico takes a step away from me—looking horrified. He's likely come to the conclusion I'm aware of his parentage. I have to calm him down.

“I–I’m sorry, I don’t know how to–”

“Harpocrates,” I blurt out. “My godly parent is Harpocrates. Ptolemaic god of silence and secrets. He gave me the ability to manipulate sound. We're the best at keeping our mouths shut.”