Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Slowly, Percy settles in.

He lives with Odysseus’s men, helps them with firewood and training whenever he can. He fights with Achilles when the prince isn’t busy with his own people, and he speaks to the men from other kingdoms, learns the most he can about the world around them. 

It’s almost like he’s back in Camp Halfblood again, when he was twelve and new: navigating the dynamics of each cabin, helping the Stoll brothers with chores, sparring with Luke and Annabeth.

He forms a maybe-friendship with Diomedes, who is a lot like Clarisse — violent, loud, but not mean-spirited. Percy sees the intelligence Diomedes hides behind brashness, a true apex predator, using underestimation to his full advantage. Clearly, Odysseus sees it too, because his banter with Diomedes is a constant in camp life — they go out of their ways to insult each other at every opportunity — Odysseus with thinly-veiled sarcasm, Diomedes with explicitly scathing remarks.

Menelaus is a peacemaker, despite his harsh face and warrior’s build; he is the one who breaks off Odysseus and Diomedes’s endless taunting, always subtly pulling one or the other aside to discuss “important strategic decisions”.

Eventually, Percy even grows fond of Agamemnon — frustratingly prideful and short-tempered at best, but it’s clear how much Agamemnon cares for his brother Menelaus.

Loyalty to family is something Percy can respect.

“Watch their shoulders, not just their blade!” Percy yells at Odysseus’s men. The Pack of Wolves, as they’re affectionately nicknamed. “And control your sword!”

They’re not bad, but it’s clear they don't have proper training. At least not the type of training Percy had.

“You sound like my mentor,” Achilles says.

Percy jumps: “Gods above, Achilles! Don’t creep up on me like that!”

Achilles smiles. “You should keep your guard up.”

Percy rolls his eyes. 

In the distance, he can see Patroclus with a basket of medicinal herbs. 

Percy waves.

“Where were you two?” Percy asks Achilles. “You missed breakfast.”

“You noticed?” Achilles’s smile widens. “Were you looking for me?”

“I’m sure half the camp noticed Aristos Achaion missing.”

Achilles laughs. “You’re funny.”

Percy returns his smile. 

“I was speaking with my mother, Thetis.” Achilles explains.

“Oh?”

“She says the weather is unnatural. The gods have stilled our winds.”

Percy noticed too. 

These days, the sea feels unnervingly still, its vast surface frozen under the pale sky. It’s weird — almost like the water forgot how to breathe.

Not even the strongest oarsmen can make the journey in this weather.

“Do the gods not want us to fight?” Percy asks.

“The gods always want us to fight,” Achilles shakes his head. “We must have offended someone, for them to prevent our journey.”

Percy sighs. 

Achilles gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I have to go, Perseus, but promise me we can spar later.”

“Will you be too tired?” Percy jests.

“Yes,” Achilles answers honestly. “But training with you always makes me feel better.”

Percy smiles, surprised. “Sure man, anytime.”

He watches Achilles return to Patroclus, and together they walk off to whatever they had planned.

Percy continues practicing with the other men.

“When the battle is done,” Another voice approaches. “I must enlist your services to drill my soldiers into proper form.”

“Hey Odysseus,” Percy greets, dropping his sword. “Did we call the war off?”

“Funny, I asked the exact same question.” Diomedes scowls, picking dirt off his nails. “I suggest not talking to the King of Ithaca today. He has been possessed by the Sphinx, spinning nonsensical riddles all morning.”

“We are just now making our way to address this issue in council,” Odysseus smiles at Percy, ignoring Diomedes. “Will you join us, Perseus?”

Percy wrinkles his nose. He’s not one for meetings. “I’d rather not.”

“If you wish—

“Perseus, please come.” Diomedes interrupts. “I cannot endure another hour of Odysseus licking King Agamemnon’s pride without company. Do not torture me by leaving me alone with them.”

“Yes, Perseus, please join us,” Odysseus changes his mind. “The King of Argos, it seems, possess no reverence for the art of rhetoric. I find myself lacking the patience required to render our tongue palatable to Diomedes’s uncomplicated intellect. Now, if I can ask you to enlighten him—”

“Your ass-kissing needs no translation.” Diomedes sneers. “But like I said, join us, Perseus.”

Percy looks between them, amused. 

“If you need more persuasion, Achilles will be among us as well,” Odysseus says wryly. So that’s where Achilles and Patroclus went. “I remember how you enjoy his banter with the Lord of Men.”

“Only if Odysseus tires of listening to his own voice.” Diomedes mocks. “With his vanity, one would think he is the one related to Helen, rather than his wife.”

“You would insult the fine princess we are here to rescue?” Odysseus gives Diomedes a warning look. 

“I only doubt Perseus will have the chance to appreciate Agamemnon and Achilles’ bickering — not while you revel in monologue.”

Odysseus extends a hand to Percy: “If you come, Perseus, I promise to save some time for friendly banter.”

“Friendly.” Diomedes rolls his eyes: “Gods spare us from our own pride.”

“Lead by example, my friend,” Odysseus replies dryly, “Are you, Great Diomedes, not the most prideful of us all?”

“Says Wise Odysseus, King of Rocks and Goats,” Diomedes jeers. “Tell me, will you recount the story of your scar again? Your most recent and greatest military achievement, accomplished at twelve with your dear old grandfather holding your hand.”

“I’ll come,” Percy decides, noticing how during the conversation, they’ve already shepherded him towards the tent. 

Clever, manipulative bastards. 

“But!” Percy adds hastily. “Only if you and Ody teach me archery.”

Odysseus blinks: “Ody…?”

“Yes, anything to make the meeting less frustrating,” Diomedes sighs. 

“Now wait a second…"

“Come on in Perseus,” Diomedes shoves past Odysseus, who scowls.

Percy grins.

It’s a good thing Percy never paid attention to history. 

He has no idea what happened in the Trojan War, so at least he won’t be getting any spoilers.

()

It starts with a whisper — a faint numbness in his fingertips, a dull ache in his bones — making him shiiver, but the movement feels distant. Then the chill spreads, creeping up his limbs, clawing its way through each muscle and sinew until even his blood feels sluggish, thick with frost.

He’s in Tartarus again. 

“Percy!” Annabeth collapses in sobs. “Percy, where are you?”

I’m here! Percy answers, struggling.

“How could you leave?” Annabeth doesn’t see him. Her face is pale, lips cracked and parted, bruises mottling her arms and legs. Her hair, matted with grime and blood, clings to her face in wild tangles.

Percy reaches to brush her hair away from her eyes, but his hand passes right  through her. 

“Percy did not leave,” Bob tells her. “Friend of Percy shouldn’t cry.”

“You don’t understand, Bob.” Annabeth says bitterly. “I love— loved him, and he just left! He left me here!”

I’ll come back, Percy promises, pleading. I never wanted to leave— Annabeth, I’ll come back!

The cold is no longer just around him —it’s inside him, filling his lungs, his chest, his thoughts, his very fibre.

“Percy would not leave his friends behind,” Bob says stubbornly. 

“What would you know about humans?” Annabeth spits. “We’re all selfish, we stop at nothing to stay alive. Luke… and now Percy… I should’ve known!”

“You know Percy.” Bob tells her. “Humans are weird, but Percy is not human. He is a demigod.”

Yes, listen to Bob the titan.

“Demigods are the same,” Annabeth rests her head in her arms, weeping. “Shut up! Just let me rest.”

Percy kneels down next to her. Annabeth…

“Okay, friend.” Bob retreats. “If that is what you wish.”

“I hope he dies…” Annabeth whispers. 

Percy reels in shock. 

“I’d rather he die than abandon me.”

Percy’s skin goes numb. He tries to touch Annabeth’s face, but his limbs are frozen, unresponsive — he can’t do anything. He’s stuck in his own body, trapped, his bones crushing him, and it was almost like holding the weight of the world again— 

His heartbeat grows slow and uneven, each pulse a struggle against the ice tearing through his veins. He can’t breathe. He’s useless here.

“Don’t cry, Sea Prince,” A melodic voice coos.

His dream shifts.

He’s on an island. In the distance, he sees a palace, luminous stones clouded in the olive green of ancient trees.

Percy’s eyes dart around, searching for the source of the voice. 

“You shouldn’t frown,” the voice lectures softly. “Relax, darling, let me ease your worries. You’re safe here. No nightmares will haunt you.”

Sunlight seeps into his skin in a warm embrace, washing away the taint of Tartarus.

“Thank you,” Percy whispers. “Who are you?”

“If you will give me some time… we will meet soon enough,” the voice promises.

Something in Percy’s head screams danger, but his body relaxes in the warmth… it’s been so long since he felt… whole. Happy. 

“Let me take away your suffering, sweet prince,” continues the voice of liquid gold, each word flowing into Percy like a slow, intoxicating drip. “You’ll be happy with me, I promise.”

You’re in danger. You need to run.

But I’m happy here, Percy protests.

“Would you like that, my love? To be happy?” 

The voice — soft, hypnotic, alluring — its the kind of voice that made you lean closer, just to catch the next syllable. Percy shouldn’t trust it.

But Percy has a habit of trusting people who shouldn’t be trusted.

“Yes,” he breathes, leaning into the warmth.

“Good,” the voice purrs. “We’ll meet again.”

Percy’s eyes open. 

For a fleeting moment, still wrapped in the drowsy haze of his sleep, he feels the whisper of warm fingers at his waist — soft, familiar, and already fading with his dream.

()

Percy’s arrow nearly misses Diomedes’s throat.

There’s a crowd gathered outside the training grounds, watching Odysseus, famed for his skill with the bow, attempt to teach Percy archery.

Percy would argue he’s improved.

His most recent shot evaded Diomedes, who is standing two feet behind Percy. 

“Is this revenge for stealing your grapes?” Diomedes glares at Percy. 

Percy gives him an apologetic shrug.

“That is not how bows work,” Achilles says, confused. “Right?”

Even Odysseus looks baffled.

“You’re a pathetic teacher,” Diomedes seethes at Odysseus, who, for once, has nothing to say.

“That is not how bows are supposed to work,” Menelaus answers Achilles, standing further to the side.

Even further away, Agamemnon instructs that no one let Percy near a bow.

“I did everything you told me to!” Percy protests.

He actually wants to learn archery properly. He’s always wanted to land a bull’s eye, and now he has ten years to practice — ten years, free of the Great Prophecy and free of pressure.

“Let me try again,” Percy argues.

“Yes, he’ll kill us before the Trojans can,” Diomedes snarks. “All hail Perseus, the true hero of our great war.”

“He’s bullying me,” Percy complains. “Ody, help! Achilles!”

“Bully back,” Achilles sighs. “King of Ithaca, would you mind if I tried…?”

“Not at all,” Odysseus agrees readily, handing Achilles the mantle of Percy Tutor. 

Achilles stands behind Percy, nimble fingers guiding Percy’s hand. “Don’t rush the shot like it’s your last arrow in the war.”

Percy can feel Achilles’s warmth flush against his neck.

“Breathe in, draw, exhale…” Achilles continues. “Now— release!”

Percy lets the string go.

Sunlight blinds his eyes for a second, making him lose sight of the arrow.

He scans his surroundings. 

No arrow on the ground.

No arrow on the target.

“Ouch.” Achilles deadpans, catching the arrow above his head.

Percy laughs awkwardly: “Oops.”

“I salute your effort, Pelides,” Odysseus pats Achilles on the back. “We are now brothers made through shared tragedy.”

“Is the tragedy Perseus’s mockery of a shot?” Diomedes smirks. “Please, that wasn’t a shot— it was a plea for the gods’ intervention.”

“I swear the arrow changed its course mid air,” Agamemnon frowns.

“Don’t discourage him,” Menelaus scolds Agamemnon. 

“Ignore them,” Menelaus gives Percy an awkward lip-stretch that Percy interprets as a smile. “Try again.”

Percy grins back. 

“You heard the man! Let’s try again!”

()

“Did you just change the course of the arrow?” Hermes gasps, choking on laughter.

Apollo is seething.

How dare he?

How dare he?

The audacity of Perseus to stand so close to another man, when he had just promised Apollo he would wait—

Traitor.

And the lovely sound of Perseus’s laughter—

Let us see how sweet your screams sound when I tune your voice to my lyre, Apollo thinks darkly.

What is the appeal of Achilles?

Can Achilles drive the sun chariot?

Can Achilles compose a hymn on a kithara? 

Can Achilles kiss away your nightmares?

Apollo just can’t fathom why Perseus would want someone so ordinary.

Hermes doubles over wheezing: “Father— warns us all about divine intervention— and an hour later— here you are — intervening— for an arrow!”

Apollo took Perseus to Delos, to his home, his sacred island — and of course, there is a selfish factor involved, of course it was satisfying to see Perseus lying on his beach, basking in his sunlight — but does Perseus not understand?

Apollo gave away his heart!

Uncle’s children are so frustrating!

()

The priest on camp believes it is the goddess Artemis that they’ve offended, but he doesn’t say why. He gives the usual prescription: an enormous sacrifice.

Percy helps with gathering the cattle. It’s fun.

At the next camp meeting, Agamemnon announces that he has invited his daughter to help preside over the rites — a priestess of Artemis, and the youngest woman ever to have been so anointed. 

“Perhaps she can soothe the raging goddess,” Odysseus explains.

Cool.

But wait! There’s more — this daughter is being brought from Mycenae not just for the ceremony, but for marriage to one of the kings.

Percy makes bets with the men on who the lucky man will be.

Then, Agamemnon summons Percy to his tent.

Uh oh.

Agamemnon’s face looks rumpled and swollen, the skin of a man who has not been sleeping. Beside him sits Odysseus, cool as ever.

Agamemnon clears his throat: “Prince Perseus. I have called you here with a proposition. Perhaps you have heard that—” He stops, clears his throat again.“I have a daughter, Iphigenia. I would wish for her to be your wife.”

Percy’s jaws drop.

“Huh- What?”

Odysseus picks up smoothly: “King Agamemnon offers you a great honour, Perseus.”

“I’m aware,” Percy bites. “But I’m not going to marry a girl I don’t know.”

Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “Only for the ceremony, Perseus. Weddings are always propitious, pleasing to the gods.”

Percy scowls.

Odysseus shoots Agamemnon a look.

Agamemnon coughs: “Yes. It would be the greatest honour… for both of our families. And for my daughter, to wed the son of the sea.”

“I would’ve suggested Achilles,” Odysseus offers. “Except he has already wed the Princess of Scyros.”

For the second time in a minute, Percy’s jaws drop in shock. “Achilles is married?”

“Only in name,” Odysseus assures him, and there’s a glint in his knowing look that Percy can’t begin to decipher. “In practice, he is a free man.”

Percy wrinkles his nose.

“Unfortunately, most marriages on the surface are this way,” Odysseus smiles. “Perhaps that is why Love and Marriage are two separate domains, ruled by two different goddesses. Now, my Penelope and I are an exception, of course—

“Yes.” Agamemnon interrupts quickly, aware of Odysseus’s tendency to wax poetic about his wife. “Well said, King of Ithaca.”

Percy coughs. 

“A union between my daughter and yourself would be most advantageous,” Agamemnon says. “It would also… appeal to your lord father, whose domain we seek to cross with reverence.”

So it’s a strategic decision.

It must be weighing on Agamemnon. Percy notices how the lines of his face seemed deeper— shadows pooling beneath his eyes, like bruises left by insomnia or nightmares.

Percy feels a stab of sympathy.

“If that’s the case, I’ll be honoured. I’ll treat your daughter right.” Percy promises.

“Good,” Agamemnon agrees. He does not meet Percy’s eyes.

“I’ll instruct the women to prepare for the wedding,” Odysseus smiles, standing up.

“Look,” Percy tells Agamemnon, when Odysseus leaves. “I know Ody must have put you up to this. I know it’s hard to marry your daughter to a stranger.”

Agamemnon looks comically shocked.

“But you can trust me. I will not harm her or mistreat her.” Percy swears. “I may not be able to love her, but I’ll give her everything she deserves — and she’ll still be your daughter, after the marriage ceremony.

Agamemnon hugs Percy before he goes.

“I’m sorry,” Agamemnon offers, and he looks regretful. Almost pitiful. “You’re better than all of us, Perseus. Ariste Andron.”

Best of men.

“What for?” Percy asks, frowning.

But Agamemnon doesn’t answer, just pats Percy on the shoulder, and then leaves.

Chapter Text

Iphigenia is young and lovely — not yet fourteen, caught between priestess poise and childlike eagerness. 

She arrives at Aulis on a cloudy day, but the smile on her face is suitable substitute for the sun. She throws her arms around her father’s neck, lacing her hands through his hair. She whispers something to him and laughs.

Agamemnon hugs his daughter tightly.

It’s clear how much he loves her: Agamemnon’s full attention is on her during every meal; his eyes follow her as she blesses the men before their hunts; he stands next to her as she mixes honey-wine for the wedding. He ruffles her hair and she shrieks, accusing him of messing up her braid. 

“The curse of Tantalus strikes again,” A soldier mocks, leering at Iphigenia. “Gynandros.” Woman-man.

Percy turns upon him: “What? Does the sight of a girl more capable than you threaten your delicate masculinity?”

The man winces, cheeks reddening. “No, my lord, I— my apologies. I am only concerned on your behalf.”

“Oh?” Percy tilts his head.

Emboldened, the man continues: “Your betrothed is acting in such a shameless manner, sir! She so brazenly flouts the divine order by adopting the bearing and pursuits of men – sir, I’ve seen this before— she will disgrace your house if she continues this behaviour. My king Agamemnon adores his children too much to put a stop it. I only intend to—

“And how,” Percy interrupts. “Is this relevant to you?”

“I— huh? My lord, I’m sorry?”

“Tell me,” Percy demands. “Is it because her arrow flies truer than yours? Are you afraid she’d replace you, if women were allowed on the field?”

The soldier shrinks back.

“Keep your tongue to yourself, man, it’s not hard. Don’t put other people down just because you’re pathetic.”

And on that bright note, Percy storms away to let off steam elsewhere. 

He’s sitting alone on the shores when Iphigenia approaches. 

“Lord Perseus,” Iphigenia curtsies. It’s clear she’s not used to these gestures, because she fumbles awkwardly when she stands. It makes sense — Agamemnon would never ask his daughter to bow to anyone, so Iphigenia never had to practice.

“I heard about what happened this morning,” She smiles brightly. “Thank you for defending my honour.” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Percy’s eyes soften. “I’m always up to putting a few assholes in their place.”

Iphigenia giggles. 

“Are you here on your own volition?” Percy asks quietly, when she doesn’t seem to leave. “Odysseus’s told me many marriages here are nonconsensual. I don’t want— I’m not going to force you into marrying me against your will.”

Iphigenia’s eyes widen. “Wow, you’re nicer than what I’ve heard.”

Percy arches an eyebrow.

Iphigenia grins: “Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things. Anyways— yeah, I want to be here. I chose to be here.”

She squats next to him so they are at eye level. “Father said this will be important for the war, and immediately I agreed! I mean— I never wanted him to fight, but if he’s fighting, I’m gonna do my best to help him win. Even if it means marrying an old man—” she scrunches her nose “— but I’m not that worried. Father always protects me. He promised Mother this is only a marriage in name anyways.”

“He won’t have to protect you from me,” Percy assures her.

She rolls her eyes good-humouredly: “Clearly! You’re a softie!”

The waves crash on the shore.

She chews on her lips. “Yeah, I mean— I was reluctant about this marriage at first, because I don’t know if My Lady would accept me if I have a fake husband— and I’ve always wanted to join her Hunt.” 

Percy flushes. 

“I won’t— we won’t— I— you’ll still be a virgin.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Iphigenia rolls her eyes, but it’s clear how her form relaxes. “I’m prepared for anything, you know. My father…” she hesitates.

Percy gives her an encouraging smile.

“My family, the House of Atreus— we’ve been punished with a bloodline curse. My ancestor Tantalus was sent to the Fields of Punishment, and his descendants — us — are cursed with lives of violence and madness.”

Percy shudders, recalling the time Tantalus spent at Camp Halfblood. 

“Your ancestor sounds like a douche.”

Iphigenia chuckles. “Yeah, he was. My father is nothing like him.”

Her eyes set on the horizon. “When I was born, he ordered his men to all round off all sharp edges on the tables and chairs in our palace. I know— there’s a chance I might not see him again, after this war. So to get this chance to be with him once more…”

Percy doesn’t know what to say. 

They sit in silence.

“Gods, look at your face,” Iphigenia rolls her eyes, punching his shoulder. “You’re so weak.”

“Hey!” Percy protests, but he’s also smiling.

“Come, show me around! I’ve never been on a beach before!”

Percy grins and follows her.

()

This is how he remembers Iphigenia. 

A girl who is always in motion, her laughter tumbling ahead of her like a runaway melody— a special girl, a lively girl, who talked fast and walked faster, punctuating each frame of movement with fluttering hands and restless feet.

Percy wonders if Estelle will grow up like her. 

“Stay away from my daughter,” Agamemnon threatens, dragging Percy aside. “Listen to me. It’ll save you pain.”

But Agamemnon is softer these days, and his words feel less like a threat and more like a farewell. 

()

He’s in the pit again, except this time, he’s with a young man instead of Annabeth. 

Percy is choking, poisonous gas thick in his throat and lungs burning every inch of his body, stinging his eyes — he’s sure his eyes are closed, if not shrouded with tears, but he can still see the horrifying scene in front of him.

The young man’s face, at first pale with terror, darkened like a brewing sea storm. The fingers that had clawed uselessly for his weapon now moved with the languid certainty of a god’s hand guiding fate — twisting, pressing, a captain commanding his last fleet. The goddess in front of him shrieked in pain. His pupils dilated, blue-green pools drinking in the sound as if it were ambrosia. 

Misery gagged and fell to her knees, her own tears flowing into her lungs, and suddenly she was drowning in a land without seas. Somewhere, an owl screeches in fear, and in response his lips parted — not in horror, but in the rapt stillness of a man who has just heard the Fates snip a string. He clenches his fist and the goddess stops breathing.

“Stop!” Percy cries, hands trembling, reaching for the man. “Stop it! Some things aren’t meant to be controlled!”

The man turns, staring at Percy with his own eyes. 

“Don’t parrot Annabeth at me,” Dream Percy sighs.

“You know she’s right.” Percy pleads. “She’s always led us to safety.”

“But will she lead us to happiness?” Dream Percy tilts his head, owl-like. “Will we be happy, always holding back our true nature, always treading on eggshells, always trapping the tides in a shape that pleases them.”

“This isn’t our true nature!”

Dream Percy reaches out, strangling Percy’s throat. 

“They deny you power. Shh, don’t argue with me.” Dream Percy smiles. “Power can be used to protect, to destroy, to do many things, I know— and Annabeth knows too. But she doesn’t trust you. They don’t trust you.”

“She trusted me to fight Tartarus with her,” Percy hisses, each breath becoming more laboured.

“No, you jumped in.” Dream Percy corrects. “You sacrificed your life for them… Olympus to preserve or raze, remember? You made a choice, Percy, and you gave your life for a second war, a second great prophecy— but they still don’t trust you. Remember what you saw? She believes you abandoned her. Never did she even question that you might've been taken against your will.”

Dream Percy laughs, a horrible, dry sound: "Admit it. They don’t believe you will use your power to protect."

Percy struggles against his iron grip: “Shut up! I won’t let you manipulate me!”

“I’m only speaking your thoughts.” Dream Percy sighs, exasperated. “Dude, look at me. I’m you.”

Percy only sees red. 

“It's okay if they fear you, but why are you scared of your own power?” Dream Percy asks. “We can use it to protect people. If we didn’t control Misery, Annabeth would’ve died. We protected her! She's being dumb, but we'll be smart for her.”

Percy snarls.

“I’m going to kill you now,” Dream Percy tells him. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it home on our behalf. I’ll protect Annabeth and Mom— hey, don’t give me that look! What’s the difference? We’re the same person.”

“Don’t— you dare—

Dream Percy rolls his eyes. He spits in Percy’s face.

Oh, good, water. 

Percy reaches deep inside him and feels a familiar tug — he reaches, and the saliva flies into Other Percy’s eyes — and he reaches deeper, more, more — he feels the saliva beneath his tongue, down his throat, into his veins, mixing with blood and travelling down down down into every cell of the body— 

He imagines Dream Percy choking, just like the goddess did, and the blood obliges.

“I am nothing like you.” Percy spits. 

Dream Percy bursts into laughter and dust.

Chapter Text

The air is thick with the scent of roasting meat, myrrh, and crushed roses. Torches blaze in sconces of polished bronze, their light glinting off the gold cups and the intricate embroidery of the men’s robes. They’re making the best of what they can, on this port away from their respective homes.

Percy has to give credit to Odysseus; he’s thrown a feast worthy of the princess of the House of Atreus — a feast worthy of blessing from the gods. Yet the stillness of the sea adds weight to the perfumed air, a constant, whispering reminder that all of the splendour is a sacrifice - a farce of a wedding, a show for entertainment.

Maybe that’s what the gods wanted all along: joy, sorrow, blood and tears and glory — all in the name of their will. 

After all, the greatest war of their century is, at the end of the day, a petty disagreement about an apple.

Percy tries not to think too bitterly. 

The gods never change.

Iphigenia is gorgeous — a vision in saffron and ivory, her veil held in place by a diadem of Mycenaean gold. The weight of it seems to bow her slender neck, and the intricate filigree, upon closer look, does not depict flowers or vines, but a repeating pattern of tiny, stylised blades. She holds a bouquet of vibrant poppies and deep purple hyacinths.

Percy smiles, recalling their conversation about the Hunt. Maybe she joins them after the war ends. Maybe the Lady Artemis whisks her away tonight, a favour in return for the wonderful feast they’ve thrown in her honour. Hey— maybe Percy’s already met Iphigenia, in the past when Artemis took her hunters on the Apollo Sun Bus— or is it the future? Time is weird.

Percy pictures Iphigenia fighting alongside Thalia, and the image is so real, he’s sure it must’ve happened. Thalia would love Iphigenia.

The feast is a bounty. Whole boars glistening with honey glaze, baskets overflowing with figs and pomegranates split open like wounds. The wine, sweetened with honey, poured from great krateres, is a deep, almost black red, and when a servant slips on the slick floor, the liquid that sloshes from his amphora looks like blood soaking into the stone.

And always, there is the water.

The sound of the Aegean Sea is a constant, sighing chorus to the wedding hymns — not a gentle lullaby, but a restless churning — Percy almost thinks the waves are calling to him, calling for a release from the unnatural curse stilling their movement, yearning for Percy to break them free.

“You look restless,” Achilles notes, concerned. “Are you nervous? Ill? Should I ask Patroclus to check on your health?”

“Nah. Just a weird feeling,” Percy smiles, touched.

“First time getting married?” Diomedes smirks. “Don’t worry, it’ll be easier by the third wife.”

Percy snorts.

“It is only a marriage in name,” Achilles frowns. 

“Oh, but it doesn’t have to be,” Diomedes waggles his eyebrows.

“Dude!” Percy chokes. “She’s a kid!”

Achilles scowls at Diomedes. “Perseus will not consummate his marriage with the princess.”

“You are such a prude, Pelides,” Diomedes declares, eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s alright Perseus. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom.”

Achilles’s scowl darkens. 

“Now, Diomedes,” Odysseus drawls, joining the conversation. “Surely you don’t challenge the sanctity of marriage on such a blessed day?”

“Perfect, a triumvirate,” Diomedes rolls his eyes. “You've assembled a sufficient cohort to form a club of virgins and prudes.”

Percy sputters.

“Not everyone shares your unbecoming approach to commitment,” Odysseus smiles. “I would not presume to judge others by that standard. Prince Perseus, the ceremony is about to begin. I’ll have Polites show you the way.”

“Lie back and think of Sparta,” Diomedes jests.

()

Odysseus and Diomedes move forward, all smiles and bows, offering their greetings.

Iphigenia’s responses are gracious, but impatient.

Her eyes search for Percy.

When she finds him, she smiles.

Percy steps forward to meet her, standing now just at the platform’s edge.   

He could have touched her then, reach towards her tapered fingers, fine as sea-smoothed shells.

Iphigenia stumbles.

Percy reaches out, to help her out—

But she isn’t falling.

She’s being dragged backwards, to the altar behind her. Percy didn’t notice when Diomedes started to move, but his hand is on her now, huge against her slender collarbone, bearing her down to the stone surface.

Percy’s blood turns cold.

Iphigenia looks too shocked to struggle, to know even what was happening.

Agamemnon yanks something from his belt.

It flashes in the sun as he swings it.

()

Unlike what the stories would claim, it didn’t happen in slow motion.

Percy is fast, but not fast enough. 

His hand is outstretched, his eyes widen in shock, he hears the mourning calls of seagulls and the echo of a young girl’s laughter—

He feels a familiar tug in his gut and he reaches— he can hear the blood pumping in his ears— he closes his hand and—

Agamemnon doubles over, the dagger falling out of his hand.

The men begin to react, crying out in waves of shock, realising what their leader had planned to do — to his own daughter. Percy hears their anger, their horror, their violence.

The noise is drowned out by the unstable heartbeat drumming against his ears, quick and stumbling, then a violent jolt— a missed step on a staircase in the dark— then a frantic, stumbling cascade.

Years later, Percy will realise it was not his own heartbeat he heard: it was Agamemnon’s.  

()

Odysseus looks more tired than Percy’s ever seen him. 

“The men are rioting, questioning Agamemnon’s leadership. The mess you cause without even intending to…” Odysseus shakes his head.

“The mess I cause?” Percy demands, but his voice is strained, still recovering from the shock of what had transpired. “You were going to kill a girl, Odysseus. A child.”

It does not have the intended effect.

“Yes,” Odysseus says simply. “One life, in exchange for thousands.”

“You can’t measure human lives like they’re cattle! It’s not a trade!”

Percy slams his hands on the table, the sturdy wood cracking under the force.

“You’re right.” Odysseus concedes. “It’s not a trade, Perseus. It was a sacrifice. And yes— there is a difference. The goddess demanded it. Without it, we all would have withered here. The war would be lost before it began.”

“The war,” Percy spits the word out. “Is ridiculous. What is a war for one man’s pride? For his stolen wife? You would’ve let them kill a child for that?”

“It is not for one man,” Odysseus says, his voice low and pragmatic. “This war is destiny, Perseus, written in the fates long before Menelaus and Helen. Written in Achilles’s birth. Written in Agamemnon’s curse. Written in your arrival.”

Odysseus gestures at their surroundings. “This? It is for all of Greece. For the thousands of men on these ships, and the thousands more we’ve left behind. What is one life against all of them? To save thousands, sometimes one must be lost. It is a terrible math, but it is the only math that matters in the end.”

“She’s not a number!” Percy’s voice shakes. “She’s a girl. She trusted her father. She came for a wedding. And you… you all lied to her. You used her hope as a weapon against her.”

“The will of the gods is a difficult thing,” Odysseus replies, weary but firm, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It is not for us to like it, only to obey it.”

“There is always another way!” Percy insists, desperation clawing at his throat. “There must be. How can you build a victory on a foundation of a child’s murder? What kind of victory is that?”

“A necessary one,” Odysseus meets Percy’s eyes. “Her death would’ve been our survival. Ten thousand lives, saved by one. And your actions today? To deny a goddess the sacrifice she was promised…”

Suddenly, Percy becomes all the more aware of the heaviness in the windless air. The heat doesn’t move; it simply sits, thick and wet, coating his skin in a film of salt and inertia; the world is holding its breath, and the gods are keeping them in prison. 

Odysseus looks back at the camp, at the angry men whispering furiously in groups, at Agamemnon’s tent, guarded personally by Menelaus and Diomedes. 

“You’ve doomed us all, Perseus.” He sighs. “Even I don’t know how to salvage this.”

()

Iphigenia lifts her cup to her lips, her hand trembling. A single tear escapes, tracing a path down her cheek before she quickly brushes it away. 

On this cursed night, this is the only drop of water that is pure — untainted with wine or salt-spray or blood. A brief, honest token of grief, soon to be lost in the impending tide.

Iphigenia doesn’t speak.

She’s staring at the intricate, perfectly-balanced dagger Agamemnon gifted her — one in a set of two, delicately crafted and tailor-made for Iphigenia’s nimble hands. The sister blade had appeared but an hour earlier, poised to part the flesh of her throat.

Percy sits by her side, silent.

They are on the same beach that witnessed their first meeting.

Still, there is no wind.

There is only the wait, heavy and silent, for something, anything, to break the spell.

()

The days that follow are heavy with a more insidious stagnation than before. The wind, the very thing they had sought to buy, remained obstinately absent. The sea was a flat, mocking mirror under a blazing sun. But now, the stillness was not just meteorological; it was moral, and it festered in the camp.

Everywhere Percy goes, he hears murmurs rippling, waves of confusion and outrage. Men from all armies, Achaeans from all lands, men who had seen and dealt brutal death — they speak of Agamemnon’s madness; of Iphigenia’s terrified, shuddering breaths; of the stifling lack of wind.

These are men with wives and daughters. They fight for glory, yes, but in the long nights on this foreign land, they remind themselves they are fighting for their wives and children. They dream of wealth, yes, but they dream also of reunion. Of laughter. Of home.

Some condemn Agamemnon for his cruelty. Others hate Agamemnon for his weakness. This is a man who raised a blade against his own daughter, only to coward and chicken out, fail and stumble.

This is their High King, their commander, attempting to spill the blood of his own child on sacred stone. This is the act of a barbarian king, not a Greek one.

“Madness,” a soldier mutters.

“He would make a monster of us all,” says another, louder.

“Monster! Tyrant!”

Percy hears dissent in the ranks of the men he trained with and he doesn’t know what to feel.

Percy doesn’t see Agamemnon, who locked himself in his tent. When he did emerge, the men did not meet his eyes, and Percy did not seek him out. 

He doesn’t know what to think. Agamemnon, so defensive of his brother, so protective of his daughter… Percy had respected him for his loyalty to family, but now that image is broken, shattered by Agamemnon himself.

Percy’s heart clenches, and he thinks its a mixture of pity, contempt and fear. Pity, for the grieving father. Contempt, for the man that was almost a monster. And fear— for Percy himself— for calling upon a power he swore to never touch again.

Odysseus moves through the camp like a man trying to plug a dozen leaks in a sinking ship. His damage control was a masterclass in pragmatic rhetoric, spinning a tapestry of lies embedded in truth, stitching back the torn patches.  

“You speak of madness?” he would say, cornering a group of discontented men. “Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was the greatest test a king has ever faced, and in the final moment, his humanity won. He chose his child. Is that not the strength we want? A strength that can defy even a goddess’s command?”

To others, he argued necessity. “King Agamemnon was prepared to pay the price for all of us! The courage to raise the knife was his alone. The mercy to drop it was a gift from the gods. Do not curse the man who was willing to bear the burden of your survival.”

But his words were like seeds on stone. The men listened, but their eyes strayed to the limp sails, and they saw not a merciful king, but a weak one. They saw a leader who could neither carry out a grim duty nor secure their passage. 

Diomedes argued for immediate departure, wind or no wind, to escape this cursed shore. Ajax, his brow furrowed in confusion, simply stated that a king’s order should be obeyed, whether it was to sacrifice or not to sacrifice, and this indecision was the real problem.

Achilles is the only one who suspects. Achilles looks at Percy with concern, but also doubt. There’s a question his eyes, one he does not ask, one so absurd, so implausible, there is no reasonable way to articulate. 

How could Percy stop Agamemnon from so far away? 

But there’s no hiding from the intuition of the greatest warrior of their generation — Achilles suspects, and Percy does not answer.

Percy is nearly a month into Ancient Greece.

They do not set sail for Troy.

Chapter Text

Twins should always be complementary. 

The moment Artemis was born, she embraced the title of “sister”. It was a conscious decision. It was a subconscious decision. There are many versions of this story: Hera, particularly, likes to frame Artemis as domain-hungry and dangerous, stealing childbirth and youth from the Queen for herself. 

Artemis doesn’t remember the details. She only knows that it was instinctual for her to help. It all came naturally, coaxing her mother through childbirth, delivering her baby brother.

When it came to splitting their domains, it felt natural to let Apollo have the sun. Mortal twins fought over crowns and thrones, but Artemis never understood the reasoning. She would never fight Apollo for a domain, would never even want to.

Delivering her baby brother came naturally. Loving him came just as natural.

In the early days of their godhood, they were hungry without a mother’s breastmilk. They were young, and they needed sustenance. Artemis carved the bow. Apollo made the arrows. Hunting was a fundamental pull in their blood, an instinct ancient and undeniable, and Artemis chose to follow her heart. 

She follows her heart again, when she reaches out to claim the poor maiden Apollo demanded as sacrifice, the beautiful feast thrown in her honour coming to an end.

Of course, she would never take Iphigenia if Apollo truly wanted the girl dead. Apollo’s annoying enough as it is — worse these days, since he’s apparently “fallen in love” again — and getting in the way of his petty revenge plan against Agamemnon would only make him more sulky. A sulky Apollo is a pathetic Apollo, and a pathetic Apollo is a pain in Olympus’s arse.

But it’s fine. Apollo only wants to see Agamemnon suffer, and he’ll get his wish, when Agamemnon inevitably rots with the guilt of killing his precious daughter. How the man bragged about Iphigenia — her sweet disposition, her talent with the bow, her gorgeous voice — it would destroy him, living with the knowledge that he took away all of that.

His pain will make Apollo smile, and Artemis will take Iphigenia for her own. Both she and Apollo will be satisfied — yes, a glorious day indeed.

But things do not go as planned.

()

“The boy is interesting,” She murmurs to Apollo.

Apollo is seething.

()

Loving Apollo is a lot like hunting: it is the simplest and most difficult thing Artemis has ever done.

The instinct is simple, but the execution is a test. It demands that Artemis stalk through the thickets of Apollo’s pride, aim true through the distractions of her own anger, have the patience and endurance to follow Apollo for miles when he tries to flee.

The naturalness of it lies in the compulsion to begin, not in the ease of the capture.

“I don’t understand,” Apollo says through gritted teeth. “He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t love her. He did not even want to marry her! Why in Olympus’s name would he save her?”

Hermes is with them, as he often is, when Apollo goes through his fits of passion.

Artemis glares Hermes into silence. Their little half brother finds it funny, because he is not the one who will piece together Apollo’s broken heart: that is Artemis’s burden alone.

“Sister!” Apollo demands. “You were planning to take the girl! Tell me— what do you see in her that’s worth keeping?”

Artemis frowns. Wanting to take the girl… it is more of an instinct than a choice.

Like hunting. Like guiding childbirth. Like loving Apollo.

“I followed my heart,” Artemis offers. “Perhaps that is what Perseus did too.”

Apollo makes an inhuman, strangled hiss. 

“You’re saying he loves her!”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“You said his heart is with her!”

Artemis sighs. “That is not—

“First Achilles— then Iphigenia— why? I don’t understand!” Apollo pulls at his hair in frustration, ignoring her. “His heart is promised to me!”

“Is it?” Artemis arches an eyebrow, doubtful. “You have not revealed yourself to him.”

“It’s written in the fates!” Apollo insists, as always. “He has to know! He slept in my arms!”

“He was asleep when that happened,” Hermes snickers.

“But I stayed with him during him waking hours!”

“Yeah, following him with intense sun rays doesn’t really clarify your intentions,” Hermes rolls his eyes. “You’re out of practice, brother.”

“Shut up! He never shied away from my light!”

“… Apollo, you…” Artemis doesn’t even know where to begin. 

She feels a migraine.

“He’s walking with my blessing— do you not see!” Apollo gestures angrily at the panicking mortals beneath them. “He was born with my claim on his skin! I never gave him my blessing, but he is drenched in my protection. It must’ve been the Fates! He’s a demigod— surely he feels it!”

“You did not give him your blessing?” Artemis frowns, confused. “We must consult Father. The Moirai should not have access to your powers.”

“Maybe Perseus does feel it,” Hermes grins. “And he’s just choosing to ignore you. Following his heart and all that.”

Artemis sighs. 

She hears an arrow whiz past her ear, turning in time to see Apollo nock a new arrow. 

“Woah— oh shit— hey— fuck! Don’t shoot the messenger!”

Her migraine grows.

Vaguely, she wonders if Hermes suffers the brunt of Apollo’s rage, the Greeks will no longer have to. Perhaps she can keep her priestess.

She watches Perseus enter Iphigenia’s tent. 

She follows him inside, invisible.

The three of them sit in uncomfortable silence. The air is stifling.

She does not lift the wind. 

()

Loving Apollo is easy. Liking him, on the other hand, is daily practice. 

Apollo is sulking loudly. Hermes is sulking quietly, only because Apollo cut off his tongue. 

It’ll take some time before Hermes gets it reattached — if he does it now, Apollo will just cut off his tongue again.

Of course, sulking doesn’t prevent them from being nuisances. 

Apollo is purposefully driving the Sun Chariot too close to the surface. He makes the windless days torture for the men on Aulis, turning their skins dry and red, dissolving their rational thought, sharpening their senses to nauseating intensity. 

He’s angry — of course he’s angry, even more angry than before.

“Agamemnon is suffering already,” Artemis points out. “He is estranged from his daughter. You of all people must know, rejection hurts more than death.”

It’s a low blow, but—

“He is not suffering enough.”

Apollo’s rage burns.

“Agamemnon has denied you your sacrifice, Sister, he must be punished.” Apollo is pacing, restless, trigger-happy fingers thrumming on his bow. “And the insolent girl, the one who claims to sing better than my bard, the priestess who would not bleed for her goddess— yes, she must be punished. They need to learn their lessons.”

Apollo conveniently forgets that it is Perseus who disrupted the sacrifice. 

Hermes is worse. He’s forgot all about the cause of the panic, running in and out of camp, spreading discourse and confusion, disorienting the fleets. The Greeks are arguing and Hermes fans the flames, revelling in the chaos.

It upsets Perseus, seeing the men in duress. Perseus’s distress over the men's state upsets Apollo, who — fresh out of tongues to pluck from Hermes — punishes the mortals for troubling his precious pearl. And so the cycle continues. Athena’s champion makes a valiant effort to reunite the camp, but men can do little in the face of divine intervention.

Artemis resigns herself to losing her priestess. A shame, but honestly, what is one mortal worth? She’s more weary than upset.

She gave her brother the Sun — she can spare a mortal or a thousand. 

“You must not be angry at my Perseus,” Apollo had said on the first night, when Perseus stopped Agamemnon, denying Artemis her promised maiden.

“He is kind in how he treats the girl.” Apollo pleaded. “He’s young— he doesn’t understand our ways. Do not punish him for his inexperience, Sister. Please.”

For a moment, Artemis was almost impressed; but of course, it didn’t take long for Apollo’s jealousy to rear its old head, and suddenly it was Artemis who was at fault for her home-wrecking priestess. 

She barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

()

Many times, Artemis almost lifts the curse.

But she sees the still air thicken with the stench of unwashed men, their own mounting despair, and her lip curls in cold disdain. Perseus had stayed the blade, a flicker of honour she had noted with distant approval, but what followed was an even greater insult: the men’s sullen resignation. They cursed the heat, the gods, their fate, but made not a single, collective effort to seek her favour anew with proper tribute or purified prayer. 

Their inaction was a louder blasphemy than the abandoned sacrifice; it was a refusal to acknowledge the power of the goddess who held them in her grip, a silent, arrogant conviction that she, a female divinity, was beneath their sustained entreaty. It was precisely this arrogant oblivion that had trapped them here, and they were too blind to even see it.

Artemis despises men for this very reason.

Her distaste stems not from their essence, but from their boasts, their intrusions. The world of men is one of conquest and possession, and Artemis hates the arrogant sense of ownership and superiority they so often hold over women and wild things alike.

Her brother is an exception, of course. Apollo does not discriminate against women — his cruel streak applies to men and women alike. He does not think himself superior to women — he thinks himself superior to everyone. 

So no, she is not a hypocrite when she loves her brother and hates men. Apollo is an exception.

Perseus is about to become the second exception.

She saw Perseus kneel in the dust of the training grounds, not to pray, but to gently coax a nervous hound that had strayed too near the clamour of men. He did not shout or shoo the creature away — he offered the back of his hand, speaking in low, reassuring tones until the dog’s tail gave a tentative thump against the earth. He then shared a scrap of dried meat from his own meal, a small sacrifice unnoticed by all but the goddess of the wild.

Her gaze followed him to the well, where a young, captive woman struggled with a heavy amphora. A dozen other heroes-in-waiting turned away, their eyes blind to such common labours, but Perseus stepped forward. He did not grandly seize the jar, making a spectacle of his strength. Instead, he asked permission with a slight bow of his head, his voice too low for others to hear. He bore the weight for her, his strength rendered a quiet service, and when she thanked him, his smile was a brief, warm thing before he looked away, as if embarrassed by any acknowledgment.

When Iphigenia was promised to him, he did not take her love and body as a token of glory. When Iphigenia cried, he did not take advantage of her vulnerability. He acted like a friend. Like a brother. He acted as if it came naturally to him. 

“A man,” Artemis had spat with disdain, when she first learnt of Apollo’s new obsession.

“A male,” Apollo had corrected, using the word for wild things rather than human beings. “He is not very human, from what I’ve seen.”

For once, Apollo’s judgment is correct. 

Perseus is kind, almost unnervingly so, and the sharp edge of her ancient prejudice begins to soften.

Yes, she reluctantly agrees. Perseus is too kind to be human.

Artemis could help them. She could lift the wind. 

In the end, she doesn’t. 

They must bleed for her before she lets them go.

Apollo understands; surely, Perseus will also understand.

()

“We will set sail,” she hears Perseus say. “Tomorrow. I will take us to Troy."

Artemis closes her eyes. 

Perseus is too kind. 

Chapter Text

They readied the the fleet. A thousand painted eyes, staring from a thousand prows upon a glassy, breathless sea. The men were packed shoulder to shoulder on the decks, a forest of drenched linen and dull bronze, their confusion stewing in the humid air. The scent of sacrifice still lingers — dust, fear, honey-wine twinged with panic on cold altar stone — it clung to everything.

He stood alone before the prows of a thousand ships, a single man opposing the will of the gods. A whisper slithered through the ranks: "The sea-god's son seeks to push what the Lady of the Wild holds still?" 

He opened his arms, as if to embrace the sheer impossibility of the task.

A hush fell, deeper than the mere absence of sound. It was a vacuum, a held breath drawn from ten thousand lungs. The world waited. 

Seconds passed. No gull cried. No wave lapped. 

More seconds. Still, there was only the silence, the oppressive sky, and the terrible absence of wind.

The men looked to their kings. Odysseus holds up a hand — a warning and a placation. 

They wait.

()

The night before was nothing special. It was dark, like any other.

“I saw myself turn into a monster.” Percy’s voice was rough from the nightmare’s echo.

Achilles blinked, his gaze pulling from the starlit horizon: “What type? A cyclops? Or a siren?”

It was his complete obliviousness that began to dissolve the cold knot in Percy’s chest.

“No, not an actual monster,” Percy managed a thin smile. “But a man-made one. A murderer. A weapon. A killer who slaughters indiscriminately.”

“I was made for this, Perseus,” Achilles said slowly. “And you are too.”

He turned his eyes on Percy. If not for the golden waves framing his face… Percy saw an eerie similarity to the golden, disintegrating version of himself from the dream.

“Do you think I am a monster?” Achilles asked, confused and almost… hurt.

“I don’t,” Percy answered honestly.

“Patroclus told me a story, once,” Achilles began, after a few minutes of silence. “About his first time killing a man.”

“Patroclus has killed people?” Percy asked, surprised.

“On accident,” Achilles said sharply, defensive. “He is not at fault.”

Percy shrugged.

Achilles relaxed again. “Patroclus said the boy he killed came for him in his sleep. Night after night, with bloodied eyes and a splintered skull. Sometimes, the boy would show him the hole in his head, where the soft mass of his brain hung loose. Sometimes, the boy grabbed at him.”

“That sounds horrible,” Percy said. He was all too familiar with the ghosts that haunt dreams.

A few beats passed.

“Do you dream of the people you kill?” Achilles asked. “Because I do not. I do not mourn them. I do not… I barely remember them.”

Percy stared into the ocean.  He recalled the arai, the curses from enemies he forgot he made. Did he feel guilty for the enemies he’s slain? 

Even when their curses split through his soul, Percy didn’t feel guilt… only anger. And dread. Anger at the monsters that haunted him, at the gods that took away his normal life. Dread, because he knew there were many, many more curses to come.

“I used to think Patroclus is just soft,” Achilles continued. “But I’ve heard my men weep after raids. They rinse their hands until their skins turn pink, scrubbing away bloodstains that no are no longer visible. Some of them have not even killed.”

“So I ask you again, Perseus,” Achilles said softly. “Do you think I am a monster?”

“I think,” Percy replied, hesitant. “The Fates wouldn’t burden us with a conscience.”

“I agree. The Sisters are kind to give us larger hearts.” Achilles leaned back, closer to Percy, his hair catching the moonlight like polished chainmail. “They aren’t so cruel to give us a life full of murder and a good memory for sins. Is that what your nightmare was?”

“No.” Percy said, the image flashing behind his eyes again. “I saw myself… disintegrating into gold dust, the way only monsters do. I felt my destiny being woven for me, a path I didn't choose, ending in that... nothingness.”

“You bleed red.” Achilles informed him, arching a perfect eyebrow. “I have proven this, time and time again, during the many spars I won.”

“Hey! Just wait until I find a suitable sword!” Percy protested, but his mood lightened.

Achilles smiled. “Is that why you don’t kill mortals? Because you fear this fate? That killing them will make the dream real?”

Percy shrugged: “I just don’t see the point in endless slaughter.”

Truthfully, Achilles struck too close to home. 

To Percy, not killing mortals felt like a last line of defence, the last boundary between human and beast — a hero kills monsters, and a monster kills mortals. Heroes kill to protect. Monsters kill for enjoyment. As long as Percy maintained that line… maybe he could ignore everything else that had happened. 

Maybe he could escape the taint Tartarus left on his soul.

Achilles frowned.

Percy elaborated: “I only kill people who can fight back. Mortals… even if they try their hardest, they can’t really fight, not against people like us, you know. I won’t take joy in slaughter.”

“It is always honourable to defeat the enemy.” Achilles retorted, matter-of-factly.

Percy surveyed the stars, brainstorming a rebuttal.

“Achilles, do you go out of your way to kill ants on the ground?”

Achilles gave him a look. 

“No.”

“That’s what its like for me,” Percy concluded. “I don’t see the purpose in stomping on ants, squishing them beneath my sandals. It’s meaningless. They clearly don’t stand a chance.”

Achilles considered this. 

“But no man stands a chance against me,” he said, the same way another man would give away his name. There is no arrogance - only fact.

“Except me.” Percy joked.

Achilles nodded: “Except you.”

Percy didn’t know what to say to that.

“Perhaps that is the answer,” Achilles mused, his voice low and intent. “You fear a fate you did not choose. You saw yourself becoming a weapon shaped by another's hand. So do not be a weapon.”

“What do you mean?”

”Be the hand that wields it. If the Fates are weaving a path of gold dust for you, seize the shuttle. Cut the thread. Weave your own.” Achilles smiled. “It will be fun, no?”

And in that moment, Percy felt the nightmare’s chill finally recede, replaced by a new, solid warmth—the conviction to grasp his own destiny, to bend it to his will, and never again be a passive victim of its design.

()

And then, the water began to move.

()

It was odd. The sea was moving against its own nature. There was no wind to drive it, no pull from a distant moon. It started with a single current, born of a single, terrifying will. 

A low murmur of confusion rippled through the army, men gripping gunwales as the world’s most fundamental laws unraveled before them. The confusion curdled into shock as the pace increased, the entire fleet now gliding with a silent, impossible speed, the land falling away as if reeled in by a god. And then, from a thousand throats, a roar erupted—not of fear, but of ecstatic awe, as men who had been condemned to darkness now saw a path to glory forged by the strength of one.

Achilles’s face splits into a wide grin. Diomedes laughs. Agamemnon, for the first time in weeks, looks… light.

“Prince Perseus has delivered us,” Agamemnon booms. “The gods have provided a path without bloodshed.”

The men cheer.

“All hail King Agamemnon, King of Kings! All hail Perseus, son of the Sea God!”

()

Further away, Odysseus’s smile strains.

“Captain? Is something wrong?” Eurylochus asks.

Odysseus shakes his head. “A goddess had been denied her due. I wonder… if Perseus’s best intentions can soothe the rage of divine order.”

()

Respect for the gods was the bedrock of the world.

There is an empty space between Iphigenia and Agamemnon. There, a goddess stands, invisible.

The girl did not die on her altar. Her blood did not stain the earth in Artemis’s name. For that, a sliver of gratitude was reserved for the son of Poseidon.

But it was a cold, fleeting thing, quickly smothered by a rising, icy tide of necessity.

Because a divine command, a test of a king’s piety and a reminder of a goddess’s power, had been thwarted. Not by another god, but by a mortal hero. A male hero.

This is the precedent, a voice, cold and clear, whispered in her mind. They will see this and they will learn the wrong lesson. They will not see a maiden saved. They will see a goddess defied. They will see my will as negotiable, my wrath as something that can be bypassed with brute strength. They will think the will of a virgin goddess is lesser, more malleable than that of Zeus or Poseidon.

The conflict was a war within her. Her heart, the heart of a maiden, was glad. But her spirit, the spirit of a goddess, a deity whose power was rooted in fear and respect as much as devotion, knew what must be done.

Respect for the gods was the bedrock of the world. If it crumbled, chaos followed. And if the respect for a goddess could be trampled with impunity, then the foundation was already cracked.

Her gaze hardened, reflecting the cold, silver light of the moon. The gratitude for Iphigenia’s life was real, and it would be remembered. Her brother's devotion is touching, and of course, she will not forget. But it changed nothing about the transgression.

Perseus had not just moved ships. He had moved against the divine order. He had, with the best of intentions, humiliated her.

And for that, he must be punished.

Apollo is nowhere to be found. He does not approach her, and she does not seek him out. She knows he will ask her to show mercy. And she feels, in her heart, she will deny her brother.

It is not cruelty, but necessity. A grim, reluctant determination settled in her soul.

The world had to see that the wrath of Artemis, once invoked, could not be so easily set aside. That her power was absolute, and her will, iron. The son of Poseidon would learn that saving a maiden from one fate did not make him a master of fate itself. He had to be reminded of his place, lest every mortal with a spark of power thought they could reshape the designs of heaven.

The thought brought her no pleasure, only the cold, heavy weight of duty.

Perseus is too kind. In this world, ruthlessness is mercy.