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Chapter Text

The first time Percy Jackson washed up on Ithaca’s shores, he had just been blown up by a volcano.

Of course, Odysseus didn’t know this at the time. All he knew was that a strange boy in even stranger clothes had just been spat out by the sea, right onto his doorstep. Figuratively. The boy was still on the beach.

The boy was clearly injured; his clothes were torn, exposing mottled and enflamed skin. It looked like he had been dipped in the Phlegethon itself and left in the sun to dry. Burns, clearly. Was he even alive?

Odysseus approached the boy. His age was hard to place with all the burns and open wounds, but he couldn’t have been of maturity yet. He had that baby fat to him, still, even with his sharp bone structure. He was a fighter, to be certain, and not just because of his armor. He had the arms of one, lean and muscled, and hands that bore the calluses of swordfighting.

He knelt at the young man’s side. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Shallow breaths. He radiated heat; strange. At least he was alive, but he needed a healer soon. His breathing grew more labored by the second.

Odysseus hated to move the boy, but there was no other choice. The physician’s quarters had been spared the worst of the destruction from the sack of his palace, thank the gods. He did not think the boy would survive without immediate attention.

With a sigh, he placed his hands beneath the boy’s torso and legs and lifted him. He was shockingly light. His head lolled, black hair pressing against Odysseus’s chest. An unusual color, so black it was almost blue. Where did this boy originate from? Perhaps one of the western isles, one Odysseus was less familiar with.

He let out a small groan. That was a good sign. The boy was intact enough to make sound and respond to touch. Perhaps he could be saved if they hurried.

“Hush,” he soothed. The sight of him pulled at Odysseus’s cold heart. Recently, only Penelope and Telemachus could illicit such feelings from him, but Odysseus had always been fond of children.

He fought back the wave of guilt that threatened to claw out his throat.

The boy protested weakly, trying to push away. He had all the strength of a sickly mouse. Odysseus hushed him again. “I am taking you somewhere safe.”

The boy made a mournful sound, his hands pressed flat against Odysseus’s chest. He did little more than wrinkle his chiton before his hands fell limp again. His strength was fading fast.

“Hold on,” Odysseus soothed. “You must save your strength.” He peered down just in time to see the boy’s eyes flutter open.

Odysseus nearly dropped him.

Sea green. The same sea green that had haunted and hunted him for ten years. Infinitely deep, even clouded with pain as they were. The color of the most treacherous parts of that dark ocean, of the swirling depths containing monsters beyond mortal comprehension.

“Poseidon,” Odysseus hissed.

The boy blinked. His black hair—gods, of course, unusual because only one man in existence had that hair color—fell over his pain-addled eyes. He spoke, but the words were gibberish.

Odysseus gripped the boy tighter, tight enough to illicit a cry of pain. His fingernails dug into a burn, slick with sweat and blood. “You dare come to my shores?” It had only been a matter of weeks since he stood over the god of the sea, splattered in golden ichor. He could still feel the acidic burn as it bit into his skin, mortal flesh that was never meant to come into contact with the blood of gods. Scars that would never fade.

The boy-visage of Poseidon stared up at him. He said something in that strange language again, then choked on his own spit. Pathetic. Did he truly think this sad, weak disguise would make Odysseus feel empathy? Poseidon must have lost his wits to his rage. Revenge had made him stupid.

“I—not—” Poseidon finally got out before coughing again. Odysseus took the chance to twist his arm behind his back, restricting any possible movement.

The boy did not cry out, but his expression scrunched up in pain. He set his jaw. “Not Poseidon.”

Odysseus bared his teeth at him before setting off up the hill. “Your lies are poor. I thought you smarter.”

Poseidon—gods, he could barely think of the god before him by that name with how pathetic he looked—squirmed in his arms. He barely had enough strength to turn his head.

“I do not understand why you come to me now in this form, but it will not illicit any pity from me.” He did not dare throw the boy back into the ocean. It would only strengthen him. No, he knew the place for him.

The boy struggled harder. “I am not—I—hurts—” he coughed. It splattered red across Odysseus’s chest.

He froze.

Odysseus stared down at the boy again. The boy, moments away from death, bleeding red onto his white garments. “Who are you?”

“Son,” the boy rasped. “Son of Poseidon.”

Oh. Oh dear gods above.

-0-

Odysseus sat with his hands folded, elbows braced on the table, as he watched the son of Poseidon’s chest rise and fall.

The boy was asleep. Had been since his choking admission on the steps of the palace. He was laid out in the healer’s chamber, wrapped in bandages and salves. Nearly every inch of his skin was burned. His strange clothing was unsalvageable; where it wasn’t burned or torn, it was covered in ash. The healer—Demas—had wanted to discard it, but Odysseus asked to keep it. Unlike his armor—standard issue, though also unsalvageable—it was unusual, with some sort of writing obscured by the burns. He had never seen anything like it. Perhaps it could help him figure out where the boy had come from.

He had not managed to get a name before the boy fell unconscious, just that he was the son of the sea god. Odysseus, well… it wasn’t his proudest moment, but he nearly threw the boy back into the sea upon that admission. He’d had enough of sons of Poseidon for one life. But the last thing he wanted was to attract his wrath yet again, just weeks after returning home.

It did not mean he trusted whatever this was.

Perhaps it was a trap. The boy was clearly not Poseidon in disguise; no amount of magic could obscure the ichor of gods. His blood was mortal. Red as any other man. But he could be sent by Poseidon, maybe to spy or sabotage while Ithaca was weak. The god was not known for his espionage—he was more for brute force—but stranger things had happened. But then, why would the boy admit to who his father was?

So many unanswered questions, all of them kept in the unconscious mind of the young boy before him.

He mumbled something in that strange language of his. He did that every few minutes, even as the healer dressed his wounds hours prior. A variety of words, none Odysseus understood. But a name kept coming up—Annabeth, he thought. An unusual name, and the boy’s accent made it sound even more foreign. Just where had he come from?

Odysseus stood and approached the boy. His hair was a sweat-slicked mess, pressed against his forehead, and his tanned skin was pale. Even so, his resemblance to his father was uncanny. How had Odysseus not realized it immediately?

Despite his hatred of Poseidon, Odysseus couldn’t help but feel pity. He wouldn’t take it so far as sympathy, but pity, yes. He was certainly a pitiful sight. In this state, he looked young, weak, vulnerable.

One of his forearms was unburned, Odysseus realized with a start. His sword arm, it looked like. Besides his face, it was the only part of him untouched by whatever had hurt him. Unconsciously, he reached out to touch the unmarred flesh.

His eyes flew open. With a yelp, he tried to scramble off the bed, but his body seemed to not respond. He cried out in pain.

Odysseus held up his hands, eyes wide. “Calm. You will hurt yourself.”

The boy stared at him, green eyes sharp, even clouded with pain as they were. His sword hand clenched and unclenched. He looked ready to attack at any moment.

It is not that Odysseus didn’t think he could take the boy in a fight. In fact, with the state of injury he was in, it would take almost no effort at all. But he did not fancy another fight with a son of Poseidon, much less a child. “I do not mean to harm you.” As long as you do not mean to harm me, he did not add

The boy blinked. He opened his mouth, winced in pain, and closed it again. He lifted his unburned arm and did a strange motion with his hand, tipping it toward his mouth.

Odysseus cocked his head.

“Wa—” his voice caught. “Water.”

Keeping his eyes on the boy, Odysseus walked to the bowl at the side of the chamber. He scooped a ladle of water from it and brought it to the boy’s lips. He drank greedily, like it was the nectar of the gods. And, well, considering the likely state of his throat, it probably felt as much.

When the boy drank the last drop from the ladle, he pointed at the bowl.

“More?” Odysseus asked.

“All,” he rasped. His voice sounded less raw, at least.

Odysseus frowned. He scooped some more water into the ladle, but the boy shook his head. “All.”

Odysseus glanced between the bowl and the boy. He looked about ready to leap out of the bed and get it himself. Sighing, Odysseus hefted the wooden thing and brought it over to the boy.

As soon as he held it out, the boy grabbed it out of his hand and dumped the entire thing over his head.

Odysseus yelped, ready to chastise him for wasting so much and ruining his bandages, but his mouth froze open, choking on the first syllable, as the water seemed to seep into his skin.

Yes, that’s exactly what was happening. The water worked its way down the boy’s burned limbs, swirling around the worst of them and sinking into the skin. Before his eyes, the angry red-purple skin turned lighter. Still burned, but significantly less.

The boy sighed in relief. “Gods—” he tilted his head back, eyes closed. His hair was completely dry.

Automatically, Odysseus took the empty bowl back from him, eyes wide.

Son of Poseidon indeed.

After a few moments, the boy seemed to come back to himself. He opened his eyes again, glancing around the room, then stopped on Odysseus. He cocked his head, green eyes bright. “Who are you?”

“I should ask you the same,” Odysseus responded.

The boy’s eyes flicked to the doorway, so quickly it was almost imperceptible. “I need to know who’s asking.”

“And the same for me,” Odysseus said. He really did not—he had all the power here—but appearances needed to be kept. The boy’s piercing green eyes raised some sort of primal fear within Odysseus’s chest, twisting his heart and lungs into a knot. He had no desire to give that away.

The boy considered himself for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Where am I?”

Now that, he could answer. “Ithaca.”

The boy startled. “The island?”

“Is there any other?”

He swallowed, his burned throat bobbing with the effort. “I—please. Who are you?”

Odysseus considered going in circles with him again, but the poor boy looked so pitiful. What good would it bring him beyond petty satisfaction? He inclined his head. “I am Odysseus, king of this island.”

He couldn’t quite place the expression that washed over the boy’s face. Shock, definitely. Devastation too. A level of disbelief. And rage.

A shudder ran through the boy’s body, and he put his head in his hands. “No.”

Odysseus cocked his head. “No?”

The boy shook his head, still buried in his hands. “No. No. I’m—I’m supposed to be at Mount St. Helens. This is a dream. It’s another demigod dream and I’m going to wake up.”

Odysseus watched the boy. His words made little sense—he had never heard of a Mount St. Helens. And he threw the word demigod around so casually. He was likely in shock. “I assure you this is real.”

The boy shook his head again. “I’m not in Greece.” His voice cracked. “Gods, I can’t be in Greece.”

Certainly shock, then. The boy spoke perfect Greek, yet he thought he was somewhere else. Odysseus carefully approached the boy. He had seen his fair share of battle-shocked soldiers, ones trapped in their own minds. They were volatile. Reactive. And considering that the boy was now healed, and clearly had powers, Odysseus needed to tread carefully. “Can you please tell me your name?” He kept his voice soft. Neutral. An easy question to answer.

“Percy,” he said.

“Percy, alright.” Odysseus nodded. He didn’t know why he was being so kind to this boy—this son of his worst enemy. Truly, he should throw Percy in the dungeon and be done with it. But something about him tugged on his heart. Perhaps his age, still so full of that youthful energy Odysseus lost in Troy. “I believe you are in shock, due to your injuries. Can you—”

Suddenly, Percy stood. Well, more fell off the bed and stumbled to his feet than stood. His eyes darted around the room, then he looked down at himself. “I’m—why am I naked? Where are my clothes?”

Odysseus did not know many young boys who cared about modesty, of all things, but his face turned redder than his burns, even though he was still wrapped in bandages.

“I will get you some—”

“Where are my clothes?” Percy interrupted.

Odysseus blinked, then gestured to the table where the remains of them were folded. “They were ruined when you arrived.”

Percy stumbled over to the table. With shaking hands, he lifted his tattered orange… tunic?... off the table and stared at it. It was hardly more than strips of fabric at this point, burnt through in multiple places. It stood out starkly against the bare stone walls of the chamber, still stripped of the resources that once populated the physician’s supply.

Odysseus watched him carefully.

“I was at Mount St. Helens,” he whispered, eyes still on the shirt. “There… there were telchines. I couldn’t… there were so many.”

Telchines? The boy had encountered telchines? Surely he must be mistaken. Otherwise, it was a miracle he had survived. “I do not know this mountain you speak of.”

“Volcano.” The word came out as a choked rasp.

Odysseus’s eyes flicked unconsciously to the angry burn winding its way up the boy’s left arm.

The shirt slipped out of Percy’s hands. He turned back to Odysseus. “I’m not supposed to be here.” His eyes hardened. “Why am I here?”

Odysseus did not back away, but the instinct was there. In that moment, his eyes were a perfect mirror of Poseidon’s. It was uncanny in the face of a boy so young, so injured. “I do not know,” Odysseus answered. Some would think it a weakness to admit not knowing, but only a fool would pretend to possess knowledge he does not. It would only turn to disaster.

Percy’s sword hand flexed. “There’s always a reason. Someone always has it out for me.”

Odysseus filed that away for later. What kind of person had many enemies at such a young age? “You washed up on the shore, half dead and unconscious. You live because of my good will.”

Something flashed across Percy’s eyes, gone too quick to interpret. He deflated. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” He sat back on the bed. “I need to talk to my father.”

A flash of hatred lit Odysseus’s chest. “No.”

Percy looked up, eyes wide. “What?”

“No,” Odysseus repeated. “You will not call upon Poseidon in my kingdom, or anywhere near it.”

The boy cocked his head to the side, a question lighting his eyes. Then recognition sparked in the green, and his eyes widened. “Oh, gods. You’re Odysseus.”

Odysseus frowned. “I believe I said as much, yes.”

“No, you’re… oh, I am in so much trouble. Oh gods.” Percy buried his head in his hands and muttered something that sounded a lot like gods damned lord of time.

Before Odysseus could respond, Percy shot to his feet again. He stumbled over to his ruined clothing, rifling through the contents. “I need to go. Something’s gone wrong. I have to speak to my father.” His gaze flicked to Odysseus, then back. “Away from here, don’t worry.”

Odysseus’s eyes narrowed.

Percy continued his frantic search. “I just need some clothes or something. No, wait—" He grabbed his strange pants and started to tug them on, wincing as they scraped against his burns. They were torn and singed, but managed to stay on. “Where did—" He procured a sort of stick from the fabric, small and white, but before Odysseus could even ask what it was, it disappeared in a flash. In exchange, a glittering bronze xiphos rested in Percy’s hand.

Odysseus reacted on instinct. He drew his own sword and caught the edge of Percy’s, twisting to send it flying. The boy yelped, scrambling for it, but Odysseus grabbed his arm and tugged him in, restricting his movement. “I should have known.”

Percy struggled in his grasp. “Dude, what? Let me go!” One of those words sounded like his native tongue. It made no sense.

Odysseus tightened his grip. Percy hissed in pain. “Your father sent you, to get my guard down. Why would I suspect the boy so willing to admit to his parentage, knowing our history? A spy would not admit as much.”

“A spy?” Percy spluttered.

“You were unwise to draw your sword, sea spawn,” Odysseus spat.

“Woah, woah, wait, dude, I just wanted to make sure it—hey!” He stumbled as Odysseus started to drag him from the room. “Ow! Lay off!”

“I nearly fell for it, too. Shame on me and the pity left in my heart.” Odysseus ignored Percy’s continued protests. “And shame on your father for using a child to get his way. He will not learn the defenses of my palace, no matter his efforts.”

Percy wrapped his hand around Odysseus’s arm and yanked back, causing them both to stumble. Even in his injured state, the boy was strong. “I’m not working for my dad!” His accent was slipping, Greek words mixing with his native tongue. Odysseus could pick up the meaning well enough.

“Please!” Percy continued as Odysseus started to drag him down a flight of stairs. He put up a good fight, but he’d clearly exerted himself already.

“I should kill you now,” Odysseus hissed.

“Get in line!” Percy quipped, but his voice shook on the delivery.

The dungeon was a gloomy place, lit only by torchlight. It smelled of dirt and stale water. “Oh, you have a stereotypical evil dungeon. Of course you have a stereotypical evil dungeon,” Percy rambled, his voice picking up in speed and pitch. “You probably also have a torture chamber right? People always have torture chambers.”

Odysseus tossed Percy into the first room and slammed the cage door shut. The boy yelped in pain as he hit the ground.

“I will figure out what to do with you in time. Perhaps some days alone in here will be good for you,” Odysseus said.

The boy stumbled to his feet, wrapping his hands around the bars. “Wait, come on, I haven’t even done anything!”

“You drew your sword in my palace,” Odysseus said with a raised eyebrow.

Percy winced. “That was stupid, okay? I didn’t mean to, I swear. I was worried it wouldn’t—look, there’s a lot—di immortales.” He shook his head with a groan. “I promise, I’m not here to do you or your family or your kingdom any harm. I’m not in with whatever my dad did to you. I think he was a real asshole for that, seriously.”

Odysseus blinked.

“I’m his son but I’m not always his biggest fan,” Percy continued, eyes wide. “And he doesn’t even know who I am, okay? He has no idea I’m here. I swear if you went and asked him—no that’s a stupid idea. Don’t summon him. You wouldn’t do that anyway, duh. Stupid.” He turned that last word on himself, letting his head fall forward against the bars.

Odysseus stared at the boy. Gods, he really was profoundly young.

He should’ve left Percy to rot here. Should’ve let him stew in his naïve plan. Should’ve used him to get his revenge on the god who tortured him for ten long years. Odysseus’s heart had long since hardened against sympathy; he did not have room for those kinds of feelings. But this boy…

There are times, to Athena’s utter dismay, that Odysseus is not the most logical.

“Tell me why you are here, then,” Odysseus whispered.

“I can’t,” Percy whispered back, head still pressed against the bars. “Not because I don’t want to, but because… there’s so much.”

Odysseus frowned. “I do not understand. If you have no secrets to keep, or plans to aid your father, then why not tell me your goals here?”

“I don’t have any.” Percy still didn’t look up. His eyes were closed, now. “I swear it. I swear on the River Styx that I mean you, your family, and your kingdom no harm.”

Odysseus hissed as thunder boomed in the distance. “Have you no sense of preservation, boy?”

He looked up, then, green eyes bright in the dim lighting of the dungeon. “That’s why I swore on it.”

Odysseus met his eyes. He refused to back down from that inhumanly bright gaze, even as it seemed to stare into his soul. “If you mean us no harm, then you can tell me why you are here.”

Percy opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then he muttered a slew of what were likely curses in his native language.

Odysseus crossed his arms.

“I—” Percy started, then chewed on his lower lip. His eyes darted around the room. “There was an explosion,” he tried again. “I was inside Mount St. Helens, the volcano. And it erupted.”

Odysseus gestured for him to go on.

“I think I did it,” Percy continued. Odysseus didn’t even have time to register shock as an emotional reaction before the boy steamrolled ahead. “The telchines were throwing lava. It burned. And I think… I just grabbed onto whatever I could. I’ve never done that before, but they call my dad the earthshaker for a reason, I guess.”

Odysseus stared. Then blinked and stared some more. “You’re claiming to have—”

“Blown up a volcano, yeah,” Percy interrupted.

Odysseus processed that. He nodded. “Alright. And this led you to wash up on my island, how?”

Percy pursed his lips. He started to pace the length of the cell. “It’s… complicated. I know I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t really know how I got here, but I know it’s not supposed to go this way.” He winced as his burned arm scraped the stone.

“And how do you know this?” Odysseus prompted. Truly, he was getting tired of this talking in circles.

Percy tilted his head back and muttered a curse. “Annabeth would be better at this.” He shook his head, then leveled his bright gaze with Odysseus’s. “But whatever. If the Fates want to mess with time, then I guess I have to deal with it.” He set his jaw. “I am not supposed to be here.”

The pieces clicked into place. Odysseus forced himself not to react. “You are not from this time.”

Percy shook his head once.

It was impossible to believe. The lord of time was dead, scattered to pieces. The era of of that power had long since passed. But if this boy told the truth, then sometime in the future… but it was impossible. Odysseus shook his head. “There is no—”

“600 men, right?” Percy interrupted. “You set off with 600 men back to Ithaca. Ended up on Polyphemus’s island, blinded him. He still calls you Nobody, you know that? I met him, in the future. He hates you. Hates me too, I think, even though we’re brothers.”

“I—”

“Then you met my father, of course, and he was a supreme asshole to you. Circe’s island next.” Percy ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “Met her too, she turned me into a guinea pig. Said pigs were too much to deal with. Broke that spell. You go to the Underworld next, meet your mom and friends, and then the prophet. Can’t remember his name. Am I getting this right?”

Odysseus stared at the boy, mouth hanging open.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, blah blah blah, the king of the gods commits some extreme assholery, because he’s the biggest dick in existence, and if he strikes me down about that he’ll have to fight my dad, so I can say that. He makes you choose—”

“No one knows that,” Odysseus interrupted. He’d heard enough. Gods, he had heard enough. “Not even… Poseidon wouldn’t know about the Underworld.”

Percy’s eyes glinted in the torchlight. “Your story is not forgotten, even when I’m from.”

The words washed over him, the sheer absurdity of it all. This boy, this stranger that washed ashore like a piece of driftwood, knew his story. The details that others did not. The ones that haunted him in the dead of night.

Odysseus sank to the floor.

“Yeah,” Percy said. He joined Odysseus on the floor, legs crossed, wincing in pain as he settled on the hard-packed dirt in the cell. “It’s a lot. I was afraid to say anything because the butterfly effect, you know? Mess up the whole timeline because I said something stupid. But I dunno, I’m sick and tired of Fate throwing me around like I don’t matter. It’s their fault I’m here.”

Odysseus nodded absently. His words made little sense, but he barely had the mind to question them. Time travel? Truly? Could such a thing be possible, this many centuries after the age of the Titans?

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll forget all about this once I leave. Like a Doctor Who situation or whatever. Not Back to the Future.” Percy leaned his head on the bars. “I really don’t want to accidentally erase my birth.”

Odysseus let those words pass over him. Perhaps the boy was insane. But that still didn’t explain his knowledge of Odysseus’s secrets. It didn’t explain the strange clothes or strange language.

He let his gaze slide to Percy. The boy was still shirtless, though he had recovered his blue pants. Many of the bandages had come off, either from the water or Odysseus dragging him into the dungeon. His burns looked better, no longer worryingly purple-red color from before. But on the skin that wasn’t burned, Odysseus could make out very familiar markings, ones he had become accustomed to during his long years at war.

Scars.

They littered his skin. Tiny white and pink flecks, large slices, mottled stab wounds, and everything in between. When he shifted, Odysseus could even make out a circular scar on the boy’s palm. Clearly, even at his age, the boy had seen much battle. And yes, boys of his age fought in battles. Odysseus had seen many on the fields of Troy. But they were not so close to the front that they suffered these injuries. Not so trained that they possessed the reflexes this boy clearly had.

“Why were you in a volcano?” Odysseus finally asked. His voice was quiet in the damp room.

Percy frowned at him, then looked down at his body. “I had a quest. I—well, it took me to an old forge belonging to Heph—the god of metalworking.” He glanced up at the sky, as if he feared the god himself would appear. “It was overrun with telchines using it to make… something bad.” His eyes darted around, as if he were back in the forge, planning his strategy. “A weapon, but not… not a normal one. I had to stop them. I told Annabeth to get out, and she—“

“You brought a woman into danger?”

The look Percy fixed him with was so unimpressed, Odysseus nearly apologized for speaking.

“She is more than capable of defending herself, and she’s also a demigod.” He blew out a breath. “Gods, I was so stressed about talking to you, I completely forgot about the sexism. Why couldn’t Greeks just get their heads out of their asses?”

Odysseus blinked.

“As I was saying,” Percy continued with a pointed look in his direction. Odysseus did not even have time to reprimand him for disrespect. “She got out of there, and I blew everything up. And now I’m here. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“Our healer is very skilled,” Odysseus said, choosing to put the boy’s contempt aside for the time being. “You are lucky that I was willing to ignore who your father is.”

Percy rolled his eyes.

Odysseus bristled. “You seem to think it is a small thing, the pain he caused me.”

“I don’t,” Percy said, frowning. “But I don’t think sins of the father belong to the son, or however the saying goes. You thought it was wrong when my father threatened Telemachus. Why is it different for me?”

Odysseus tilted his head. Percy’s eyes still darted around, and his fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm on the floor. “You’re surprisingly wise, given your age.”

Percy snorted. “Tell that to Annabeth.” He kept his eyes off Odysseus, but his fingers slowed their incessant drumming. The poor boy looked like he expected an attack at any second. And, well, given his story, it seemed that was what he experienced on a normal day.

They lapsed into silence again, interrupted only by the drip drip of water running down the walls. Percy did look a bit sad in that cell, littered with injuries as he was. He leaned against the bars, his shoulder wedged between two of them, and examined the room. His eyes never stayed still.

“Suppose I believe you,” Odysseus began. Percy startled, his fingers resuming their drumming. “What is your plan from here?”

The boy sucked in a breath, then shrugged. “I washed up from the ocean, right? I’d probably start there. Retrace my steps. If it threw me out of time, then it can put me back. I hope.” He pursed his lips.

“There is not a being alive that has power over time,” Odysseus said softly. “Not anymore.”

Percy drew his knees to his chest and said nothing.

With a sigh, Odysseus stood and dusted himself off. Percy’s eyes followed him, his mouth closed in a thin line.

“Come on, if you believe it will work, then it is where we will begin. However,” Odysseus opened the cell. “I will not have you leaving without a meal.”

Percy kept staring at him. His eyes narrowed. “Is this a trick?”

“As much a trick as your story.” He peered down at the boy. “If you are telling the truth, then so am I.”

Percy muttered something in his native language, but he stood anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped out of the cell. His eyes tracked up the wall. “Your humidity problem is coming from there.” He pointed to a seam along the ceiling. “It’s not sealed properly, so it’s letting water in.”

Odysseus blinked.

“Just thought I’d help make this place less miserable.” Percy shrugged.

Odysseus sighed. The boy’s oddities only grew with every passing minute. “I will have someone look at that after we repair the rest of the damage.”

Percy sucked in a breath. “Ooh, shit.” The second word was not one Odysseus recognized, but it was certainly a curse based on his expression. “Did you just get rid of the suitors? Gods, they were such assholes.”

Odysseus decided to brush off the boy’s increasingly unsettling knowledge about him. He motioned for Percy to follow. “Let’s get you fed.”

-0-

Percy attempted to show good table manners, but it was clear that the poor boy was half-starved. Something about his powers requiring large amounts of energy, especially healing (and, if Odysseus had to guess, blowing up a volcano).

He only had a moment to consider the implications of serving a son of Poseidon fish before Percy tore into it, picking the wiry bones out with expert precision. Clearly, he did not mind it.

Odysseus sat across from the boy at the small table in his study. He had the food brought here, mostly as to not arouse suspicion.

Percy glanced up just as he shoveled another scoop of lentils into his mouth and blushed. Odysseus just raised an eyebrow.

He swallowed, looking away sheepishly. “Sorry. Hospitality manners, I know.”

Odysseus waved him off. “I have seen soldiers eat with far less decorum, and they were grown men.”

Percy looked down at himself, as if just realizing his age. He shrugged. “I don’t know a whole lot of adults, besides my mom and Chiron.”

Odysseus choked.

Percy seemed not to notice Odysseus’s flailing. He continued, “my dad kind of counts, as much as any of the gods do. I dunno, Chiron feels more like the adult adult at camp. Gods know Mr. D doesn’t.”

“Camp?” Was what came out of Odysseus’s mouth in response to learning the boy personally knew Chiron, trainer of the late Achilles.

“Not a soldiers’ camp like you’re thinking. Or, er, well, not really.” Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s for demigods. Keeps us safe, shields us from monsters and stuff. It’s a place for us to train.”

Odysseus cocked his head.

Percy answered his question before he could ask. “Things are… different, where I’m from. Mortals don’t have to fear monsters anymore. They only hunt us.” He swallowed, eyes flicking to a point on the wall behind Odysseus. “A lot of us don’t live to adulthood because of it. It’s good to have a place where we can be safe.”

Odysseus’s head spun. Demigods… well, they were not a rarity, but they certainly weren’t common. But the way Percy spoke, it seemed there were many more during his time, and they were in much greater danger. Certainly, Achilles had faced his fair share of risk, but he had lived into his adulthood without much trouble. And the ichor that ran in Odysseus’s veins from Hermes was too diluted to grant him any sort of special immortal grace or mortal peril. He had enough of the latter without it.

A question burned in Odysseus’s mind, one he would never have seen himself asking a son of Poseidon. But Percy… something about him gave Odysseus the same feeling as when he looked at Telemachus. A boy thrust into danger far too young. Someone who deserved protection as much as anyone else, but had never received it.

He pursed his lips. “Are you…” his voice caught as Percy’s bright eyes locked onto his. Odysseus cleared his throat. “Are you safe, where you are from?”

Percy’s gaze flicked away again, first to the wall, then down to his hands, right to that circular scar on his palm. He swallowed. “Things are… not great, right now.”

Odysseus didn’t respond, instead electing to let the boy think over his words. He had found, through years of strategizing, that people did not like to sit in silence.

Percy ran a thumb over his palm scar. “There’s a prophecy. It’s not… well, I don’t really know what it says. But it’s about me.” His lips pressed into a thin line.

Something about the way he said it, the way he would not take his eyes off his scar... Odysseus knew prophecies. He had experienced his own unfair run-ins with prophets and oracles. He knew what hopelessness looked like.

“I think I’m going to die,” Percy whispered.

Odysseus folded his hands. “And you choose to return, anyway?”

Percy kept his thumb on the scar. “If not me, then it’s someone else.”

“Must it be?”

He looked up then, his green eyes sharp. “There’s another demigod. He’s only eleven. But he’s next, if I…” he swallowed. “I can’t let that happen. He’s just a kid.”

“As are you,” Odysseus observed.

Percy scowled. “So you think I should just let him die instead?”

Odysseus studied the boy, his inhuman eyes and piercing glare. The set of his jaw. The way his hands tensed on the table.

Somehow, in that moment, Percy could not have been less like his father. He also could not have been more like him.

“Your loyalty is so much like your father’s, but I do not think he would sacrifice himself for others,” Odysseus said, keeping his voice quiet. “No, I do not think you should leave another boy to die.”

The tension bled out of Percy’s shoulders. He slumped down, looking older. Tired. Like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“I wish that children did not have to die,” Odysseus said.

Percy scoffed.

Odysseus felt a fond smile creep onto his face, despite the heaviness of the conversation. Percy had a certain charm about him. Even knowing who his father was, it was hard not to like him. “I suppose, if I offered for you to stay, you would refuse.”

Percy nodded. “I can’t. I have to get back. Gods, Annabeth is probably worried sick.”

Odysseus’s smile grew. “You seem fond of her.”

Percy’s face flushed.

Ah, Odysseus thought.

He stood, pushing away from the table. Percy’s eyes followed him. He looked better now, with some food in him and new bandages on his burns. He was no longer shirtless, having donned a loose chiton over his strange pants. It looked odd, but Odysseus wasn’t about to question it. He’d had enough strangeness for one day.

“It seems that you have much responsibility on your shoulders, and thus you must continue on your journey.” He motioned for Percy to stand. “I will pack you a bag and see you off at the shore.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “You don’t have—”

“I have grown fond of you, in this short time.” He smirked. “Do not throw away my kindness. You never know when my hatred of your father will win out.”

Percy clamped his mouth shut. Odysseus laughed.

-0-

Percy left at sunset.

What pieces of his armor they could salvage, he strapped back on, and Odysseus supplied replacements for the rest. He hefted his bag and stepped into the surf. It seemed to welcome him, swirling around his ankles in a way Odysseus had never seen.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Um… thank you.”

Odysseus smiled. “I would say I hope to see you again someday, but knowing your circumstances, I believe it would be better if we did not meet again.”

Percy laughed. “Yeah, guess so.” He waved. “Well, goodbye!” With that, he dove into the water, and the ocean whisked him out of sight.

Odysseus sighed. Please, guide him safely home. Let Fate be kind and the prophecy be wrong.

He stood, watching as the sun lowered over the sea for a while longer. It was peaceful. The ocean seemed calmer than normal.

Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the ocean orange, Odysseus turned to make his way back to the castle.

Just in time to come face to face with his wife, standing with her arms crossed. “Just when were you going to tell me we were hosting the son of the sea god in our home?”

“I—well, I… um,” Odysseus stuttered.

Penelope looped her arm through his. “Come, tell me all I missed. And next time a demigod washes up on our shores, do come tell me. I hate being left out.”

Chapter Text

The second time Percy Jackson washed up on Ithaca’s shores was a much different affair.

It had been nearly three years since the son of Poseidon appeared on these sands, half-dead and bleeding. Odysseus found himself thinking of the boy often; he did not understand the mechanics of time travel, but he prayed that whatever force brought Percy to Ithaca had borne him safely home. While his hatred of the sea god had not waned, he held no ill will towards his young son. The boy was not his father; he possessed a kindness deep within his soul, one clear to anyone who interacted with him.

He did not expect to ever see the young demigod again. His appearance was a chance encounter, a strange weaving of the thread of Fate. Odysseus was content with living the rest of his life with the hope that the boy had made it home alive.

But on the shores of Ithaca, in the light of the early sunrise, Odysseus was proven wrong.

He appeared in the surf facing Odysseus, hand outstretched as if to wrap around a throat. A look of rage twisted his features into something animalistic, a snarl curling his upper lip. His eyes burned like Greek fire, too green to be human.

When he saw Odysseus, his eyes widened.

“Percy?” Odysseus whispered. Surely, he must be mistaken. Surely, this was not the injured boy that washed up on his land three years past.

Percy’s hand twisted, his fingers twitching. “Where am I?”

Something in Odysseus’s body felt wrong. An instinct that tickled at the back of his neck. Behind Percy, the sea turned dark.

“Where am I?” Percy hissed again. The once-peaceful sunrise silhouetted Percy. The glow of his eyes cast his face into a gaunt expression, all hollow cheekbones and sharp angles.

Odysseus took an involuntary step back. “Percy, you are in Ithaca. You have returned somehow.”

“No,” Percy said in a mimicry of their first encounter. The sea responded, churning at his feet. “No, I am not. Where is Annabeth.”

Odysseus took another step back. This was not the boy he remembered. “Please, my boy, you are—”

Percy stepped forward, the surf following, and Odysseus’s voice died in his throat.

He looked… awful. Worse, somehow, than the first time. His clothing was mere shreds, bearing his torn and scarred flesh to the morning air. Every inch of skin was caked in blood and dust. Mortal blood, monster blood, and—gods—ichor. Some dried, some fresh. The gauntness of his face was not from his eyes; he looked starved. Truly, this time. His eyes were hollow, lined with dark circles.

He did not look like his father, still, but he certainly no longer looked mortal.

“Why am I here again?” Percy continued his forward march, the sea creeping up with him. “What did you do?”

Odysseus continued to step back. “I bear no responsibility for your arrival here.”

“You must,” he hissed, rage flaring in his eyes. “It’s always—it was you last time, that took me away.”

Something had happened. Something had changed within the boy, twisting like a viper in his chest. The venom poured from his words, his eyes. Though he had only aged a few years, he was a lifetime from the young man Odysseus remembered. He willed calmness into his voice. “I did not take you away your home. You must calm yourself.”

Percy jerked his head to the side, eyes flashing. “No, gods, there has to be—Kronos is dead. He couldn’t have sent me, this time.” He looked nearly mad, his pupils mere pinpricks in the sea of green.

He reeled at the name, Kronos. He had suspected, three years prior, but to hear it from the boy’s own lips? It sent a shudder down his spine.

Sometime in the future, the mad Titan would return.

Odysseus held up his hands pleadingly. “There is another force at work here, something we do not currently understand, but it wants you here.”

Percy’s hands shook. “I have to go back. She—she’s alone, down there. I swore she wouldn’t. Never again.” His head jerked violently from side to side. “Send me back.”

Odysseus kept his hands up. “You can leave the way you did last time.”

“Didn’t work,” he bit out. “It took two weeks. I don’t have two weeks.”

His voice grew shakier, more frantic. This Annabeth, she was in great danger. And for some reason, Percy had been ripped away from her. It made him desperate, ready to lash out. Odysseus knew this. He had felt this desperation deep in his soul. The knowledge that the person you loved was surrounded, afraid, and in grave peril. And the knowledge that the only way to save them was to break through every barrier in the way.

It is unfortunate that Percy believed Odysseus to be that barrier.

Odysseus was unarmed. He cursed his stupidity; only recently had he felt safe enough to walk his own lands without a sword again, and now he found himself here. He was not prepared to match Percy in a fight.

The boy’s eyes flashed.

He tried to run. His body did not let him.

Percy’s hand twisted, and Odysseus felt his limbs lock up. The boy tilted his chin up, eyes wide with wild power.  “Send me back.”

For the first time since facing Poseidon on that rock, Odysseus felt truly afraid. “I swear, I had no part in whatever has happened to you!”

Percy’s fist clenched tighter. “I said—”

THUMP.

He fell forward onto his knees and slumped into the sand, unconscious.

Telemachus, still clad in his sleepclothes, stood behind Percy, pommel gripped to hit someone in the back of the head. He looked as if he had been whisked straight from bed.

Odysseus’s limbs unlocked. He met his son’s wide-eyed stare. Vaguely, he felt the brush of owl feathers across his cheekbone.

Telemachus’s eyes fell to the slumped body on the sand. “Is that—”

“Our demigod visitor from another time, yes,” Odysseus said.

Telemachus pursed his lips. “I think something has happened to him.”

A sick sort of dread settled deep in Odysseus’s stomach. “Yes,” he agreed, the word tasting of rot on his tongue. “I believe something has.”

-0-

Percy did not stay down long.

Odysseus and Telemachus had just enough time to hurry him into the palace and secure his wrists behind a chair in the study. The poor boy looked even worse while unconscious; his head slumped forward, shaggy hair falling over his gaunt face. His breathing came labored, almost rasping, as if he’d spent too long in front of a smoking fire.

Telemachus had just left to secure any nearby sources of water when Percy awoke with a start, gasping. He groaned, shoulder moving as if to lift his hand to the back of his head, but was stopped by the ropes binding his hands. His eyes widened and began to frantically scan the room before landing on Odysseus, sitting across from him.

The king raised his hands before Percy could say anything. “Peace. You are bound for your safety as much as mine.” He kept his voice carefully neutral.

“I—what?” He struggled against the ropes. His face screwed up as he hissed out between his teeth. “Gods, my head.”

Odysseus winced. He had not had enough time to try and heal the boy’s injuries, and he dared not risk giving him any water.

“What do you remember?” Odysseus tried.

Percy blinked at him, eyes unfocused.

Odysseus winced, again. “Perhaps I should ask that better. What is your last memory?”

Percy thankfully stopped struggling against his bonds. He bit his lower lip, eyes darting around as he thought. “This isn’t a normal dream.”

There it was again. Percy had thought himself in a dream last time he visited Ithaca. What sort of visions was he plagued with, to think himself in dreams so often? “You are awake. This is no dream.”

Percy froze, unnaturally so. Every inch of his body stilled, to the point it felt as if even the air around him stopped its swirling. “How?” His voice was the sound of a glassy sea hiding untold horrors beneath its depths.

Odysseus needed to treat carefully. “I do not know. It is as much a mystery as the previous time you visited. You appeared in a poor state.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you remember that?”

Percy kept his eyes fixed on Odysseus. “I remember.”

“I had no hand in your arrival here,” Odysseus repeated.

Percy still did not move. He hardly breathed. “Kronos is dead. I saw him scatter. There is no power left that could do this.”

The magnitude of his words threatened to bowl Odysseus over. His next words came out as a mere whisper. “You witnessed the scattering of a Titan and lived?”

Percy did not lower his gaze, but his eyes flashed dangerously.

Odysseus’s heart dropped. “What has happened to you?”

“Swear on the Styx you did not have a part in bringing me here,” Percy answered instead.

Vaguely, Odysseus was aware of Telemachus creeping back into the study. He dared not let his eyes flick to his son. Percy was unstable, and powerful, and Odysseus did not want to give the boy any leverage.

“I did not bring you here, Percy,” Odysseus said, keeping his voice level. “If you appeared by some accident on my part, then I have no knowledge of what it could be.”

“Swear it,” Percy hissed.

Odysseus’s immediate reaction was to deny the request. An oath on the Styx was binding, the punishment for breaking it severe. He did not take swearing one lightly.

But, a small voice reminded him, Percy swore one for you.

Odysseus closed his eyes and loosed a breath. “I swear on the river Styx that I had no willful hand in bringing you here, and that I have no knowledge of how you arrived back in our time.”

Thunder boomed. The palace walls shook.

Percy slumped forward in his chair. “Gods, oh gods, oh gods.” His voice cracked. It was like all the bravado abandoned him, leaving behind the shaking form of a boy, injured and afraid. “She’s alone, and I can’t get back.”

Odysseus leaned forward, reaching out to touch Percy’s knee, then thought better of it. “Where? Where is she?”

“We fell,” Percy rasped, shaking his head back and forth. “We fell. Together. But now I’m here, and she’s stuck down there.”

Odysseus was no fool, and the words Percy spoke began to paint a picture of something horrific. But surely, he was mistaken. Surely the boy meant something else. Anything else. A desperate part of him tried to convince him that he spoke of the Underworld, but people did not fall into the land of the dead. “You cannot mean—"

“Tartarus,” Percy bit out, like the word itself pained him to speak. “Annabeth is alone in Tartarus.”

The world seemed to stop. For a moment, there was no air in the room, no breath in his lungs, because nothing could logically explain how Percy had survived a fall into the Pit, and Odysseus was a man of logic.

And then the world spun again, logic be damned.

Odysseus got to his feet and began to untie Percy’s bonds. “You should not have survived that fall.”

“The Pit has rivers,” Percy murmured, his eyes tracking Odysseus’s movements. They were dull and clouded with pain, but a flash of humor lit them deep within.

The knot unraveled. Odysseus grabbed hold, keeping Percy’s wrists secure for just a moment longer. “Promise you will not harm me if I free you?”

“Banking on two against one being a fair fight if I don’t?” Percy quipped.

Odysseus startled.

“I heard him come in,” Percy explained. From what Odysseus could see of his face, it almost looked like he was smiling. Or, at least a corner of his mouth had quirked up. Better than the complete despair from before; a glimmer of the young boy he remembered shone through. “You didn’t give him away. But yeah, I promise.”

Odysseus would have to take that at face value. He let the rope drop just as Telemachus shuffled into view, looking embarrassed.

Percy rubbed his wrists, face scrunched up in discomfort.

“Are you hungry?” Telemachus asked. He had regained his composure, though he still eyed Percy warily.

“Very,” Percy answered. He stretched an arm across his chest, using the other to pull it into a shoulder stretch. His momentary despair had faded into steely determination; his eyes were hard as steel. He switched emotions on a dime. “But I don’t have time to sit down and eat. I need to figure out how to get back.”

“To Tartarus,” Telemachus deadpanned with a raised eyebrow.

Percy glared at him.

Odysseus was about to jump in and break up whatever was brewing between the two before it could even begin, but Telemachus held up his hands. “All I am suggesting is that you will be no use if you re-enter the Pit half-starved and injured.”

Percy set his jaw.

“See reason, boy,” Odysseus chided. He could see Percy’s hackles rising, the walls of anger reemerging. How long had he been in Tartarus? He looked as Odysseus once did, after many long years on the defensive. “You are not immortal.”

Percy kept up the glare for a moment longer before sighing. “Okay, okay.”

Odysseus nodded at his son. Telemachus slipped from the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Odysseus leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. A curiosity itched at the back of his head, something that did not make sense. Percy had discovered something new about himself. Something powerful. But he did not voice his thoughts. The boy was unstable still, and Odysseus feared setting him off. As much as he liked Percy, he was still Poseidon’s son, and he possessed all the volatility that came with it. His emotions changed fast.

But Percy had done something to him on the beach. He had locked Odysseus in place with a twist of his hand. One could say it was a fear response, but Odysseus had long since gotten over those. And, well, Telemachus moved with Athena’s blessing. It was impossible to hear his footfalls, even to the most trained ear.

The picture this painted was not a kind one.

They sat in silence, Percy stretching out stiff limbs. They made occasional eye contact, but Percy did not hold it for long. His gaze flicked around the study. He seemed to be on constant alert, even when he was younger.

He sat up, suddenly. Odysseus was about to ask what was wrong when the door creaked open and Telemachus stepped into the room, holding a plate.

Percy and Odysseus shared a look. He knew. And Percy knew he knew.

But Odysseus stayed quiet.

As soon as Telemachus set the plate in front of the boy, he dug in, devouring the food with the same ferocity he did three years ago. And he truly did look like he had not eaten in days.

“Slow down,” Telemachus warned him. “You will make yourself sick.”

Percy either did not hear him or did not care, because he continued to shovel food into his mouth. Much to Odysseus’s amusement, he grabbed the cup of wine and splashed it directly onto his face.

Percy spluttered. He cursed in his native language, something that ended with an -uck sound and seemed to reference every god in existence. And something about Zeus’s mother.

“That is wine,” Odysseus said, calmly.

“I noticed!” Percy snapped, eyes closed. He cursed some more, this time in a colorful mix of Greek and his native language, as he maneuvered the wine into a floating ball in the air. Odysseus watched him with a mixture of fascination and amusement, while Telemachus just stared, slack-jawed.

The wine dropped back into the cup.

Percy rubbed his eyes. “What kind of—why wasn’t that water!”

“It is customary to serve wine with a meal. Is that not the case where you are from?” Odysseus asked.

“I’m sixteen!” Percy replied, as if that answered anything.

Odysseus gave him time to recover himself as he motioned Telemachus to get the poor boy some water. He looked pathetic as he blinked the stinging wine out of his eyes. At least it had washed some of the dirt off his face.

His son frowned. “Is that a good idea?” His voice was no more than a murmur. “It could be used as a weapon.”

Odysseus considered his son’s counsel. He had a soft spot for Percy, but he did not want to grow too lax in his later years. Could the boy be toying with them? Trying to get their guard down? He was in a much different mood than on the beach; was that all an act?

Odysseus looked over to Percy, who had resumed eating his meal. He occasionally winced in pain as he moved. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but this wasn’t an act. There were many ways Percy was unlike his father, but also many in which they were alike. And Poseidon had never been any good at hiding his emotions.

He turned back to Telemachus and whispered, “He is very injured. It will help him heal.”

Telemachus nodded. He trusted his father to consider the possibilities before making a decision. With the same quiet with which he arrived, he slipped from the room. Percy did not even seem to notice.

Another bout of silence lapsed, broken only by the sounds of Percy eating. He was certainly going to make himself sick at this rate. Odysseus remembered feeling that hungry on the open ocean. He had made the mistake of overeating after days with minimal food. The ensuing sickness was not something he would wish on anyone.

“Percy…” he began.

The boy showed no sign of slowing down, though his gaze did flick up to meet Odysseus’s. He was preparing to remind Percy again to pace himself when the door burst back open.

Percy was on his feet in a second, sword in hand. Where in the world had that even come from? Hadn’t they disarmed him?

Telemachus stood in the doorway, empty handed. His eyes were wide, hair tousled as if he had spun in a circle and sprinted directly back here without grabbing water. “A woman has washed ashore! A guard saw her!”

Percy was out the door before Odysseus could react. Despite his injuries, he moved with inhuman speed. Telemachus blinked as he ran past, mouth dropping as he spun to watch the younger boy sprint down the hall.

He turned back to his father, eyes wide as discs. “Should we—”

Odysseus got to his feet and ran after Percy. Telemachus yelped in surprise but followed nonetheless.

Percy left multiple people gaping in his wake. They were only just recovering from being shoved out of the way when Odysseus ran past, Telemachus hot on his heels. A few indignant shouts rang out, but some men whooped in his direction. He smirked, despite himself. Even years after Troy, he had never lost his speed and strength.

They burst from the walls of the palace and into the Ithacan sunlight. It was a warm day, the sun high in the sky. And beneath that sun, kicking sand in his wake, Percy raced down to the water’s edge.

They reached the beach just as Percy slid to his knees next to the slumped form of a young woman. She was covered in filth, her hair splayed out in the sand around her like a tangled halo. He could barely make out the color beneath the grime and blood that covered it.

Percy turned the woman over. She looked the same age as him and wore the same tattered clothes. She had a pouch wrapped around her waist and her ankle was braced in an unusual splint.

As Odysseus got closer, he could make out Percy’s murmuring. Most of it was in his native language, but he could hear a name. “Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth.”

Odysseus got to his knees, pressing two fingers to her neck. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, rapid but strong. “Her heart still beats.”

“I know,” Percy choked out.

Right. Of course.

He clutched her to his chest, running fingers through her tangled hair. He continued to murmur in that strange language of his. Words of comfort, if Odysseus had to guess.

“Is this—” Telemachus began.

The woman let out a groan, facing twisting in pain.

Percy immediately pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m here, I’m here Beth.”

She said something in their native language. Percy responded, lips still on her forehead.

Her eyes fluttered open. They flicked around, shockingly clear despite her pain, and settled on Odysseus. He felt a flash of familiarity as he met her gray-colored gaze. And, based on Telemachus’s sharp intake of breath, he noticed too.

 She frowned and asked something in their language.

“Ithaca,” Percy murmured.

Her eyes widened. She turned back to him and said, in perfect Greek, “Like Mount St. Helens?”

Percy nodded.

Annabeth’s eyes flicked from Odysseus to Telemachus and back to Percy. “How?”

He dipped his forehead to touch hers, whispering again in their language. They exchanged rapid words. Odysseus did not catch much of their tone, but he did notice Annabeth’s eyes begin to cloud with pain.

“Percy,” Odysseus whispered. “We should get her to our healer.”

He did not respond aloud. Instead, he scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and set off back to the palace. Odysseus and Telemachus shared a look.

Without a word spoken aloud, they joined Percy in his walk back to the palace.

-0-

Percy spent hours at Annabeth’s bedside. Not once did he let go of her hand, even when the physician did his work. There was poison in her bloodstream; not much, but enough to be dangerous. She drifted in and out of consciousness. In the short moments she was awake, Percy managed to piece together what happened after he disappeared.

She was alone for only a few moments. Just enough for Akhlys to turn her attention solely to Annabeth. The poison had just reached her torn up ankle when Tartarus disappeared and she was dropped on Ithaca’s shore.

It didn’t make sense. But it also did. A few moments’ difference between when the unknown force swept Percy and Annabeth to the past translating to a few hours’ difference in Ithaca. Percy didn’t much feel grateful to the gods anymore, but maybe someone was looking out for them. He’d thought, when he landed here… but no, she was alive.

He brushed a stray lock of hair out of Annabeth’s face. He’d done his best to get the matted blood and dust out of her curls, but he could only do so much without soap. She hummed, eyes fluttering back open.

“Hey,” he said with a smile.

“Hey yourself,” she whispered back.

He ran a thumb over the back of her hand. He could hear every beat of her heart, feel the poison as it tried to force its way through her bloodstream. It was… overwhelming, frankly. From the moment he grabbed hold of Akhlys’s, it was like a whole new layer of his powers opened up. Heartbeats pounded in his ears. First just Annabeth’s, alone down there in the pit, but now it was everyone. The anxious flutter of Telemachus’s, the sure and steady pounding of Odysseus’s, and dozens of others all over the palace. Gods, it was so loud.

There was a chasm in front of him where these new powers hid, yawning wide. Beckoning. All he had to do was jump.

Would anyone be able to hurt him again, if he took that leap?

Tha-thump. The poison pushed against his hold. It broke him out of his thoughts, pushing him away from the chasm’s edge. He forced the poison back to the open wound at her ankle. He was so close to getting it out.

Annabeth wasn’t stupid; she winced as the poison made its way back down her leg. Her eyes found his and she squeezed his hand. “Is that you?”

He swallowed and nodded.

She closed her eyes and loosed a breath.

He looked down at their intertwined hands. “Does it scare you?” He remembered her face in those hazy moments before he was swept to the past—her wide eyes, the tears running down her cheeks. He remembered the way her heartbeat had suddenly reached his ears, thrumming like a trapped hummingbird. He remembered feeling powerful

“Yes,” she whispered, because she would never lie to him.

His hold on her hand tightened.

“Do I scare you?” He whispered.

“No.”

He loosened his grip.

They sat in silence for a while. Percy focused on the poison in her body. It was almost sentient; it wanted to move, to eat. It fought against his hold. It had been easier to control in the pit. But somehow, he finally managed to force it out. Annabeth let out a small gasp as the acidic liquid left her body and dropped onto the towel beneath her ankle. The physician had thought him insane when he unwrapped the broken limb, but Percy was right. Take that, Ancient Greek med school.

She relaxed once the poison was fully out. Her head tilted to rest against his arm, lips against his skin. “Thank you.”

He carded his free hand through her hair. It caught in a snag. Maybe he should ask for some soap after all.

“Have you slept?” Annabeth murmured, eyes closed.

He shook his head. Then, realizing she couldn’t see him, he said, “No.”

She scooted back on the little bed and opened her arms up.

“You need rest,” he protested.

“We both need rest,” she countered, eyes cracking open. “Are you going to make me sleep alone?”

Well, when she put it like that… he sighed. He couldn’t resist such a tempting invitation. With a half-hearted mutter of protest, he climbed into the bed and gathered her into his arms. She felt so small against him. She needed to eat, regain strength.

But… sleep first.

For the first time since falling into Tartarus, Percy let himself rest.

-0-

Odysseus watched the two time travelers sleep in the healer’s room, curled around each other protectively. Annabeth rested partially on top of Percy, hand clasped in his. He had his free hand splayed across her back, holding her in place. They looked… peaceful. Odysseus was suddenly struck by how young they were. Barely adults. The life of a demigod was never easy—Achilles being his primary example—but these two had been through so much already. It seemed remarkably unfair.

A hand snaked around his waist. Penelope. “You said you would tell me if this ever happened again.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I intended to when I assessed he was no longer a threat.”

She hummed. “I am more resilient than you think, Odysseus.”

He knew as much, but he was loathe to put her through anything traumatic again. He’d left her to defend herself for far too long.

“Will they be alright?” She asked. He knew she wanted to prod him more about leaving her out, but she chose to let it go for the time being.

“I pray they will,” he replied.

In her sleep, Annabeth made a soft sound of pain. Percy immediately wrapped an arm tighter around her without waking up. It was like they were one being—when one was in pain, the other felt it and adjusted accordingly.  

Penelope took his hand. “Do you remember when we were that young?”

He smiled softly. “Of course. We had it much easier, however.”

She laughed breathily. “That we did.”

He pressed another kiss to her hair. It was streaked with gray, now, but to him she would always be the wild young woman he fell in love with many decades ago.

“I will prepare them a room.” Penelope stepped away from his side, leaving him suddenly cold. “Do you believe they will stay a while, this time?”

Odysseus turned to look at the young couple again. Percy had been eager to leave when he thought Annabeth was alone in Tartarus, but with her here, perhaps he would allow himself time to heal. “I hope so.”

“Then I will prepare accordingly.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before making her way down the hall.

-0-

They stayed for five days.

Once they were washed and rested, they looked both better and worse. Better because they were clean of the dried blood and filth that followed them out of the pit. Worse because without the layer of grime, they looked even more gaunt. The bruises on their skin stood out harsh against skin that looked like it had not seen sunlight in far too long.

When Odysseus asked Percy how long they had been in Tartarus, he only shrugged. “Time moves differently down there. It could’ve been days, could’ve been months. I don’t really know.”

“In real world time it was probably only a week or two,” Annabeth supplied after his lackluster answer. “But even I can’t tell.”

They kept to themselves mostly. Annabeth was a lot more cautious to reveal information about the future. She was clearly a demigod as well—she moved with the divine grace and agility of one. But when Odysseus had asked about her godly parent, her (strikingly familiar) gray eyes only sparkled as she shook her head.

He knew, he thought. And Telemachus did too. But some answers were not for him to have confirmed.

The gods were curiously quiet during their stay. Besides Athena’s single intervention of transporting Telemachus to the beach to knock out Percy, they had not seen a single god. Perhaps they sensed something they should not interfere with. It was unusual for the gods to stay out of things, but stranger things had happened.

And, Odysseus thought as his eyes flicked to look at Annabeth, he wasn’t sure how Athena would handle what he suspected in the young demigod.

Nonetheless, their stay was pleasant. Percy was much happier with Annabeth at his side, less prone to anger. They did not let the other out of their sight. It made for some uncanny moments when the two would both turn to face Odysseus as he entered the room, inhuman eyes shining, but he was quick to recover himself each time. They were not threats, just traumatized, and barely adults at that.

He did not want them to leave, he realized after a few days. As they spent more time away from Tartarus, the boy Odysseus remembered began to shine through in Percy again. And though he did not know Annabeth from before, light returned to her eyes. Their frames filled out, their bruises faded, and they even laughed at times. He was loathe to send them back to the hard life they came from.

“It’s another prophecy,” Percy explained when Odysseus insisted they stay longer. “We barely got a break. Gods know I don’t want to go back. But…”

“But we can’t leave them,” Annabeth finished.

Percy nodded. “We have to close the doors.”

“How can you be certain you will return to the earth and not the pit?” Odysseus asked. He could not imagine anyone choosing to enter the depths of hell.

The two demigods shared a look. For a moment they looked older, weathered. The weight of the world settled onto their shoulders.

“We… we won’t be going to the surface. We have to go back to Tartarus,” Percy said as he dragged his eyes away from Annabeth. His voice caught on the name of the pit, like it burned his throat. “The doors can only be unchained from that side.”

What he said finally clicked in Odysseus’s brain. His eyes widened. “The Doors of Death?”

Annabeth nodded somberly. Her hand found Percy’s and laced their fingers together.

“You would willingly subject yourself to that?” Odysseus asked, dumbfounded. He was reminded of Percy’s first visit to the island, shouldering a prophecy that spelled his death. He had asked a similar question, then.

Percy nodded.

“Must it be you?”

A small, lopsided smile spread on Percy’s face. “It always is.”

There was a tiredness in their eyes, but their shoulders were high. They looked… well, they looked like he did, jumping back into the sea from Calypso’s island. Knowing he had to leave, wanting to leave, but still tempted by the promise of peace. The easy way out.

People like them, though, did not often get the easy way out.

“Then I will give you whatever supplies I can,” Odysseus said.

Neither demigod protested this time. And when he walked them to the shore, Penelope and Telemachus accompanied him. It was a proper send off, if you ignored the unconventional way their guests were departing.

As they shouldered their bags, Percy and Annabeth glanced back up at the palace. They wore new clothes, their repaired armor on top of it. Annabeth’s hair was back in two neat plaits, and their injuries were treated as best as possible. Annabeth’s ankle, though not entirely healed, was braced in a much better splint.

Percy leaned over and muttered something to her. She cracked a grin and hit him on the shoulder. His eyes shone the color of the water behind him.

“Do you know how to return?” Odysseus asked, just in case.

The two shared a look. Percy cracked a small smile. “Annabeth has a theory. And she tends to be right about those.”

That, Odysseus could believe. And, based on Telemachus’s soft laugh, he did as well. They both knew someone else like that.

Penelope approached the two and placed a gentle hand on Annabeth’s face. “Be safe, child of wisdom. Do not let anything underestimate you.”

Of course Penelope had figured it out as well. Annabeth’s eyes sparkled at the title, no hint of alarm in them.

Of course she knew they knew.

Penelope dropped her hand from Annabeth’s face and turned to Percy, looking him up and down. “I do not like your father.”

Percy blinked, taken aback.

“However.” Penelope put a hand on his shoulder. “If any god’s child were to be powerful enough to survive the pit, I suppose it would be his.” She smiled.

“Uh, thanks?” Percy said.

Penelope nodded once and stepped back. “Survive. Both of you. We know what it is like to defy the odds.” She looked toward Odysseus and Telemachus, then back. “You will as well.”

Odysseus gripped Percy’s forearm and met his gaze. If you had asked Odysseus five, ten years ago if he would ever be able to look into these eyes and not feel rage, he would have denied it vehemently. But now, when he gazed into the green, he did not see Poseidon’s eyes, but Percy’s.

“If we ever see each other again, please let it be in less dire circumstances,” Odysseus said.

“No promises,” Percy joked.

Odysseus squeezed his forearm, giving him a soft smile. “Be strong, boy. You have seen terrible sights, and you will see them through.”

Percy squeezed back, then let go.

The boy stepped back to take Annabeth’s hand once more. He leaned down to give her a soft kiss. The emotion in their eyes was so tender, so full of love, that Odysseus almost had to look away.

In the light of the setting sun once again, they stepped into the surf and disappeared from sight.

Guide them out of the depths, Odysseus prayed to the empty shoreline. Fate, I beg, please be kind.

Athena materialized next to him. “I hope they will make use of the Ambrosia I added to their packs.”

Odysseus nearly jumped out of his skin.

“You were supposed to stay hidden!” Telemachus hissed.

“From my future kin’s eyes. They are gone now,” Athena said, simply. At Odysseus’s incredulous look, she added, “oh fear not, I do not break my vow to conceive Annabeth. The weave of her life shows she was born as I was.”

And do not let this cause the butterfly effect that Percy spoke of, Odysseus added to his prayer, scowling at the ocean.

“I never thought I would have children, but this has opened up new possibilities,” Athena continued.

Oh Fates, Odysseus threw into the void, please.

“Later, though. I do not wish to experiment with this just yet.” Athena nudged Odysseus. He glanced at her, catching Penelope barely concealing laughter just behind. “Do not fret.”

“I always fret,” Odysseus said.

Penelope finally laughed, and so did Athena. Odysseus allowed himself to join in once Telemachus did, and a weight lifted off his shoulders. Something about sending them off together, rather than Percy alone, made him feel better. Somehow, he knew they would survive. Together.

The orange light of the setting sun reflected off the sea.

Let their journey be swift and merciful, he finally settled on, and let the sea carry them safely home.