Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"It's fine, I understand what you're saying. I'll try to be more careful next time.” The words feel forced, stiff in an unnatural way in his mouth. Percy smiles although he is sure that the only thing his face shows is a grimace. There is glass on the wooden floor and the sound of the city leaks stronger than normal —You can hear the horn of the taxis, people talking and a couple of dogs barking as usual—; The sun is setting, and it's one of those rare evenings when the smog isn't so thick that the orange hues can be seen fading into the deep blue of a night with few stars and many lights from the skyscrapers.

Sally —his mom—is standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, giving him that not-disappointed-but-tired look he'd seen a few times during his childhood; a few feet away in the apartment's kitchen is Paul, holding Estelle, his little sister, who still had a few tears on her cheeks.

“Percy…”

“I’m going to clean this ok?” Percy points to the floor with a gesture of his hand, “and then I’ll go to sleep.” He is careful as he walks; he doesn’t want to end up with glass on the soles of his feet. He passes Paul on his way to the small closet where they keep the broom and other cleaning supplies; Estelle looks at him with large brown eyes that flicker between nervousness and curiosity.

“I can do it honey.” The woman says, but there's not much conviction in her words. Percy can see the resignation in her eyes, and that reaffirms his decision. He doesn't try to explain anything, doesn't offer truths that sound like excuses; she simply grabs the broom and dustpan to begin cleaning the floor.

“It’s getting late, and it’s my fault anyways ok? You need to rest, tomorrow is a big day for all of you…” Paul leaves the kitchen and Sally follows him. They both go to put Estelle to bed in the little girl's room. The murmur of the two adults' voices, the warmth of their words, can be heard—sweet and kind—, Percy knows it will take them a while inside; between the endless questions and the two or three stories that will be told that night; so he doesn't rush his work but allows himself to get lost in his thoughts. There's an emotion inside him that he can't quite name —or maybe he is scared to—. It coils around his chest and sucks the air out of him, begins to whisper negative things in his ears, and makes tears appear in his eyes but he manages to not spill them. He thinks about how unfair it is to be thrust in his face, a life that can never be his, a life that was never within his grasp.

A mortal, peaceful life; with a present father and a smiling mother, with bedtime stories and breakfasts spent laughing; a life far from walls that smell of cigarettes and alcohol, far from overwhelming silence and fear, from expectations that can never be fulfilled; a life without prophecies, without impossible missions, without monsters that appear out of nowhere, breaking glass and terrorizing little sisters. A life where Percy can be nothing more than a kid, a boy; someone.

It's not Estelle's fault, she's clear about that. But Percy sometimes feels pain seeing the life he was never meant to have, especially the fact that Mother is one of the main characters, but where —despite what Sally and Paul say— there's no room for him.

He throws the glass pieces into the trash and wipes it with a wet rag to collect the splinters and tiny fragments that are sure to be left behind. Despite being extremely careful, Percy feels a sting in the palm of his hand. He watches the reddish blood—is that a pale golden shine?—dribble down his skin, and for a couple of seconds, that's all he can focus on. Percy feels the walls begin to close in around him, the air not seeming to be enough, his lungs not seeming to be able to be filled; his mind takes him back to that horrible moment when, for the first time in his life, he drowned. He drops the piece of cloth in the sink; his breathing is labored and the edges of his vision are already blurry.

He staggers, feeling his legs weaken, his feet catching between them and then the rug in the living room. He tries not to make too much noise, but he doesn't know if he's succeeding in his mission. The broken window—which is between a sofa and the hallway leading to the bedrooms—looks out onto the fire escape, which an hour ago was being used by an Empousai in pursuit and was now being used by Percy to escape.

The air in New York is very distinctive, if you ask him. There's smoke in the clouds and the rusty smell of the metal structures surrounding many of the buildings. The ladder creaks as Percy uses it to climb to the roof, and what many would have considered a respectable and anxiety-inducing height was nothing to him, not after having jumped greater distances on more than one occasion.

And while it's not a scary distance from the ground, it's the perfect height to see part of the city, the one Percy knows perfectly; he sees the lights of the cars, the billboards; there are sirens blaring through the alleys along with the red and blue lights announcing his arrival. There's a faint hint of soy coming from the Chinese restaurant a few feet away, and the sour scent of the monster he just defeated. He thinks of Annabeth, of the choice she faced at just seven years old, and the journey she had to make to get to camp—of what she lost in that moment: a family, a roof over her head, safety, and that childlike innocence she could never have again. Not after seeing the real world, experiencing it firsthand—and although at the time Percy thought it had been a somewhat extreme reaction, now he understood. Percy understood feeling out of place, seeing how there was a family she could never fully belong to, not having anyone on his side; at least not completely.

Percy hadn't understood because it had always been him and his mother against the world—the teachers, Gabe, people in general, and the phantom memory of an absent father—so he'd never had to face reality without his mother, had never considered the possibility that that day would come. But now it was happening, and Percy didn't blame her, couldn't blame her for having created something he longed for, too. A family that wasn't exposed to dangers beyond those usual with living in New York.

And it wasn't that he doubted his mother's love at all! Because he knew perfectly well that she loved him with all her heart and always would, that his mom had done everything possible to give him the best life possible and that it always would be that way; but Percy was also aware that his mother had the right (and the opportunity) to rebuild her life, to find that happiness that had been impossible for her for years.

The demigod reaches the rooftop with ease; his legs are burning, but that doesn't matter. The aire currents hit his face hard, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn't worry about anyone seeing him, because even if the fog doesn't confuse mortals, the sight of a boy on the rooftop with his arms outstretched isn't the strangest sight in that city. The pressure on his shoulders seems to fade a little; he can breathe more easily, but it all still feels like too much. Yet, Percy does what he knows best: he stays standing.

Percy no longer thinks only of his mother and the life he has; he also thinks of his father, Poseidon, god of the sea—and of other things—king of Atlantis, and the god he's only seen a couple of times in his life. He knows the restrictions played a significant role in why the god didn't visit him during his childhood, but there's still a kind of resentment that Percy knows will never fully go away. The memories that appear in his mind are few, lacking in interaction and affection but laden with expectations—recovering the lightning bolt, preventing a war, saving the world, allowing the destruction of Atlantis, or ensuring humanity's future—moments filled with cold words, a self-imposed distance that seemed impossible to erase.

There have been a couple of visits to the god's kingdom, where he wears a crown and his subjects worship him as much as they fear him. A palace filled with coral and pearls, with magical mosaics depicting a time of tranquility so different from that visit when they were in the midst of war. Windows look out onto seaweed gardens and schools of happily swimming fish, dolphins who are generals, and sharks that behave like excited puppies toward those who approach them.

Empty, quiet rooms far enough away from the main wing that Percy didn't interact much with the rest of the Atlantean royal family, but as close as possible to avoid rumors or gossip.

He never harbored any illusions of being welcomed, never expected to be accepted by his father's wife; Amphitrite had been quite clear not only with her words but with her attitude as well. She was the queen of the sea, Poseidon's wife; a goddess in her own right and the only woman who completely had her father's love—at least she didn't wish for his immediate demise like Hera, thankfully—. And Triton… oh! The Heir of the Sea had been so vocal in his dislike of the demigod that Percy was perfectly clear he despised his existence to the hilt. The few times they'd interacted after their first 'meeting,' Triton had expressed his displeasure not only with him, but also with the fact that Percy was in the palace, with him taking up space there; with him believing himself to be 'entitled' to the kingdom —something Percy had never said—, of being called the ‘Savior of Olympus’ to the one who had caused the almost complete destruction of his home (without caring that without the request made to his father he would have no home at all or perhaps even exist to complain about—.

Perhaps what hurt him most was Poseidon's veiled indifference, how he simply sighed tiredly but said nothing in the face of his constant verbal attacks; and Percy? Percy didn't blame him, not when Triton was his son, the heir to his kingdom; why would his father choose the mortal son who would eventually disappear from time over his divine offspring?

Percy walks to the edge again, sits down carefully, and enjoys the feeling of his feet dangling in the void.

“I’d really like a cup of hot chocolate” her murmurs softly, his gaze lost in the distance.

“Hestia says that it is a comfort beverage for you mortals, is that true? ” Percy isn't startled by the god's arrival. Seconds before he appears, the demigod feels the air thicken. How the smell of ozone fills the place, and in the distance a lightning bolt appears, only to disappear a few moments later. Zeus's voice is just as Percy remembers it: deep and slightly weary; it's a bit like a storm, absolute and decisive.

“She's right. Many mortals drink hot chocolate when the winter season arrives, but most of us have a cup when the moment calls for it. After a tough day, or even to celebrate. It depends.” Percy finds it amusing to explain such common things to the gods, most of the time there are things so minute that they escape their knowledge even though they have existed for centuries.

Zeus makes a noise of affirmation, the sound of the god's footsteps approaching is heard and the smell of chocolate also appears with him. The demigod is surprised to see that his uncle —he has the right to call him that ok?—sits next to him and hands him a disposable cup filled with freshly made hot chocolate; it even has a couple of small marshmallows swimming in it. The boy glances at the man out of the corner of his eye. He's wearing a pair of dress pants and a white shirt (not the suit he saw him in the last time he stood before him). His hair is black, but it has some white highlights that make him look about fifty years old. They both silently observe the city that never sleeps.

“You don’t intend to jump, do you? Because your Father wouldn’t be happy with that decision.” The king of the gods asks with what appears to be curiosity. Percy snorts, somewhere between amused and slightly offended, but not at all angry.

“Nah, don’t worry. I just needed a moment of silence,” Percy replies calmly, “Things lately have been… too much.” He doesn’t know exactly why he’s saying this to the god when he should be asking him the reason for his visit. Percy should be gathering all the information he can about the mission he’d surely be given. If not, what would be the reason for Zeus’s presence? The god doesn’t just show up to chat.

“The camp?”

“Among other things” Percy can't tell him about his doubts, his contempt. He can't explain the tangle of feelings in his chest. He can't tell him about the longing for the mortal life before him without the god taking offense; he can't explain that feeling of not belonging to any world. Percy doesn't believe the gods will ever be able to understand those feelings, at least not the way mortals did, not with the intensity of a finite life that feels lost.

After a few seconds, a question forms on the tip of his tongue, and before he can change his mind, he decides to say it out loud. "Does it ever get easier?”

Zeus doesn't seem surprised, but he is thoughtful. If anyone knows about almost impossible missions, it's him, no matter how hard it is for Percy to admit it out loud. He knows the myth, how his uncle was given the task of not only defeating his father but also saving his brothers; of ending a dark age and establishing an order that allows for the progress not only of the gods but of humanity as a whole.

The god hasn't been an excellent king; in fact, he has many mistakes to his name; a series of errors and bad decisions that have affected everyone; but he also carries a burden that no one else knows about. One that is his alone to exist with.

“No.” The answer is blunt and sincere: "It gets harder as the centuries go by."

A couple of police cruisers  pass by on the street below them.

"When do I have to leave?" It's best to ask this right away, so you he not only prepare but also mentally prepare for another quest that's likely almost impossible to accomplish. "What do I have to avoid this time?” ‘Another titan rise?’ He adds in his mind.

“Nothing.”

Percy turns to look at the god so quickly that his neck burns slightly. Surely a muscle or a couple of tendons are strained, but it's more the demigod's disbelief than anything else.

“I didn’t show up here to give you a mission. Olympus is completely at peace for the first time in a long time, and none of the gods have lost anything, as far as I know,” he admits with what Percy identifies as pride, “though I can’t guarantee anything.” Zeus adds after a couple of seconds, remembering that both Apollo and Hermes are capable of losing something at any moment. “However, I reiterate that I didn’t come to you to give you a mission.”

“So.. If the hot chocolate isn’t a bribe, then what is it?”

“A gesture of goodwill.”

“And the fact that you’re sitting here next to me  looking at a part of New York City isn’t a prelude to a new mission, is it?”

“No.”

“Then, what’s the reason?”

“Mere curiosity. I always keep a fraction of my attention focused on powerful demigods, especially those with the power to destroy the world as we know it…” Percy is sure that, that is a—very poor—attempt at a joke; which makes him gasp slightly. “I don’t usually say it outright, but I care about my family, Percy.”

A lump forms in the demigod's throat. The moment he's living is strange and surreal, but somehow it feels right. The night advances slowly; soon Apollo will travel across the firmament in the solar chariot, bringing the sunrise with him.

But in those moments, where Percy has at his side a god whose existence puts his own mortality into perspective, and the fact that his future is nothing more than a moment in the plan of destiny—as far as he knows—Percy Jackson feels like he's just himself; just one more person among the millions who exist. Percy feels like nothing can happen to him in those moments.

There is an old library, forgotten at the ends of the earth; submerged in dust, ruins, and memories of forgotten civilizations. It exists beyond time, wrapped between the slats of fate and eternity. It has no name, no memory except the words written within it; words that cover the walls, that move like snakes; that slither and twist around each other. There are a pair of verses that glow in gold:

The one who holds the crown

Should seek the one who see.

A golden sea and a red sky should appear

If the blindness remains in front of the unaware.

The lighting should learn how to hear from the

One who knows how to cry for a name that is

other than the one he owns.

A new era will start, and thus the thriving times

Should arrive once they both know how important their roles

Are.

[…] the first step has been taken.

Chapter Text

Percy is not a born hero, much less a natural strategist. Percy is a survivor shaped by necessity, by circumstances. Percy is a child who was observed once and given all the responsibility that came with being the “hero” of the prophecy; a burden he never asked to bear.

The desk is covered with papers, scribbles on folded notes, and books with broken spines, worn out from use and the passage of time. The caps of the pens are chewed, and a cup of tea lies cold on the edge of the table. Percy holds a silver drachma in his hands, the inscription already worn away but the relief of the engraving remains. There is no one he wants to call. The calendar in front of him has more days crossed off than he expected, a circle marking his return to camp—something that at another time would have filled him with joy but now was the cause of his stress—. Who had had the brilliant idea that he was the right person to lead it? Who had observed him and decided he was capable? What was he capable of? After all, he was just a kid playing in the big leagues with no preparation other than a little luck and the desire to live another day.

Percy was not a hero, at least not one like those in myths—like his brothers and cousins of old—. He was not the kind of hero who sails seas infested with monsters of his own free will in search of some kind of recognition; he does not leave his name engraved on rocks, nor does he rearrange the stars in the sky. Percy is the kind of hero who rebels, who finds himself at the mercy of fate, who prefers to walk alone and far away; he is the kind of reluctant hero who judges, who criticizes; whose courage is defined by his actions, yes, but in which the only drop of selfishness is the desire to stay alive.

Sometimes in his dreams, the words of a twelve-year-old Annabeth still haunt him, words about wanting to go out and see the world, to seek glory, to make a name for herself among the greats, so that finally someone would turn to her and tell her she was a source of pride. Percy never understood that, not from the reality he came from, not after spending the first twelve years of his life trying to be invisible, making himself small—fitting everything he was into the cabinet under the sink, into the closet in his room, between two dumpsters in an alley, between the desks in the classroom—learning to love silence, understanding that it is often better to exist without anyone watching you than to have the eyes of the whole world on you. And yet, now his life was under public scrutiny, under the critical gaze of people who believed they had the right to take his life and analyze it, judge it. For Chiron, he was no longer a child; he had passed that stage where he needed a hug, kind advice, or a white lie. For the campers, he was their leader, the one who knew what to do, who made the difficult decisions, the person they turned to when there was a problem... the one they blamed when something happened. 

To his friends—those people who saw him grow up and cry and suffer and do everything possible to win a war that was not his—he was the hero of two prophecies (although it was not true), the demigod who had his father's favor and affection, someone who could speak without fear of reprisals; the man who had managed to defeat fate itself—and even, at times, a monster with powers that should never have been his. And for Olympus, for the gods who were eternal and for whom mortals were nothing more than a blink of an eye, Percy was the half-breed who had dared to tell them those painful truths to their faces, he was the one who had stood in the throne room and demanded change, he was insolent, brazen; a hero too small for the legends that preceded him but too great to owe him anything more than a simple thank you.

But what about Percy? Where was that version of him that was absolutely him? Intrinsically him; Percy the boy who was still learning to survive in the world, who was just finding his place; who still sometimes feared the dark and just wanted a break. Who was that Percy for? Who saw him that way? Who could understand that even after all these years, the war had robbed him of the opportunity to make mistakes? 

Percy was—and felt like—a myth, like a bedtime story, like a premonitory tale, a warning that parents gave their children. He was everything and nothing, a ghost among his own people. He had no right to complain, nor to want to take a step back; he couldn't wish for another life, fewer responsibilities, something more than the legacy he had been given, because then he would be cruel and selfish; he would be unfair and inconsiderate to the rest. But none of them had had to live what he had, none of them understood the deep exhaustion that crept into his bones when night fell and the bunks around him remained empty; when the waves were no longer comforting but a clock running out of hours. 

He leaves his room quietly even though no one else is in the apartment, the wooden floorboards creaking under his feet and the cold air making his skin prickle. It feels strange to coexist with loneliness—even if it is temporary—and tranquility. Estelle's toys are scattered around the living room and Paul's class exams are half-graded on the counter leading to the kitchen. His mother's computer shines in its usual place due to her absence, but that's to be expected; after all, she needs it that night to shine brighter than usual. There is a kind of tightness in his chest that grows as he opens the refrigerator in search of butter; he knows that his mother has a life, a daily routine that does not include him even if he wanted it to because, unfortunately, Percy is not a constant, he is not a reliable figure. The demigod feels lucky that his sister recognizes him, that Paul still names him as part of his family... that his name appears on Christmas cards even though his face is a mystery to those who receive them. That night is no different; the three of them have had the opportunity to attend a literary event: the presentation of Sally's new book. Months ago, she had confirmed her guest list... tickets were limited, and at that time, her son had disappeared somewhere in the country, fulfilling the request of some capricious god he couldn't count on. Percy had noticed the guilt in his mother's tone, the desperate attempt to fix something that wasn't her fault but another of life's eventualities; a moment that had happened and was now over. 

“It's okay, don't worry. I don't mind staying home.” That's what the boy had said amid the hasty apologies. “Besides, with my luck? I'm sure a monster would crash the ceremony, and I'd feel terrible doing that to you.” And even though it was true, Percy had used it a bit as emotional blackmail, which had ended up working.

That's why he was sharing the space with silence and without any butter for the toast he intended to make for dinner—the refrigerator had even started making the strange noise it makes when it stays open too long because Percy had lost himself in the ramblings of that monologue that was his inner voice. 

Suffocated and overwhelmed by the atmosphere in the apartment, Percy took the front door keys from the decorative bowl where his mother always kept them and ventured out into the crowded streets of the city that never slept. No matter if it was raining, unbearably hot, or even snowing like it was at that moment, people always found a way to make their presence felt on the sidewalks. Perhaps that was what he liked most, the way they took ownership of the space, the way fear was not part of their vocabulary; every hot food stand, every piece of graffiti on the walls, the stickers at the bus stops, the smog from the cars, the music that came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It was a living city, standing strong despite adversity, a city where its people stood up for themselves; the city that had shaped him, that had taught him. The ledges were full of pigeons and other birds, and every now and then a squirrel would steal something from a plate of food left unattended by a carefree visitor, and more than one rat would cause cries of surprise among hurried passersby. The cell phone in his pocket vibrated, but Percy knew it was no one important—just a random notification or a generic message from his phone company. With each step he took, the building he had left behind grew smaller on the horizon, like a smudge in the middle of a colorful and somewhat blurry canvas. 

Pizza places advertised slices for two dollars, thrift stores displayed vintage items that were treasures for collectors, and a bar with screens showed a game at full volume. Percy allowed himself to marvel at the simplicity of mortal life, the kind that is plagued with “normal” worries about school or money and not about the end of the world, impossible rescues, or punishments for saying the wrong thing in front of the wrong god. 

What are their fears? Their concerns? He can't help but wonder; he wants to know what it's like to live far from the divine world. What it's like to go to sleep at night without fearing that a new prophecy will be recited at dawn, without the anxiety that someone will appear in the middle of the night to give him a new vision. Would he feel just as overwhelmed? Would they—the mortals—also have that feeling of not knowing what to do? Of not knowing where to go with their lives? Percy hears children laughing and concerned parents shouting “watch out.” He turns his head to the right and one of the parks scattered throughout the city welcomes him. There are colorful flags hanging on the entrance gate, slightly faded but still waving in the breeze. The wooden benches are almost completely occupied. In front of the playground, mothers watch over their young children, a couple of elderly people point to the sky, which is beginning to turn orange and purple, sitting on the benches in front of the chess boards, and a man concentrates on reading an old-looking book next to the fountain, which barely spouts water. Percy blinks several times, slightly confused as he tries to unravel the mystery before him. He walks over to the man in the familiar gray suit, murmuring softly in a language the world has long forgotten. Why is he there? Why at that precise moment? Has the grace period he was granted on the roof of his apartment come to an end? Zeus does not respond to his presence, as if he is unaware that he is there, remaining focused on the book until the demigod clears his throat to get his attention. The two stare at each other, one confused and the other slightly irritated—Percy is the latter—at first there are no words, and all the god does is move aside to make enough room for both of them. 

“Can we skip the small talk and get straight to the mission I have to carry out?” 

“At our last meeting, I told you that Olympus is at peace. That there is no mission for you.” 

“I know firsthand how quickly things can change. Especially with you guys.” 

Zeus knows he should feel offended by the hero's distrust, but he cannot help conceding that his words are true. The gods are not known for keeping their promises, much less for remaining at peace; they are volatile beings, thousands of years old and with a distorted perception of time and danger. Percy has witnessed this, always in the midst of the storm, always sacrificing something—time, life, dreams—to keep egos dormant; it is inevitable that his first thought is that another moment has come when he must put his life on hold to appease others. It is sad and true at the same time. 

“This really is the city that never stops,” the king of the gods chooses to say. “Even in the middle of a park, where there should only be peace and quiet, there is noise, people coming and going.” 

“It's always been like this... It's worse on the main avenues, there's really no peace there.” Percy glances sideways at Zeus, still feeling distrust bubbling beneath his skin. He knows that trusting the gods isn't always the smartest choice; there's always something else. “Shouldn't you be on Olympus? I mean, even if everything is peaceful, I'm sure you have responsibilities to attend to...” The filter between his brain and his mouth is working less and less. He has no time to regret it, only to accept whatever punishment comes for the insolence in his words.

But nights in New York are full of surprises, some better than others. Unexpected, and on this occasion, it is the amused and barely contained laughter of the older man. 

“We gods have the ability to divide ourselves, so to speak; our primordial essence is sufficient to allow us to be in several places at once. And although I regularly tend to be completely on Olympus, there are times when even someone like me needs a break. To distract myself from the chaos up there, and what better place than to come down to the city I've grown fond of?” 

“I had never considered the idea that the almighty king of the sky would need to escape for a couple of hours, and I certainly would never have imagined that he would do so here, among mere mortals and the occasional ungrateful demigod.” 

“If you dealt with Apollo and Hermes all the time, you'd leave Olympus too.” Two cups of hot chocolate appear out of nowhere again, marshmallows floating and melting slowly; Percy accepts the drink and takes a sip as he continues listening. “Why do you find it strange that I choose to be here?”

“Why is the mortal world inferior?” 

“Inferior to whom? Inferior to me?” There is a misconception about the god, caused by stories that have been passed down by word of mouth for hundreds of years, changing the words, the story. "I don't believe mortals are in any way inferior or less deserving of respect, much less demigods. I have affection for mortals, an ephemeral one because their lives last for me as long as a council meeting, but they have been there forever...“ there is longing in his voice, ”they survived the era with my father,“ thunder rumbles in the distance. ”The disasters of our fight. They built altars to us and cried out for our presence, for our blessings. They exalted us and made us their protectors, they made us as much theirs as we were theirs." 

“But they disobeyed you too. For every temple erected, there was an offense. How could I believe that you value mortals if you always look upon them with disdain?”

“Why shouldn't they question us? It has always been part of their nature to rebel and disobey; it is innate in mortals. I never expected them to follow my orders to the letter.” 

“And the punishments?”

"Can you really lead without setting rules? Without establishing consequences for the decisions made? How could I have been not only king of the gods but also protector of men without being firm in my actions? Many of the punishments imposed were disproportionate, cruel, and undeserved, but that's how it had to be; they had to understand that you can't play with that which transcends the mortal plane. And even as horrible as they seemed to human eyes, do you think Apollo would have been more merciful? That Demeter would have taken pity on those who ignored or insulted her presence? They are gods who do not understand mortal reasoning, who do not comprehend the reasons behind many decisions...“ It was the first time in millennia that the god had expressed himself in such a way. Having to maintain an impassive face on Olympus made it difficult for him to simply speak without having to measure his words. ”I don't fully understand it either, but I have spent a good part of my existence observing, mingling with them." 

“I know, we all know...” the stories of Zeus and his mortal adventures were well known; there were traces of them in books, in museums... in the tales told around the campfire. 

“Do you think the only times I've lived among mortals are those when I seek comfort in arms other than my wife's? Hera likes to remind me of this, and she likes to leave traces of what happens if someone succumbs to what she calls ‘my charms.’” He makes quotation marks with his fingers, and Percy wrinkles his nose. "But those are not the only times I have mingled with humanity; I have been in cities and seen them rise and fall, I have seen people survive and find joy in the worst of times. I have enjoyed sharing stories and memories with elders and merchants, with sailors who offer tribute to my brother and those who have forgotten that your father rules the seas. I have helped artists, admired buildings, and learned to appreciate the mortality I will never experience; for how could I call myself king if I do not know the problems that afflict my people or the joys that make them laugh after a long day? I am no stranger to this world, Perseus. I may not understand it perfectly, but I appreciate it, and because I care for them, I want them to survive. And when the time came, I had to punish them to teach them the limits that exist." 

“And was that fair? Was it the right thing to do?”

The temperature has dropped, the sky has lost its orange hues; the cups of hot chocolate are empty, but no one makes a move to leave. 

"It wasn't fair, and it never could have been, because we are not equal, and what I see, what I know, will never be understandable to mortals. I know that now these punishments may seem absurd and exaggerated, but you must imagine the times in which they occurred, the people and the environment in which they lived. We are not talking about working people, peasants, or tavern keepers; we are talking about some of them who were kings, warriors, and leaders. Mortals who wanted to be heroes and our children who sought something beyond the glory of defeating a monster. In those centuries, we were not myths or stories told to children; we were real figures, constant presences in mortal lives. People sought not our favor but divine favor. And what if someone thought they could take advantage? If I let it go, what do you think would have happened to the rest? 

“Would everyone have tried to do the same?” 

"Do you think it really affects me when a promise is not kept? When I am not honored properly? These things are disrespectful, but they do not necessarily provoke my anger. Hundreds of people forgot to pray and thank me, but it was never something that warranted punishment. I couldn't expect people to have us in mind all the time; but for a man to cheat death and capture it? To evade the fate that the Moirai have given him since the beginning of his thread? That they seek to tarnish not only the name but also the honor of my wife when he has been invited to my own table? These are actions that cannot be overlooked, that must be used as examples. Because we are not equal, and a mistake must be an example of the difference between our two worlds; they must be a demonstration of the power I had, of the respect that was due to us. 

“And the demigods? Where do they fit in?” Percy did not notice how he had separated himself from the rest, how he had grouped his companions into a group that undoubtedly deserved better treatment but to which he had long since ceased to belong. 

“Have I punished them in these times? Have I taken away their opportunity to exist in this world?” It sounds cruel to say that he has given them the bare minimum, that the mere fact of continuing to breathe is the gift that Zeus has bestowed upon them, but in a world where it is so easy for them to cease to exist with a snap of the fingers, it is quite significant. "It has always been a difficult subject, that of you, our children... it has never been easy. Seeing them try to succeed, coming to love them, and then watching their lives fade away; seeing them end up in the Elysian Fields, but are they really still alive? Or are they just shadows of the people they once were? It is not only Hera who prevents me from having more offspring, nor is it the pact that is no longer in play; it is also the pain of losing them." 

For Percy, the gods had always seemed distant beings who paid them little attention, and if they did give them even a single glance, it was to give them a mission because, in the end, they were tools—or at least that's how they felt—they were a means to whatever end the gods had in mind. But now? He wasn't sure. Not now that he was seeing the other side of things, the complex face of the situation where no option was the right one, only the least painful—for whom?

"Heracles managed to ascend, and I am grateful that I can see Dionysius in the council chamber. Your namesake had a happy ending, but what about the rest? I remember each of their names and their pleas. I am a god, but regrets do not forget or forgive; I am not immune to them. That is why I prefer to stay away, I prefer to be selfish and watch everyone from afar. Not getting involved is the most sensible option; a personal rule that I have not broken." 

“Not until now. These kinds of conversations,” Percy raises his empty cup and points to the space between them on the bench. “The fact that this is the first time I don't feel like I have to watch what I say around you... Will I always be the exception to the rules? The crack in the marble?”

"When have you ever been conventional? When have you ever stayed on the sidelines?“ The god responds with some sarcasm, ”What's the point of ignoring that, whether you like it or not, you've already become part of the family? Besides, it's not like we sought out this conversation, but somehow we both ended up sitting here, with more responsibilities than we ever wanted and that are difficult to bear. You're not a child, you haven't been for a long time, and if I've told you everything I've said today, it's because I know there will be times when not only will you have doubts, but when everyone will be watching you, and for some you will continue to be the hero of Olympus... but for others you will be the villain of many stories." 

“When you put it like that, I can only think of another prophecy.” The son of the sea utters the words mockingly, but there is underlying fear; fear that once again the oracle has spoken words indicating that he is in the midst of a storm—metaphorical—one step away from destroying everything that stands in his way. 

“It would be much easier. At least you would know the possible outcome and the things you should accomplish. Try to maintain order? Do what's best in the long run?” Zeus shakes his head, “It's harder than it looks. Especially when you're the only one who understands the danger they may face.” 

“I've survived worse things.”

There is nothing more for them to talk about. 

“It's been two nights now that hot chocolate is barely enough. Don't think this will become a habit.”

“Not in a million years.”

“Your mother is about to finish her presentation. Go home, pack your bags, and enjoy the day you have left before you have to return to camp.”

“That advice sounds a bit like a warning.” Percy sets the cup he has been cradling in his hands down beside him. It's strange, everything that has happened in the last few weeks, the weight he carries; the pressure in his chest, the silence that comes and goes... everything. 

“That's how it's supposed to be...” Zeus watches his nephew, barely out of childhood and forced into a job solely because of the ichor from which he descended. Greater heroes would have buckled under the pressure, but there was Percy—his brother's son who had defied him every time they had met on Olympus—willing to keep fighting for something that didn't even have a name. The god couldn't help but feel something akin to affection and mixed gratitude—something familiar. “Sleep well tonight, and hopefully the next time we meet, time will have passed so quickly that the days will have blurred together and we won't remember exactly what we talked about today.” 

The king of the gods vanishes like a mirage in the fog, like a bright flash of those stars that disappear in the dark sky. He leaves behind a smell of ozone and storm-laden clouds; the book he had been reading also remains behind; the letters are golden and the spine is made of faded leather.