Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Fall back!” 

Percy Jackson wishes that he could say that they didn’t run into problems often. They, being demigods, of course. Problems being monsters, gods, the whole lot of them. Often, being never. 

It was a wish that remained steadfastly, unfortunately, ungranted. Not for lack of trying. You could find demigods begging, pleading, and cursing out whatever form of higher authority that they still adhered to, in hopes of just an hour of peace and free time. 

He’s seen Apollo kids attempt to prophesize who was next on the hook for a quest, so that the rest of them were free to catch up on the latest additions to the Lord of the Rings franchise in the Big House for a bit while Mr. D was distracted. Watched the Stoll brothers blackmail the Hephaestus Cabin into taking up their chore duties for the week so they could pull off a prank on the Aphrodite kids in peace (to the chagrin of the said newly blue-haired cabin). Hell, even Percy, for his last birthday, blew out all thirteen candles wishing to just be able to go back to ordinary and boring school for the year.

School. The same place he hated for expelling him time and time again for things he had no control over, a fact that he could now claim to be true when he learned that the ‘monster’ teachers he swore were after him all these years were, in fact, actual mythological monsters. Thank you Mrs. Dodds.

So yes, they, demigods, spent a lot of time running from their problems. But, quite frankly, he’d say that it was the problems that ran into them. 

Were running to them.

Polyphemus let out another wordless, blaring yell and Percy felt as though his eardrums were about to burst. The sound bounced off the towering rock walls of the cavern, and the vibrations melted into the ground until it was indistinguishable from a heartbeat. That was then quickly followed by the sound of large hollow feet meeting pavement and meaty hands desperately clawing at hardened skin in a fitful tantrum.

Percy shuddered mid-step. He had to remind himself that none of the brutal blows of the Cyclops were hitting his friends. Yet.

“Curses!” moaned Polyphemus, his unseeing eye full of equally sightless rage. “Curses upon you, No-body!”

Amid his meltdown, Polyphemus flung his arms out and about every which way, in what one could only presume was an attempt to take down the attacking thieves. His hand met air, stalagmite, and then air again, before his fist finally made contact with the nearby wood of the olive tree that creaked viciously under the rage and pressure.

Subconsciously, Percy was glad that the Golden Fleece was tied safely around his belt. Had they left it there on the tree, it probably would’ve been lost to either the gaping hole in the floor or the monster’s raging punches.

Clarisse narrowly dodged said punch that likely would’ve knocked her into the chasm below by slamming herself to the floor, with her hands and knees taking the brunt of the fall, relatively unscathed. Albeit, not without pain, if the gritted teeth and muffled cry out was anything to go by.

“Clarisse! Fall back!” Percy yelled again, feeling very much like a deeply horrified broken record. His eyes flitted back to the left, as he made sure that Grover and Annabeth had started to cross the drawbridge.

Annabeth was down for the count from a nasty hit to the forehead. Quite literally, down for the count, with her head lulling about as she fought to stay conscious as Grover struggled and did his best to carry her. Later, if they did make it out of here, Percy would make fun of her for making the damsel-in-distress princess carry his supposed savior.

Grover was much more of a pacifist to begin with, and paired with the long slightly-moldy wedding dress that he was wearing, he couldn’t contribute much to the fight besides the quick getaway. Though, frankly, Percy was worried about him even walking in that thing to begin with. Let alone, across a hundred foot long haphazard bridge made up by nothing more than rotting wood and rope.

And Tyson was on the opposite side of the cavern, completely separated from the rest of the group by the vast pit and the flimsy drawbridge. He was also much too busy with the man-eating sheep to pay the fight more than a glance of his attention.

All that to say, Clarisse and Percy were the last line of acting defense when it came to keeping Polyphemus at bay.

Said Cyclops, who was now bounding over towards him. Or, technically, the wall he was at before, when he was screaming his head off at Clarisse. 

Thankfully, Annabeth did warn them that they needed to constantly stay moving, before she got caught doing not that and getting knocked out.

Percy skidded to a stop, the tops of his dirtied old sneakers made contact with the first ancient wooden panel of the drawbridge. 

Grover and Annabeth had nearly made it halfway across the bridge, and Clarisse, worryingly, did not deign Percy with a response. 

Percy gritted his teeth as he turned his back on the bridge, not wanting to leave her to fend for herself against the Cyclops, while also desperately wanting to get the hell out of dodge himself. “Clarrise!”

“Just leave the damn thing!” He watched as she, with a laser focus, prowled closer to Polyphemus’ raging form.

He couldn’t fault her for not wanting to go back empty-handed out into the Sea of Monsters. Especially not without the weapon that was technically a gift from her dad, the real piece of work he was. 

Clarisse snapped back, “Oh my gods, shut up! I’m coming.” She narrowly dodged another fist, one that, once again, likely would’ve taken her out. For a blind monster, Polyphemus had a shockingly good sense of direction. 

She lunged forwards, sliding low on her knees, before putting both hands around the electric-silver spear, her spear, that was lodged deep into Polyphemus’ knee and twisted.

If Polyphemus’ earlier roars were loud, the howl that he let out this time was earthshaking. 

Ha. Earthshaking. Son of Poseidon. 

Oh gods, Percy thought to himself, he’s concussed me by sound alone.

It seemed that he wasn’t the only one affected by the sudden emotional and physical turmoil, though. As golden dust began to pour out of the gaping wound, paired with equally pained and enraged wails that fell from Polyphemus’ lips, said shaken earth revolted against them. 

Stalagmites dislodged themselves from the cavern’s roof, crumbling against the stone floor or falling into the gaping chasm below. The drawbridge shook wildly as its occupants attempted to dodge the debris. And the walls, though they didn’t physically move beyond the growing cracks that began to spread up and down their sides, appeared to shake so hard that the world felt like it was closing in on itself.

And Polyphemus, who no longer had to guess and use his immaculate spatial awareness, made a beeline to a stunned, stunted, and bleary-eyed Clarisse. She hadn’t moved from her original spot where she wrangled her spear back. She was the closest to the Cyclops’ deafening cries, and the most obviously affected, sound-concussion aside.

Percy’s reaction was immediate, lurching his body forward to intervene, but the yelled warning thankfully died on his lips as Clarisse whipped away once more. This time, armed with her spear.

Though, Percy would not be thanking any gods for their luck just yet. She was now backed into the cavern’s eroded wall, far away from the drawbridge and far too close to the raging Cyclops.

“Crap, crap, crap…” 

Comparatively, the PG curses that spilled behind Percy’s left shoulder were hushed, but attention grabbing in the situation none the less.

Percy whipped his head to face Grover and Annabeth on the drawbridge. 

The former was caught desperately clinging to one of the worn ropes, his hoofed foot and that damned dress were caught in a hole. One that Percy could only assume was punched out by the falling stalagmites. The latter was letting out a handful of much more colorful curses of her own, as she desperately tried to help tear the dress away from the wood.

“Shit, shit. Tyson!” Percy cursed himself, cursed out the Cyclops, and then called out for his brother, the superior and his personal favorite Cyclops at the moment. 

With Clarisse backed into a literal corner, Grover and Annabeth stuck above an undetermined but potentially deadly drop, and Percy wanting to punch himself for playing with fate by joking about that stupid wedding dress earlier, he was quick to call out for help.

“Tyson!” His brother stood out amongst the flock of man-eating sheep and shot up when he was called upon, thankfully, easily distracted from the rows of razor sharp teeth that were attempting to make a dent in his hardened skin. “Help Grover and Annabeth!”

“Okay!” With the same determined smile as always, Tyson tore his way through and away the dozens of ‘bitey-sheep’ and ran to help his friends that were caught in between a literal rock and a hard place. “Don’t worry, I’m on my way guys!”

Before the words had even left Tyson’s mouth, Percy was moving. Despite the plenty of cuts and bruises and bumps he’s gotten over the past couple of days, the adrenaline (with the help of the Golden Fleece) managed to kick in hard enough to the point where he was on the other side of the roughed up cave floor within moments. 

He slid across the densest part of the rocks, his back hitting the actively dying, torn up olive tree. With a quick check to make sure that he was far enough away from the drawbridge and Clarisse, he yelled.

“Hey stupid!” 

Percy winced as the words flew out of his mouth. For someone so often described as ‘sassy’ and ‘insulting’ by former teachers, principals, and general authority figures, he sure did not live up to the description. 

“Ugly! Idiot! I’m over here!”

"A thou-sand curses on you, Nobody!" promised the Cyclops, who was quickly and easily distracted from Clarisse who was directly in front of him. 

There seemed to be a pattern with Cyclops actively forgetting the potential threat in front of them, Percy sensed. Though, being as banged up and irritable as she was, Clarisse was probably more of a threat to Percy’s ego than the monster of myth.

"Grind you into sheep chow!"

Then came the imminent bound of those very same ugly, large feet. Percy dodged left, quickly racing back towards the godsforsaken drawbridge. This time, he didn’t look back behind him to see Polyphemus roar and wave his meaty fists around in real time.

Thankfully, when he whipped his head to make sure, Clarisse was right there with him.

“Move, Jackson!” Clarisse, ever the gentleman, violently pushed him onto the bridge first, the thinning planks and rope shaking wildly and without abandon under his similarly trembling legs.

Percy really didn’t need to be told twice. If it was up to him, they’d have been on and off this bridge a long time ago. But hey, golden fleeces and electric-silver spears and the leaders of the quest, come first.

There was just something to be said about running from problems. AKA, monsters, gods, the like. But really, it wasn’t anything Percy hadn’t already said before.

He quickly bounded towards the middle of the drawbridge, balancing the line between keeping speedy and keeping the damn thing from throwing them all off. It reminded him, oddly, of the fun houses on Coney Island with his mom. Which was a weird thing for Percy to be thinking of now, of all times.

Between Annabeth’s nimble fingers that were used to dealing with threads and fabrics, and Tyson’s brute strength, the group of three managed to pull themselves out of the gap in the bridge. 

Just in the nick of time. Percy and Clarisse nearly jumped them in their mad dash to get back on solid ground. Finally, all together, the five of them got ready to make a true break for it.

Then, without much of a real warning, the ground shook violently again. And it was paired with the sound of a snapping rope that made Percy’s heart beat like a drum. Repetitive. Terrifying. 

The Cyclops, Polyphemus, the monster that suddenly shot to the bottom of his ranking of people that he had the misfortune of being related to, howled with delight. He stood on the very edge of the drawbridge, knowing that he held their very lives in his hands.

"Failed!" he yelled gleefully, like a petulant child that had so long been denied, only to now be spoiled with exactly what he wanted in the first place. "Nobody failed! Nobody, fall!"

His big, ugly foot hit the first plank, kicking it away.

And bridge gave away to chasm, the group of them along with it. Someone screamed. Or maybe it was him.

Percy supposes, in this scenario, with a sick and twisted sense of irony, that maybe they weren’t always running from their problems. 

Maybe they were falling from them as well.

—————————

Percy doesn’t remember when they stopped falling.

One moment, they were shrieking as they fell through what they originally thought was a bottomless pit. The next, they were groaning as air gave way to rock, and they collided with solid stone.

Percy in particular, cried out as he was dealt the proverbial short end of the stick in this falling situation, having been relegated to the bottom of this pile of bodies for the sole misfortune of being the first person to fall off the drawbridge and into the chasm itself. 

“Augh! Ugh, shit. Shit.” By the moment, curses were slowly becoming a favorite in his vocabulary. It wasn’t his fault that colorful language such as this was the only good descriptor for the pain that was shooting up his right leg and slowly spreading into the rest of his body. “Godsdammit.”

“Tyson, get off me. You’re squishing my leg.” 

Which, in truth, sounded more like “Tys’n ‘euoff me” and some unintelligible nonsense on account of the fact that he had about two hundred and fifty pounds of Cyclops pressing onto his chest.

But his brother got the message regardless. “Oops! Sorry Percy! I didn’t mean to land on you. Or fall at all, really. Sorry.” 

Tyson tore himself off of Percy like one would a bandaid: quickly, out of fear of causing any more pain. And he was a very heavy, bone-crushing bandaid, at that. At least he had the decency to look apologetic, his eyes and hands getting all trembly as he looked over Percy’s injuries.

That made Percy feel bad. “Don’t worry, ‘ts fine.” He attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, something he immediately regretted when the shooting feeling started to feel more like a stabbing one. He winced. “Nothing broken, just bruises.”

He eyed his leg carefully. Percy wasn’t medically experienced by any means but it didn’t look…normal.

“Probably.”

His train of thought was quickly interrupted by a heaving groan to his right. 

“Fuck.” The biting remark was short and definitely not sweet. Clarisse, then.

“There’s children here y’know.” Percy would move to cover Tyson’s ears if he was feeling up to it, which he most definitely was not. So he settled for mock-covering his own ears, “Impressionable young minds.”

Clarisse snarled from where she was fully sprawled out on the stone floor, “Kiss my quiver, Jackson. I’ll break your other leg.”

Maybe a little broken then, if Clarisse of all people noticed it.

Not wanting to really step back (ha) and think about it, Percy really stopped to look at his surroundings. Annabeth had said that one of the most important parts of being a demigod is to make sure that wherever you’re holed up in, is safe. Especially when injured.

The chasm, if you could even call it that, was apparently deceptively large. It was really more of a trench than anything. Maybe a half-drained moat, if the sound of the intaking and outtaking of waves that echoed in the distance was anything to go by. They were close to the ocean, or some body of water anyway. He couldn’t be shore. Ha.

If Percy stood (which would probably be ill advised by Michael Yew and the rest of the Infirmary), he could probably shimmy his way up and out to higher ground with ease. 

It was a stark contrast to the pit that swallowed up rocks upon rocks earlier without so much of a sense that they ever hit the bottom. 

Speaking of which. He wasn’t a rock-scientist by any means, but Percy didn’t think that that many pieces of debris would just disappear out of nowhere. 

The only sign of their fall was the rackety old drawbridge that got them in this whole mess in the first place. It looked brutalized, which was saying something considering it didn’t look too hot to begin with. Planks had landed practically everywhere, the shoddy ropes doing nothing to keep it all together, though that could probably just be chalked up to wear and tear.

Literally, wear and tear. Percy thought back to how Polyphemus ripped the spokes of the old bridge out from the ground and shuddered.

But other than that, as far as he could tell, there was nothing down here, save the five of them.

Annabeth, to his right, who was slowly coming to. Grover who was fretting over her, hands flitting back and forth hesitantly, not wanting to reconcuss her. Clarisse who seemed content to just lay there and wallow in her supposed failure of a quest and surface level cuts for a moment. And Tyson who still looked a little disconcerted.

Percy would have to give him a big hug later. After he got patched up.

He was okay on average, with the exception of his leg. He thinks that he would have a bruise the size of the island of Manhattan on his lower back and maybe some whiplash, but its not like he hadn’t dealt with worse.

The leg on the other hand. 

Percy toyed with the frayed parts of his jeans which, evidently, was most of it at this point. It was covered in holes and dirt and dried blood, but he could still see that the bottom part of his right leg was definitely leaning the wrong way.

He swallowed, nauseous. They’d have to get out of here and a broken leg would most certainly slow them down. And as slow as Polyphemus was, Percy would be slower. So now, really, he was just waiting on the monster to finish the job.

The monster, who had seemingly abandoned his equivalent of a McDonalds Happy Meal.

Percy craned his neck upwards and strained his eyes in the low-light. The upper part of the cavern really was only six, maybe seven feet above them now. But it’s like any trace of Polyphemus was gone.

Normally, he wouldn’t mind having a monster off his tail for a bit. But it was strange and suspicious. And those two qualities never equated to anything good in the mythological world. 

So, in short, five very injured demigods. Four, because Tyson couldn’t and wouldn’t get injured in any meaningful way. All stuck in a trench, with no back up and no plan, and a potentially fitful monster still waiting for said demigods to serve themselves to him on a silver platter.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

“Somethings off.” Came a garbled mumble from Annabeth, her eyes closed. The trench wasn’t bright, but there was enough sunlight pouring in from small crevices along the walls and through the ceiling that it definitely impacted her head injury to a degree. “Really off.”

“Ugh, no shit, Sherlock. We’re trapped in a cave with a rabid monster, you’re going to feel a little nervous. ” Clarisse threw her arms up, letting them fall back to the stone floor with a thunk. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. How hard did you hit your head?”

“Obviously not hard enough if I’m still connecting the dots faster than you. Look around, Watson.”

Annabeth sat up very carefully, opening her eyes with a wince, and used Grover’s offered shoulder to guide her. “We’re definitely not in the same cave.”

“We were falling for more than thirty seconds, probably closer to a minute.” She leaned over slightly to pick up a nearby pebble, one of the only other signs of their disturbance to the cave, and weighed it in her hands for a moment.

She tossed it upwards.

Grover, without any of the same measured carefulness as before, grabbed Annabeth by the shoulders and forcefully ducked the two of them closer to the ground. “Oh my gods! What are you doing? He’s going to hear that.” The words came out rushed and panicked.

The rock cleared the trench wall by a bit, before unceremoniously falling back to the earth in front of her with a plunk and a plunk.

Annabeth, hunched over with Grover, paused for a moment, apparently content to let the rock speak for itself. When it was clear that no one else was really getting it, she sighed. “That was a second, maybe less, to go up and down. If we only fell for that long–half, if we’re being technical–Polyphemus would probably still be right there.”

“Normally, falling for as long as we did means you would be falling for,” her eyes glazed over as she did the math, “tens of thousands of feet.”

While wrapped up in his tight-knuckled embrace, she side-eyed Grover, “Also. It’s a tiny rock, he probably wouldn’t hear that.”

Grover's cheeks warmed over, turning a solid maroon that was visible on his brown skin even in the low light. He freed Annabeth from his vice grip and slowly brought himself and her back up into sitting positions. “...He’s got really good hearing.”

Percy was inclined to agree with Grover on that one. The Cyclops had been scarily accurate spatially, and Grover had spent more than enough time around him to get a feel for that.

“...and you got all of that with your eyes closed?” Percy asked incredulously. He really should have learned to expect it by now, between all of the crazy connections she managed to make back to mythological monsters on their quests (that usually ended up being right) and all of the times that she managed to predict the endings to the movies they snuck in at the Big House (where she always ended up being right).

Annabeth just shrugged and moved her braids out from in front of her face, which showed the particularly large gash along her hairline. It was the only sign that she was still grappling with the aftereffects of the fall minus the wincing every so often. “So yeah. If this was the same cave, we’d be very very dead. Like, not even Golden Fleece would be able to help us, dead.”

Clarisse perked up at that. Not at the dead part, presumably. Though with her, you never really knew until it was too late and you were getting your head shoved into a toilet or getting jumped in Capture the Flag. Without asking, her scraped-up hand shot to Percy’s side.

Percy jolted backwards, hissing in pain as he jolted and dragged his already wonky leg. “Dude!” 

“Calm your tits, just need to get the Fleece. Gods, man.” Without much fanfare, Clarisse quickly pulled the Golden Fleece from where it was tucked through Percy’s belt loop, before laying back down and throwing it over her face like he had seen her do before with a towel to catch sweat after an intensive spar.

A call to attention, a name taken in vain. It goes unattended to for the simple fact that there are many more pressing matters to attend to, namely avoiding interaction with all mortals they deemed unworthy.

“So how’d we even get here then?” Grover toyed with the wedding dress and paired veil, picking at some of the more damaged pieces. He had his bright orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD t-shirt on under the lace, but if he was still wearing it at this point, Percy just presumed he was missing pants. “Wherever here is.”

“‘ts probably one of their,” Percy points his finger upwards, “doing.”

Tyson titled his head, eye flitting about the trench with a frown on his face, “Would πατήρ really send us here?”

“Not him, big guy. Maybe one of the other ones.” But you never really could know, with how temperamental Poseidon was.

The ocean holds a steady calm, uninterrupted by those pests that were so obviously beneath it.

“I don’t know about that.” Annabeth’s voice was muffled as she turned and put both palms to the rocky wall, attempting to use it to stand up. “We didn’t feel any kind of changes. It was just falling, then hitting the ground, and then suddenly ending up somewhere different then we were supposed to.”

“Yeah. Gods usually have a little more…flair.” Grover gestured his hands about a bit, it was like if jazz hands and shadowboxing had a very ugly, jilted baby.

Annabeth stumbled a bit and tilted her head upwards, her focus more on observing the area than anything else. Rhetorically, she asked, “You guys didn’t feel anything, did you?”

“I felt like I was falling,” Tyson added, simply.

“Same,” Percy agreed. Also simply.

Clarisse, again, didn’t deign them with a response. They weren’t–at least, they didn’t seem to be–in a life or death situation anymore. So Percy was honestly glad to not have to deal with her and her whiny voice.

“Yeah me too. I mean, it did feel like we were falling for a lot longer, though. Like, we definitely should be dead.” Grover shuddered, and threw his hands up in mock-defense. “Not that I’m complaining! Very happy to be alive!” 

Almost as if he believed that whatever god (and Percy definitely assumed it was a god. At this point, he was starting to get a nose for this kind of thing) would strike him down for shunning the simple gift of not-dying.

The sky is clear of any impending sense of a storm to come, but the wind whirls between trees of old.

“Speaking of not dying,” Percy said,” how?”

“If I had to guess,” Annabeth stood solidly on her own two feet, turning her back towards the trench wall and leaning on it. “Teleportation. Probably. I’ve seen gods use it before to get some of their older kids up for the Winter Solstice. The ones that moved on and live far away, y’know?”

Percy did not know. He really had only ‘been’ a demigod for a year, maybe a year and a half at this point, and hadn’t had the opportunity to grace the gods up on Olympus with his presence. Outside of the ones that he happened to have a run-in with this year or last, of course. But he didn’t point that out to her and just nodded agreeably, as any questions would just lead them both on tangents that weren’t related to their current life and safety.

“It could’ve messed with the earlier momentum we had going. Enough that it would break the bigger fall. And it would explain why we ended up somewhere completely new.”

“So…like a feather-fall spell?” Tyson asked innocently.

Percy was so glad that he introduced Tyson to Dungeons and Dragons in the New York Public Library, before that outing got raided by a bunch of Hippalektryon. At the time, he thought it would be ironic. Now it was decidedly helpful.

Annabeth, who introduced D&D to him when they got caught pirating movies in the Big House, nodded excitedly, “Yes! Exactly!”

Percy could almost hear Clarisse mutter, “Weirdo-ass nerds…” under her breath. He let it slide, because he was in an okay mood and she was obviously in a very, very bad one. 

See, Percy could be nice and calm and reasonable sometimes.

Though, let it be known, that he’s seen her play Mythomagic duels against some of the younger campers before. Before, she inevitably ransacked their pockets.

Grover who was, unfortunately, out of the loop, nodded unconvincingly. “O-kay…still don’t really know where we got teleported to though.”

“Somewhere safe. At least for now.” Annabeth’s voice was confident in this fact.

Percy wasn’t so sure. Their parents were never particularly merciful on quests, especially this most recent one. But there was no point in arguing. They did seem to be safe. 

Relatively. He took another glance at his leg.

Clarisse, suddenly sat up from her stupor, and threw the Fleece back in Percy’s face with an intense viciousness. “You broke it.” She was upon him quickly, her painted and pointed finger was up in his face, as she gritted out. “We need this to save camp and you fucking broke it!”

Percy sputtered but was quick to shoot back, “I did not break it! Gods! You’re probably just using it wrong.” He dodged her finger and the spit that followed her yelling.

He gripped the Fleece—now all sweaty and gross, ew—between his knuckles and held it down on his leg with a groan.

There was a beat.

Percy hadn’t had enough of an experience with the Fleece to really know how it worked. But amid the whole Marco-Polo game with Polyphemus, when he had it quite literally attached at his hip, he did notice that his bruises and cuts had begun to heal up.

But this time, there wasn’t even a hint of that same feeling.

Tyson’s singular eyebrow furrowed, “Why isn’t it working?”

Annabeth got that same look she always had when she was trying to put things together, and failing. The space between her eyebrows and her nose tensed up and her abnormally wide grey eyes got this hazy, far-away look to them. 

It’s the same look she had when she first really met him at Camp, trying to figure out if he was this so-called ‘Chosen One’ meant to take her on her first quest. The same look she had when the Stoll brothers had begun to steal the puzzle pieces from the 10,000 piece set she was working on back home. Same look she had anytime she talked about her mom, too.

A tilt to the head, a puzzle to be solved, but no indication on a source or even a reason for the question in the first place.

She huffed, frustrated to admit it, “I don’t know.”

The air grew a little silent and tense at that. ‘Not knowing’ meant that they pretty much had to throw away every theory they’ve been trying to conjure up until this point. Even Percy knew that.

Clarisse simultaneously rolled her eyes, stretched her neck, and pulled herself onto her feet, taking the Fleece from Percy’s leg with her. “Ugh, fine. I’ll just do it myself because obviously I’m the only competent one here.” 

With a slight stumble, from the adrenaline crash and blood loss Percy presumed, Clarisse used her combat boot to gesture at Grover and Tyson.

“Goat Boy. Monster. You’re with me.”

Tyson, though he obviously didn’t love the nickname, did like to help out. Without questioning , he bounded to his feet with energy and a smile that the rest of them were certainly not feeling. “Okay!”

Because his brother obviously didn’t feel the need to, Annabeth was quick to interrogate Clarisse, “Where are you going?”

“Figuring out how to get out of here. Because obviously nobody has any better plans.” Clarisse stretched her arms out above her head, a couple of minor gashes opening up as she did so, the ultimate form of nonchalance.

Percy wasn’t buying it. He’s seen Clarisse run through this whole song and dance before, he remembers the one time he paired up with her for Capture the Flag, thank you very much. “Leave the Fleece, though.”

“It’s not even working, numbskull.”

Catching on to what Percy was thinking, Annabeth chimed in. “It might, though. Me and Percy are the most injured and the most at risk. Just leave it for now.”

Clarisse stilled for a second, before huffing and rolling her eyes. She chucked it back in Percy’s face. Again, ew. “Fine.” 

She turned away on her heel and called after Grover, “Hurry up or else I’m leaving you.”

Grover floundered for a moment, his mouth closing and opening like a fish. As he quickly stood up, his hoofs got caught under his wedding dress and he nearly tripped. “Um. Yeah, sure, okay. Why me though?”

“You’re a searcher.” Clarisse gestured widely into the unknown parts of the trench. “Search.”

A legendary treasure escapes an adventurer once more. A thief relishes in his spoils but longs for more.

Percy was shocked that Clarisse even cared enough to remember Grover and his quest to find Pan.

A pique of interest, from all save the Wilds.

“Also you’re probably the second least injured of all of us.”

Ah. That made more sense.

—

Tyson really didn’t like the idea of leaving his brother behind.

He knew that Percy’s leg was really messed up. Like, really messed up. Even if he smiled and told Tyson he was fine.

They were stuck in a hole, after their big brother decided it would be funny to break the bridge that they were crossing. Which wasn’t very nice of him. 

And then Tyson fell on Percy’s leg. Which wasn’t very nice of him.

He knows that Sally would probably try to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. Tyson thinks back to the time that he made one of the other kids in school bleed from her nose.

The Principal’s room was cold and dull and felt cruel, even though Tyson knew that rooms were objects and couldn’t have feelings. Unless they were monsters. Which would be a whole ‘nother issue.

But with the older woman’s–Sally told him to always try and remember people’s names, which he wasn’t very good at–mean voice and even meaner words, that’s all he could really call it.

“Violent,” “Brutish,” “Crude.”

They weren’t words he understood well. Tyson wasn’t very good at remembering certain words, either. English was a much harder language than Greek! But between the tears in Sally’s eyes from all of the yelling she did and the tears in Principal Yorvick’s (he remembered her name!) eyes after the meeting was over, he thinks that they may have been not-so-nice.

Afterwards, with a plate of blue chocolate chips cookies and a big side dish of peanut butter, Sally wiped the tears off of Tyson’s face with a sad smile.

He told her that he was only crying because he didn’t like seeing other people cry. Because it just made him sad too. Which is why he cried when the girl from school got hurt, why he cried when Sally and the Principal were yelling, and why he was crying now.

“You have a big heart, baby.” She then wiped her own tears with her hand, “But never let someone punish you for something that isn’t your fault. Okay?”

Tyson promised her then. And thanks to Percy and all of his lessons on things like pinky promises and swear jars, he knew just how important these kind of things could be. 

But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be really worried!

Especially because Tyson would be going with the Mean Girl and Goat Boy (Clarisse and Grover, Clarisse and Grover, he reminded himself again and again) to go find an escape and leaving Percy and Annabeth behind. They were the two most hurt people here!

Normally, with Annabeth there as well, Tyson would be a-okay with leaving Percy alone. Annabeth was strong, after all! But she got hit really hard and had a big cut on her head now, so she was injured too.

But Percy did have Ανακλυσμός and Annabeth had her κράνος which could still help them a bit. And Clarisse, as mean as she was with all the name calling, needed his help. And he wouldn’t be much of a hero if he didn’t help the people that needed it!

So, Tyson reasoned, what he’s doing is for good!

He clapped his hands together, once, when he realized that. Which had Clarisse and Grover turning around from climbing through all the rocks and tunnels and looking at him a little weirdly.

They’d been walking for probably about ten minutes now. It was actually getting darker and darker the closer they got to the water sounds. Which usually wasn’t a good sign.

Grover shoulders shook a bit and Tyson wondered if he was cold, before he spoke, “Are we sure this is the right direction?”

Clarisse looked at him, and it was kind of heavy. But looks couldn’t be heavy, so maybe it was some kind of thinking-face. “You. You’re a water-boy-thing,” 

Tyson thought that was a really weird name for a son of Poseidon.

“Are we going the right way?” 

Tyson thought about that for a second. Normally, he could tell where water near him, was. But this time, he could only really figure out where he was based on his hearing. Which was odd! 

But he didn’t think Clarisse or Grover would really get it, so he just said, “Yep! It’s kind’ve hard with all the rocks, though.”

Grover’s shoulders seemed to stop shaking after that. “That’s good. Definitely. So long as we don’t hit a–”

The walls in front of them suddenly got closer together. Tyson wouldn’t be able to fit through. But the hole in the wall was so small, that Clarisse and Grover wouldn’t either.

“dead end.” Grover’s voice got sad, before crying out. “Ow!”

Clarisse pulled her hand back from where she hit Grover right between his horns, “You jinxed it.” 

“You’re so loud, he might still be around.” Grover whispers-yells at Clarisse. “And I did not jinx it!” He gets loud again.

“Did you not listen to Miss Princess Extraordinaire Herself? We’re somewhere completely different.” 

“Well, uh, something could still be around! Like a, uh–”

Tyson tries not to listen to the two of them fight any more. If anyone started crying, he would cry too, and there was really no time for that. Instead, he decided to get closer to the small hole and see if he could see anything.

It was pretty dark. Which was again, really weird, because normally Tyson saw in the dark really well. Maybe his eye wasn’t working great. 

Tyson blinked, slow and hard.

The next moment, though he still couldn’t see as normal, he did hear something heavy from up above.

Grover and Clarisse, who were still arguing, became quiet.

Through the darkness, Tyson could make out an outline of movement. It was pretty far away from them, and he could only see it because there was a light shining up from the sky and on to one spot in the cave.

His brother!

Well, not Percy. Of course, Tyson left him and Annabeth back in a different part of the caves a while ago. This was Polyphemus, his older, bigger brother. 

But he looked, Tyson’s eyebrows got all bunched together, weird. 

Smaller. Still much bigger than Tyson, but instead of being the size of a Humpback Whale he was maybe a Killer Whale. Or maybe it was just because of how he was hunched over. He was standing, but his big hands were on the floor right next to his feet, and his back bones were coming out of his skin.

It looked like it really hurt.

Tyson frowned. He didn’t like Polyphemus very much, but that doesn’t mean that he wanted to see him hurting. 

He almost wanted to call out to the other Cyclops, ask what was wrong and why he was breathing so loud. But then his brother would probably eat his new friends, which would be even worse than just letting Polyphemus stay here, in pain.

Maybe whatever was wrong with Tyson–not being able to see as well and not being able to find water–was wrong with Polyphemus too! That’s why when they were arguing, Polyphemus hadn’t heard them.

Tyson clapped his hands together, once again, as he realized that he must be right.

When turned to see Clarisse and Grover, who had both been quiet for a really long time. Grover was shaking again, his eyes looked different, and he was biting at his hand. Clarisse didn’t look any different than normal, except from her hands that were nearly white where she was holding the rock wall and her eyes looked like they had clouds in them.

“He’s quiet,” Clarisse’s voice wasn’t very loud when she said it. 

“He sounds pretty loud,” Tyson said. He didn’t really understand why they were being so quiet. Clarisse and Grover were much smarter than him and had definitely figured out ages ago that Polyphemus couldn’t hear them from where he was.

Grover moved his hand from his mouth and immediately threw it over Tysons. Both him and Clarisse turned their heads back to the little opening. His older brother didn’t move, and just kept on heavy breathing and eating.

Clarisse breathes out through her nose. Grover doesn’t take his hand off of Tyson’s mouth.

“He’s not talking.” She corrects herself. “He talked to himself a lot, yeah?”

Grover doesn’t say anything, but he does give another hesitant, shaky nod.

“And did he,” Clarisse stopped for a second. She swallowed. “Eat…as much as he is now?”

Grover’s nod comes much quicker, and desperate this time. “No, no. Definitely not.” With a quick look at Tyson, he pulls back his hands and slowly steps away from the small hole.

Clarisse nods, also slow, before swallowing and continuing.

“As the oldest of all of us–”

Grover quickly says, “I’m actually twenty-eight.”

“I’m seven!” Tyson happily added. They quickly shush him, Grover with a finger to the lips and Clarisse with a finger to the throat.

He was so glad that he was getting to know his new friends better. 

Clarisse looked really mad again, “As the oldest and wisest of all of us, I say that we keep going. Throw out all of the old theories. The only thing this changes is the fact that we need to make sure to remember this exact path, so we don’t get killed, and keep looking for an exit.”

“What about Percy and Annabeth?” Grover's voice shook, “Shouldn’t we go back…to warn them?”

Clarisse backed away from the small hole, but her eyes never left it. “If they know what’s good for them, they’ll stay quiet. If they don’t, then it’s not on us.”

She changed the subject and pointed at Grover, “You’re in charge of remembering the path.”

Then to Tyson, “You’re in charge of keeping an ear out for the monster.”

“And if shit hits the fan, I’ll get us out of here. If it doesn’t, I’ll still do it.”

The two nodded happily. Or, Tyson did. Grover was just shaking again.

But Tyson thought that Clarisse was really smart! And confident! Grover had a much better memory than Tyson, with all of the searching stuff he did. Tyson could hear just about anything. And she sure seemed like she could beat up his older brother!

Maybe she wasn’t so mean after all!

As Grover and Clarisse started to climb back through the heavy rocks toward a place that maybe they hadn’t explored yet, Tyson took one last look at his older brother.

Maybe Polyphemus couldn’t hear them. But maybe he was just ignoring them. Which was mean, but not the worst thing he’s done.

Tyson turned and followed his friends.

Yeah, Polyphemus was definitely just being mean.

When Tyson sees his πατήρ again, he’s telling on his big brother.

—

Notably, Annabeth has had five concussions up until this point. 

=One, when she was climbing a tree in San Francisco. Two, as she was making her way East on the streets with Thalia and Luke. One, falling off the lava wall at Camp. One, when–

In accordance to the CDC, 

=while some guidelines suggest considering retirement after three or more concussions, experts emphasize that individual evaluation by a specialist is necessary.

she would’ve banned from playing sports a long time ago. Annabeth placed two fingers on the bridge of her nose and tried not to wince from the constant jolting that was her mind. Gods, this was getting annoying.

Not that she ever really planned on playing sports. Intramural, club, or otherwise. You’d have to actually attend a school for that, public or private. And she hadn’t since second grade, a fact that frustrated and stunned her to absolutely no end.

=How on earth was that even allowed? Wisconsin v. Yoder, (1972), was a landmark U.S. Supreme Court decision ruling that Amish children could not be forced to attend school past the eighth grade. The court found that Wisconsin's compulsory attendance–

Unimportant. She deemed it and brushed the topic out from her mind, like one would dust off a speck of dust from clothing or a stray hair out from the face.

What was important was the situation that remained–unsolved and entirely unquestioned, all things considered–in front of her.

The situation that was her very addled brain.

Believe it or not, her thoughts usually came to her faster than this. Smoother, and without as much interruption. She still had ADHD

=one of the most common mental disorders affecting children. Symptoms of ADHD include inattention (not being able to keep focus), hyperactivity=

of course, as almost all demigods do. But this was inane. 

=adjective, silly; stupid.=

Annabeth felt stupid. If this is what people with half a brain as her had to deal with all of the time, she’d rather have no brain at all.

No brain, meaning dead. 

Even her analogies aren’t working the way they’re supposed to anymore.

Annabeth let her back fully hit the trench wall and slid to the cold, stone floor, mournfully. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall into her hands.

“Could you slide me over?”

=Perseus ‘Percy’ Jackson, friend, Son of Poseidon, thirteen years old, Seaweed Brain–

Annabeth blinks, subconsciously shunning the thought. This was her life now. A constant barrage of uncontrollable thoughts that she could barely silence. She let her head swivel upward, turning to the subject in question.

To say that Percy looked worse for wear would be an understatement.

His normally tanned skin looked sallow, and while it could be blamed on the low-lighting, he was in too much apparent pain for it to be anything but that. His sea green eyes were sunken, bruises were forming on his body, Hades, even his normally curly black hair looked worse for wear. 

The spirit lies in wait at the River of the damned, praying for a miracle that shall never come.

=2C features thicker, more defined, and often frizz-prone "S" shapes that start at the root. 2B hair consists of looser, flatter waves–

Not to mention what was causing him the most evident pain.

=Broken leg? Stress fracture? Caused by fall from great height, plus added weight and momentum upon crashing from great height. Technically undetermined amount of height, considering the situat–

Annabeth tilted her head to get a better look at his leg, before realizing she hadn’t said anything since she started blankly staring at him.

Ah. Blame it on the concussion, she supposed.

Carefully, with one hand on the wall and another on her knee, she stood up and inched her way over to him. 

Before gripping him by the light blue sweatshirt he was wearing and slowly dragging him to the wall. Percy winced and she felt bad, she would’ve apologized but she had bigger fish to fry.

Or, grill, in his case. Bad analogy again.

She fell gently back into the wall with a huff and slowly slid down until she was sitting right next to him. “So. What happened?”

“...We fell.” Percy says

“Well yeah no duh, genius. Why did we fall? And how? I don’t know if you didn’t gather but I was kind of,” she holds her finger up to her head and makes a circular motion, “out of it.”

Percy considers that for a long while, and that leaves Annabeth wondering if she is the only one with a concussion. He tilts his head and crosses his arms over his front side, “Well, you and Grover got caught in the middle of the bridge. Personally, I blame the wedding dress more than the two of you but…” he just shrugs.

“Anyway, Clarisse for some reason felt the need to grab her spear. I mean, again, can’t really blame her. Heading back out into the ‘Sea of Monsters’” he puts air quotes around it as he says it, almost as if it the hundreds of monsters they went up against these past weeks weren’t real. “Without any form of defense is kind’ve a really bad idea.”

“Not all of us have swords that magically reappear in our pockets,” Annabeth pointed out. She didn’t much like defending Clarisse but if she was in the same situation–which she would never be because she was much too smart for that–she likely would have done the same thing.

Percy rolled his own eyes, smoothly. A luxury Annabeth did not have at the moment and was very jealous of. He continued, “Right, right. But she ended up giving the Cyclops our location, basically. Then we ran to get out of there on the bridge and then the Cyclops cut the bridge. I think.”

“You think?”

“Well it was kind of unclear if he just cut it or if he was just such a fatass that it broke out from under him.”

Annabeth laughed at that. “Ha! If it was that last one, he’d probably be down here with us.”

Percy shuddered at that, “Yikes. It’s already cramped enough as is.”

That was true. If Annabeth had stretched her legs out to their full length,

=Leg length is medically assessed by measuring from the anterior superior iliac–

then she’d have maybe a couple of inches before they hit the rocks. This was probably some kind of cave river or ocean off-shoot at some point that just dried up. Between the two of them and the remnants of the bridge, it was an almost uncomfortable squeeze. She’s not saying that she’s glad that the other three left, but they were essentially all climbing on top of each other then, and Annabeth likes her personal space. And not jostling her injuries anymore than they already were.

Speaking of injuries. Annabeth’s eyes fell upon Percy’s again. “How’s your leg?”

“Good,” he tested out moving it. Percy winced. “If I don’t think about it.”

=Check, Call, Care protocol: check the scene for safety, call 911 for help, and care for the victim. Key procedures include maintaining consciousness, clearing airways, controlling bleeding with direct pressure–

There was only so much Annabeth could really do in the given situation. She hesitated, “Can I…look at it?”

Percy just shrugged. “Be my guest.” He was never one to immediately indicate that he was feeling any kind of pain, despite the fact that his cheeks seemed pallid and his skin waxen.

Before Annabeth could even full lift the pant leg of his jeans up from his ankles, Percy was already hissing from his teeth. For a good reason.

The entire lower part of his calf, the space just above his ankle, was an inflamed myriad of colors and had pieces of what she assumed to be bone jutting out. She counted at least four places.

=A comminuted fibula fracture is a severe injury where the thinner lower leg bone breaks into two or more fragments, usually caused by high-energy trauma like car accidents, falls, or direct blows–

“So,” through gritted teeth Percy joked, “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

Annabeth refrained from scaring him too badly. He didn’t need to know the details, “...I’m going to try and set it.”

Sensing her hesitation, Percy says, “That bad, huh?” He threw his head back against the rock as lightly as he could while also still retaining his sense of dramatics. “Ugh. This is such a pain.”

“Literally.” Annabeth says as she begins to mentally scour the area for any necessary supplies. “Both a pain and pain.”

The remnants of the bridge would fortunately come in handy. The rope was old and basically rotting away, but it would do the trick. The same went for the planks. Though, if she was going to use them to set the bone like how she’d seen done in the Infirmary, she’d need to break it down a bit more.

“You don’t need to explain it to me I’m that dumb.”

“Doubtful.” Annabeth stood up once more. While it is admittedly becoming easier, her head still hurt like a towtruck had backed onto it. With a light hand, she sorts through the pieces of wood and rope until she finds sections that seemed decent enough. “Toss me your sword.”

Percy shimmied to the best of his ability, in an attempt to grab his sword from out of his back pocket without jostling his leg any more. With a quick toss and a near miss on her part (she’s blaming the concussion on that), the pen is in her hand.

Annabeth uncaps it. 

She stares blanky at the writing utensil for a couple of seconds. Because that’s all it is. A writing utensil.

“Um,” she turns to Percy and her question goes unvoiced but most certainly not unheard. What the hell?

Percy furrows his brow. “Throw it back. You’re probably just using it wrong.”

“I’m definitely not,” Annabeth says but she relents anyways with a quick underhanded throw.

Percy recaps his sword, gives it a couple of seconds, and uncaps it once more. Again, they’re left blankly staring at a cheap dollar store pen.

Annabeth felt a weird sense of deja vu. “So…you broke it?”

Indignantly, Percy sputters. “I did not break it!” He hesitates, “...I think.”

So he definitely did. “Did you fall on it?”

“Well, yeah.” Percy is sheepish as he says it. “But it’s not like I haven’t fallen on it before. I always forget that it’s there by the time lunch rolls around and it looks weird to just be holding a pen and a cheeseburger.” He groans, “Gods, that just reminded me of how hungry I am.”

First, the Golden Fleece wasn’t working. Now, Percy’s sword wasn’t working either. Either the gods were mad enough at them to entirely forsake Camp Half-Blood, or something wasn’t right.

Beyond just being stuck in a random cave, of course.

But Annabeth’s own stomach grumbled at the thought of food. She herself was craving pizza with extra olives really bad at the moment. “Hopefully they’ll either bring something back or we’ll just have to find something when we get out of here.”

“Now,” she tugged hard at the wooden board which almost immediately gave way under her hand. How it held them up before was beyond her. It seemed like it had aged thousands of years! “Let’s make sure we can actually get out of here. Y’know, with your leg and all.”

Deadpan, Percy said, “Again. Not that dumb. I got it the first time.”

=To create a splint for a leg, you need immobilization materials, padding, and securing wraps–

“We’re going to need to make a cast. Do you have any fabric?”

“Do you see any extra fabric lying around here?” Percy asks and his voice drips of sarcasm as he said it. But Annabeth pointedly looked upon the Golden Fleece sitting in his lap. Percy looks down at as well. “That…works.”

“Feels a little blasphemous,” Annabeth acknowledged with a tilt to the head. To use a magical, legendary piece of wool that they had spent the past weeks trying to get, on a leg wound. If only Jason and the Argonauts could see them now. They’d probably be rolling in their graves. 

=Jason died, old and lonely, when a decayed, rotting beam from his famous ship, the Argo, fell on his head while he was resting in its shade. After abandoning Medea and losing his, royal status, he was killed by the very ship that had brought him fame–

If there was anything left of him to bury in the first place. Annabeth tried not to compare the falling wooden bridge to the falling wooden beam, but her mind had always been very particular about making connections. And particular about the morbid, apparently.

“But it works,” Percy gently tested wrapping the Fleece around where most of the angry red marks were, and immediately sucked his teeth in and stopped.  “Blass-fuh-moose, aside.”

“That is not how you say it.” Annabeth rolled her eyes and slowly dropped to her knees in front of his leg. Ouch, in both cases. She kept on forgetting that she was concussed. And that they technically all suffered a bit of bruising from the fall. Adrenaline was a powerful

=hormone and neurotransmitter released by the adrenal glands during acute stress or danger, initiating the "fight-or-flight" response–

thing. “And it would be blasph-emy in that case.”

“Tomato, tomatoe.”

Tentatively, Annabeth presses a finger to the angry skin and Percy curses and nearly pulls back his leg. This time, she does apologize. “Sorry. But I’m going to need you to stay still.”

“‘s fine,” is all Percy says with his head leaned back on the rock wall. He most certainly did not seem fine with it, if the trembling of most of his body was anything to by. Minus his injured leg.

=may experience difficulty moving your knee or ankle, which can be a clear indication of a fracture–

Annabeth had spent an awfully long time in the infirmary after Luke had gone on his first quest. One, to attend to him. Two, because she was so convinced that she would be sent on a quest soon after and would need to scrap together any kind of first aid training she could get. Ten year old her was right, in a way.

A higher sense of knowledge, a deeper understanding, and a broken, bleeding body. Curious. More of a what, than and if.

The careful stability of Percy’s leg did not escape Annabeth’s notice. She pursed her lips, “Can you move your toes?”

Percy winces, but complies if the slight movement within his torn-up converse was anything to go by. Albeit, with a lot of color drained from his face. But that meant that circulation and nerve supply was probably intact, which was a good sign. It also wasn’t immediately dangerous.

=place padding and splint material in a U-shaped stirrup configuration, running from the inner mid-calf, under the heel, to the outer mid-calf–

Annabeth bit her lip. The Golden Fleece would work as a wrap but they would need some kind of way to tie it and hold it together. Shoelaces were a no-go in case they needed to run, neither of them had a belt, and even though the rope was threadbare, they had nothing to cut it with. She slipped off her thin magenta sweatshirt and shivered a bit when her bare arms were revealed to the open cavern air.

She took the Golden Fleece out from Percy’s hand (who looked annoyed about the fact that he was constantly getting stolen from) and in it’s place she left her sweatshirt. “Turn it inside out and work the pen through the stitching on the sleeves. We’ll use it to tie everything to together.”

“You won’t have a jacket,” he said blankly.

“Yeah?”

“It’s cold.”

“It seems pretty warm in here to me.”

“Yeah, I mean. But like it could be colder outside. Or wherever we end up.”

Annabeth shrugged, “It’s our best option.”

Percy stares at her for a moment, before he does his best to slide off his own jacket without rustling his leg too much. 

Annabeth sighs, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t need a jacket. I run warm,” he begins to try and navigate his way through getting his jacket inside-out. 

Annabeth rolls her eyes (ow). “You’re such a drama queen.” Though, she was a little touched. Not that she would admit it. She would just take his care as a thanks for her haphazard medical skills. “Just do a sleeve off of both, then.”

Percy looks like he wants to argue but Annabeth cuts him off with a glare and says, “I’m going to try and break this board apart the best I can. Unless you want to walk around with a full one?”

One board was the width of Percy’s entire body, at best. He closes his gaping mouth with a click and shakes his head.

=Ensure the grain of the wood runs horizontally. Breaking with the grain is easier than breaking across it. Old wood may be brittle or harder than fresh pine, precise technique (aiming through the board rather than at its surface) is crucial–

Letting her fingers fumble and press against the grain, Annabeth looked meticulously for any cracks or any sign of rot. There was a lot, of course. The bridge itself had to have been centuries old and it seemed to have only gotten weaker after the fall. She found a particular long looking split down the middle of the board.

With careful precision she digs her nail into the divet. It does not break at first, but it does bend under the pressure. She is quick to stand up, thankfully with minimal motion sickness this time, and she places the wood on a short boulder. Annabeth positions the board so half of it is on the boulder and half of it is off with her foot pressing it into the rock. She steps up, and with the other foot, smashes the board in two.

While it’s not a perfect split, Annabeth is satisfied to see that it mostly followed the pre-existing grain. She takes the two pieces of wood into her hands and turns back to Percy, who had seemed to have torn out about half of the thread from his sweatshirt with a laser focus.

She rolled her eyes (ouch, she really needs to stop doing that) and drops to her knees, picking up her own sweatshirt in the process. With the hands of an expert, she easily finds the seam of the jacket and slowly starts pulling at it. Thanks Mom.

Wisdom eyes flit about battlefields, above craftsmen, and above bustling cities, alike. But no eyes pass over destitute, haunted caverns.

“Hows your head?”

Annabeth looks up from her rapidly unthreading sweatshirt and purses her lips. “Fine.”

Percy furrows his brows but–out of fear of being yelled at–does not look up from his work. “You didn’t seem too fine when Grover was carrying you.”

She scoffs, “I’m fine. Trust me.”

“I trust that you think you're fine. But you’re like, definitely concussed.” And you’re probably not thinking fine, went unsaid. Likely because Percy knew Annabeth wouldn’t take that very well either.

“A concussion is one of the most physically debilitating injuries. If I had a concussion

=headache, confusion, dizziness, nausea, fatigue, blurry vision, and sensitivity to light or noise. Cognitive signs include memory loss and feeling "in a fog," while emotional changes include increased irritability or sadness–

“you’d know. Because I literally wouldn’t be moving around.” She emphasized her words with a resounding rip! of the fabric in her hands. A clean rip, mind you.

Percy pouted as he continued to poke at his slowly fraying (but not in the right) work. “Ugh, you are way too good at this. No fair.”

Annabeth snickered as she precisely folded her remaining fabric in prep for the makeshift splint. “No, I think it’s perfectly fair.” “I mean. You get earthquakes and tsunamis and waves, and I get the ability to thread the needle perfectly every time.”

Percy winced as she pressed the sticks into the sides of his legs as a test. “And sarcasm, apparently.”

She put them down and took Percy’s sweatshirt into her hands, feeling around for the proper seam. His jacket was much more poorly made. She braced it with one hand and tore, and in an instant there was another perfectly pulled-apart sleeve.

“Wit, actually.” Annabeth took up her own torn sleeve and brought them together. “Sarcasm is all you, Seaweed Brain.”

Earthquakes and tsunamis and waves, all of the ocean. But not all of the ocean.

Crafts, weaving and war, alike. 

Percy rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else, his face sheen with sweat. Annabeth took that as her sign to get to work. 

=Never place the hard splint directly against the skin. Wrap the injured area generously with your–

She first began to wrap his leg with the Golden Fleece. As scraggly looking as it was, it would have to do in terms of padding. They really had no other option. Then,

=Place the rigid material along the leg–

Annabeth eyed Percy carefully, hesitating. She quickly grabbed his sweatshirt and put it towards his face, “Bite down on this.”

“Jesus. Hey, Annabeth, do we really have to do this?”

“Do you want to be able to walk out of this cave? We have no ambrosia, no nectar, no nothing. So its this,” she gestured to the splint set-up, “or I’m letting Clarisse chop your leg off.”

Dutifully, Percy bit down.

Annabeth swallowed. She put her knee down on his other leg, partly for balance, partly so he didn’t kick at her with it. Then she pressed down hard on the side of his other leg with the sticks.

Percy’s muffled screams weren’t comforting at all.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m so sorry, almost done.” Annabeth frantically grabbed at their torn-apart sweatshirt sleeves.

=Use bandages, belts, cloth, or tape to tie the splint securely. Tie above and below the fracture site–

She was careful to tie below the knee and above the ankle. Or, well, just as careful as she could be given the circumstances. When she was certain that she had tied it tight enough to almost cut off blood circulation, she threw herself off his leg and her hands up in the air. 

There was a beat. Percy muffled something out before spatting out his crumpled up sweatshirt from his mouth. Ew.

“Son of a bitch. Remind me never to break my leg again.”

Annabeth snapped back, but it came out a little bit more shaky then she would have liked. “I’ll do my best.”

After a few quiet moments where neither of them said anything, Percy brought a shaky hand away from his face and gestured to the floor. “Toss me my sweatshirt.”

Annabeth glared at him but complied, picking it up with one finger and tossing it at him. “Ew, ew. Gross.”

“You deal with decomposing monsters and this is where you draw the line?” 

Annabeth wrinkles her nose at the dark spot that had formed at the middle of Percy’s hoodie. “A human’s mouth–

=home to an estimated 20 billion bacteria and over 700 different species of microorganisms–

And she said as much. 

Percy rolled his eyes, and pulled his light blue hoodie over his head. “Yeah, well what does your Google-brain say about germs with Ancient Greek monsters from Hell?”

=Nothing.

Annabeth pursed her lips, “Well, there really haven’t been any studies–”

“Ha! I knew it.” Percy gloated and pointed at her, before gesturing to beside him.

Annabeth glared at him but grabbed and pulled on her on sweatshirt and hobbled over to the cavern wall he was sitting against, before sliding down with a dull thunk. “That is all you know.”

“Whatever you say.” He paused and his eyes seemed stuck on her shoulder. “Look, we match now.”

Annabeth had removed her left sleeve and Percy his right. Both partially at-risk to the elements. “Actually, we’re mirrored.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Actually, I don’t care.” But apparently he did, because not even five seconds went by before he said, “...So what now?”

“Now we wait.”

“...To get eaten?”

“No! What? For everyone else to get back?”

“Does that include the monster Cyclops?”

“How about we think about something else other than your carnivorous–currently vanished–brother for a moment.”

“Sure, sure.” Percy nodded his head. “Um, I spy with my little eye…something grey?”

Annabeth looked around past the dusty grey stone walls, the weathered grey stone floors, and the nearly-black stone ceilings, and rolled her eyes. She winced.

Ouch.

—

Blueberries, seawater, and moldy bread.

The last things Clarisse ate. Decidedly, they were not any better coming up than they were down.

She gagged as she felt another wave of nausea overtake her. The bile clawing its way up her throat and out her mouth felt like hot lava burning its way through her body. It felt guilty, painful, remorseful. All things that she definitely did not pack in her lunch when she started this quest, but they made their way in anyway.

Clarisse spat out, letting the remnants of sick hit the uneven rock floor with a disgusting splat. It was gross, but it beat thinking about anything else on her mind at the moment.

Like the way pale spindly limbs tore away from the bone they normally should be fixed to, the muscles pulling apart like pale pink string cheese covered in a dark red sauce to large, yellowed teeth–

Anything else. Really. She would take anything else.

She made Goat Boy run ahead, through a smaller crevice that Tyson and her wouldn’t be able to get to. And had Tyson run back to a hole in the ceiling the provided some skylight from a couple of turns back. It was about three, if they went based off of Chiron’s Outdoor Survival Crash Course, and told him to yell at her if the sun started setting.

It gave Clarisse the much needed privacy to rid herself of any impediments. Physical or…otherwise.

–bones, some withered, some so new that there was still a thick egg-white liquid coating lining them, clattered to the floor and shattered under large cold gray feet without so much as a care. The monster was rotting out of it’s pores, oozing–

She let her throat and stomach squeeze again. It was, ultimately, something else to think about. Being sick.

Clarisse thought back to Camp. The last time she was sick, the kind they didn’t deem dangerous enough to be cured by ambrosia or nectar but still too impactful to just walk around the next day with, she stayed in the Aphrodite cabin.

It was much too flouncy, for her tastes. Most of the other cabins were more literal cabin than not, but the inside of the Aphrodite cabin looked more like a Tuscan-style fever dream filled with clothing spilling out from the dozens of closets and posters of half naked celebrities lining the marble walls.

It was most teenage girls wet dream. Which must’ve been the idea.

“Stop whining and eat your soup,” Silena shoved the spoon into the back of her throat, choking her. She’d apparently snagged a whole kitchenware set from the Mess Hall in the time that Clarisse was passed out on her disgustingly pink and comfortable bed.

Clarisse wheezed and coughed, “Bitch.” She rubbed at her neck, her skin felt feverish to the touch and her freezing hands provided the much needed relief. At least temporarily. “Your bedside manner could use work. Like a lot of it.”

Silena rolled her eyes, tossing her perfectly shiny black hair over her shoulder, before dipping the spoon back into the bowl. “Well, luckily I’m never doing this again, so I won’t have to.”

Clarisse laughed. It was rough, both from her illness and her personality (hey, she’d take credit where credit was due). “Why? Leaving me to rot next time?”

The Ares cabin operated on an every-man-for-themselves system. Just as their father preferred. In battle, the only person you could rely on was yourself. So why let that just stop in battle?

Silena pursed her lips. In the light, Clarisse noticed that she was wearing the rutabaga colored and flavored lip gloss she got for her as a gag gift last Christmas. She knew, because it was tasteless and ugly, and Silena made it look so good nonetheless. “No. You’re just never going to get sick again.”

Aphrodite’s daughter shoved the spoon back in her face again with a renewed vigor. “Now, eat. Or I’ll make you.”

–brain matter poured out the side of his lips and onto the floor, he crushed skulls like they were some kind of jawbreaker. His face was unseen, but the stretching of skin from the bones on his back, the rivets, the piercing white spine that made itself known, did not leave an impression that whatever it was would be good–

Clarisse dry heaved, her stomach hurt and it wasn’t just from the guilt-ridden nausea now. She hadn’t eaten in hours. None of them had. 

She just kept on thinking back to her quest. And Camp. Gods, Camp. Was everyone still okay? Or is she wasting time, time that could be better used getting back and saving their asses?

But they were in a cave. With no discernable escape yet trapped with a 

–monster. Fucking monster, that killed hundreds based on the entrails of the hellhole alone. Blood and guts and gore were strewn about like some kind of wrapping paper on Christmas, and this monster was sitting in the middle of it like a spoiled child with his pudgy fing–

Fuck. Where was that bratty strategician when they needed her?

“Clarisse!”

–

This whole thing was messing with Grover’s mind.

Really. He just felt insanely lost in this mess of a quest, mess of a situation, mess of a dress.

Gods, he wish he had something else to change into. The wedding dress was really killing the vibe. Though it did give him Castaway and My Big Fat Greek Wedding Vibes, as opposed to the whole Bride of Dracula thing he was doing earlier.

What? Can’t fault him for loving the classics.

So, yes. Lost. (Another really great show, ironically.)

Grover’s ears flitted back and forth, as he nervously chewed on the veil. He was a nervous teether and it was the only thing he had on hand that wasn’t. Well. His hand.

“Where’d you say this hole was?” Clarisse’s voice was rough and scratchy like sandpaper, unpleasant on the ears. It sounded almost like she had done a lot of yelling or something. Which wasn’t atypical for her. 

“Up ahead,” Grover said, sparing her the boorish details of the turn sequence he memorized. Left-left-right-squeeze-up-through and right to a mostly unblocked crevice that seemingly lead to open air and the rapidly dimming sky. “Where’s Tyson?”

“He’s in charge of watching the sky, and letting me know when the sun sets. Set him up a couple of turns back.”

Grover bit at his lip, “That’s a um, bit mean.”

Clarisse glared at him, bringing up her arm like she was threatening to hit him. “Do I look like I give a shit?” Which, in fairness, she most certainly did not.

He’d always been afraid of Clarisse. She was eleven when she first came to camp and had a mean-streak and a penchant for getting physical even then. A fact that Grover had unfortunately learned when she socked him right in the face, after he had compared her to Dr. House or Christina Yang. Which was probably deserved, looking back on it.

There was a hazy sort of light ahead, but it was such a stark contrast to the low-toned shine that they had been used to that it might as well have been the surface of the sun itself. Grover flinches back and squints his more sensitive eyes, but Clarisse pushes on past and shoulder checks him the process.

Grover sputters a bit at that. But is immediately quieted when he sees the hole again, the only found form of escape at this point.

Clarisse is deadpan as she says it, “How the hell is anyone getting through that?”

She wasn’t wrong. The hole was maybe the size of a cabbage and was formed between three larger rocks that looked like they had been smashed together. 

“It’s big enough.” Grover paused, “...I think.”

“Well if you think, then you do it,” Clarisse shoved him forward and Grover nearly collided with the wall.

He catches himself at the last minute, turning around and immediately resists, “Huh? What? No! You do it!” As much as he wanted to get out of this hellhole, he had no idea what was outside! Clarisse was a demigod and much stronger than him she could figure it out.

“You’re the smallest one here!” Clarisse pointed out. That much was true. Clarisse towered over all of them, with the exception of Tyson who was genetically inclined to be a giant. And she had the muscles to show for it too. Grover on the other hand permanently looked like a fourth grader if you gave the fourth grader acne and a bit of fuzz under the chin.

Running out of excuses Grover quickly spat out, “You’re the girl!”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Grover was about to say something along the lines of ladies first, but was quickly quieted when he realized that the only form of of chivalry he would be receiving in return would be a solid punch to the nose. Scream-style.

“Uh, nothing! Going! I’m going!”

Grover ducks his head through the hole first. A general rule of thumb, if your head can get through, so can the rest of your body. It’s a fact he had been grateful to learn all of those times they had gotten his head stuck in a particularly large can.

He’s really lucky that his horns aren’t any bigger. It’s a fact that he’s normally insecure about, but for once he’s grateful for it.

After a series of convoluted shoulder pops, twisting at the hips, and nearly kicking Clarisse in the head (paired with a punch to the leg and “try that again and I’ll tear this off”), Grover fell face first into sand. He could cry from the relief.

“Are you crying?” Clarisse asked.

Grover sniffled, “No.” Not not crying.

He would almost be content to just lay on the white sand beaches for a bit but he had a job to do: scouting. 

Something he was good at! Grover really needed a boost to his ego, after having been trapped playing the part of a quivering bride-to-be for a huge monster for the better part of the month.

Grover let his ears flick up a bit, careful to listen to anything that might be cause for concern. When he didn’t hear anything, he began to sit up.

The sun was starting to set. He’d put it at about five or six, maybe seven. It was hard to tell because he wasn’t entirely too sure on what season they were in. Because they still weren’t sure where they were. 

White sand coated beaches and crystalline waters dotted his vision, interrupted only by the occasional flicker as light bounced off the tops of the coming waves. Behind and above him, there was layers upon layers of vegetation that covered the rock formations he crawled out of. Vines so thick that it was hard to see past them and ferns so tall that they would easily tower over Grover. 

Which was an easy thing to do, unfortunately.

Grover sighed at his plight of short height and even shorter temperament when it came to this whole situation. He stood up. Or attempted to, anyway. Balance was a tricky thing between his hooves and the dress, especially in sand and uneven rocks.

When he finally managed purchase in the sand, his eyes filtered into something a little more caprine as he attempted to get a better picture of the beautiful natural landscape.

Gods. They really should just turn this into parking lots, right?

An unheeded call to attention. Just as always.

Grover laughed aloud at his own mental joke. No one else was there to really hear it, with the exception of Clarisse who already thought he was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs anyways.

His eyes zeroed in on the masses that were rising out of the sea. They weren’t moving, thank the gods. Grover didn’t think he would be able to deal with any sea monsters a this point. In fact, he’d much prefer if he never had to deal with any monsters for the rest of his life.

The dark figures instead looked like…ships. Very old, very sunken ships. Which was odd. Because if his vision was correct–and it was thank you very much–then most of those ships were still anchored to the sea floor. Some looked so undamaged, it was almost as if the entirety of their crews were just spirited away, leaving nothing but a ship to lie in rot and wait.

Grover wishes that he could say that they looked like Pirates of the Caribbean ships. But besides those big, European looking ones and the huge fishing ships that he had gone to protests over a couple of times, he couldn’t make heads or tails of boats. Percy would be much better in this situation.

“What do you see?” Clarisse’s cutting voice was uncaring of any kind of quiet that Grover wanted to keep in the event of monsters.

Grover jumped back. A feat, considering everything he was being weighed down by at this point. He turned around to face the rocky cliffs and called back quieter than she did, “Not much. There’s a lot of vegetation. And what seems to be some kind of ship graveyard a little ways away.”

“Any edible vegetation?” It was the first thing that she seemed interested in. Or, based on the sound of her voice, anyway. The hole out of the cliffs was a narrow passageway in of itself and that made it hard to really get a good read on her face.

But it’s not that he could blame her. Grover was starved. He considered eating his own hand.

He shuddered at that joke as he thought back to the beast–presumably a much eviler version of Polyphemus–that was chowing down on bodies of monsters, humans, and something…else, alike. Way too soon.

He shook his head and cleared his mind, “Yeah probably. Let me check.”

Grover hiked his wedding dress up by the sides and began climbing the rocks to the best of his ability. Which, thanks to his legs, was very well. Within moments he had scaled toward the top of the rocks where most of the vegetation lay.

One of the things that Grover was best at was identification. That went for both plants and demigods! You wouldn’t want to mix up an edible, healing plant for a dangerous poisonous one. Just like how you wouldn’t want to mix up a mortal for a demigod or a monster for a demigod (it only happened one time and he was just starting out he swears…)

Grover thumbed through the variety of foliage with a growing frown on his face.

Silphium. A greenish-greyish stalk of leaves and bulbs. Can be used as seasoning, perfume, aphrodisiac, or a medicine.

Hypericum perforatum. Yellow flowering plant. Toxic, but could be turned into some form of medicine or antidepressant.

Asphodel. White flowering plant. The leaves can be used to wrap cheese in.

What specifically gave Grover pause was the area in which all of these plants were typically found in: Greece. Now, that in of itself would be concerning. They were just in Bermuda of all places. And according to his searcher skills, that would be at least a twelve hour journey. 

But Silphium in particular had been an extinct form of plant for thousands of years. It had only ever been found and used in Ancient Greece. Obviously whatever island they were on would have ties to mythos somehow, but finding an extinct plant? That seemed even beyond the gods.

Madness revels in even the strangest of places.

But he didn’t have much time to think on it. Too many hungry demigods to feed. Plus a Cyclops–not the bad one!–and a Satyr that needed food as well. Grover sighed as he identified and picked out a few other miscellaneous plants. Dandelion. Purslane. Wild fennel. Nettles. Golden thistle.

Before sliding down, he hesitated. Then, with a practiced hand, he picked the Silphium as well. He could use the motivation. It would be a reminder to him that even things thought to be extinct could be found. 

–

Annabeth heard the footsteps–as quick and distant as they were–long before Percy did.

A habit that she most certainly picked up on her time from venturing her way from the West to East coast on the streets with no one to rely on for protection but herself. It did admittedly come in handy in plenty of demigod-oriented situations though. Namely, this.

=Dry Sand: Tends to produce a higher-pitched, squeaking, or singing sound (800-1,200 Hz) as particles rub–

There was that squeaking sound that could only really be footsteps on soft sand. Footsteps that were obviously well-outfitted in some kind of gear

=composed of heavy bronze pieces like helmets, cuirasses, and greaves, primarily made a metallic, clanking, or "shining" sound–

based on the dull clashing of metal that rung out. Whoever it was was maybe about six or seven feet above them and a hundred feet away from them? It was really quite hard to tell, again because of the height and the propensity in which they were being walked over to.

The squeaking and their were murmurs of voices that echoed throughout the upper part of the cavern. If that wasn’t a dead give away that something was approaching, Annabeth didn’t know what would.

Percy stilled the moment he noticed the voices. Which was worryingly later than Annabeth even normally would’ve pegged him for. But as soon as he did, he cut himself off from whatever stupid joke he was in the process of making.

“How many?” he asked, his eyes dead-set forward to the other side of the trench that was mere feet away from them. 

“Not sure,” her response was cut and dry, her mind busy elsewhere. “Less than twenty, more than ten. Maybe like a dozen?”

Percy turned to her and it was obvious that he tried not to let the concern seep into his voice or face. “You think they’re violent?” It didn’t work.

You think we’re screwed? Is what Percy was really asking. What Annabeth was really asking.

“Not sure,” it was a succinct reply. One that answered both of the questions in one fell swoop. Annabeth furrowed her brow and pursed her lips as she listened closer and planned out her next move.

=It is not safe to go climbing with a concussion. Climbing is a high-risk activity where falls are common, and a second head injury while recovering can lead to severe, long-term complications or even death–

Annabeth started up from her seated position, her palms rushing up alongside the rock fast enough to give her ropeburn and her head tilted upward fast enough to give her whiplash. Or maybe that’s just how she felt with the traumatic brain-injury. “I’m going to go up and check.”

Percy blinked stupidly up at her from his seated half-cross, half-broken legged position, “I’ll come too.”

“You and that leg?” Annabeth scoffed and rolled–ouch–her eyes. They had only just set his leg in the makeshift plank-sweatshirt combo and the only way Percy would be moving anytime soon is if he tore it off. And if he messed with it, Annabeth swore she wouldn’t be helping him.

“You and your head?” Percy retorted, “You said it yourself, concussions are one of the most ‘physically debilitating injures.’” He put it in air quotes as he said it.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. Which did, admittedly, hurt a little bit. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing exerting, just climbing and observing. I’ll report back in a minute, and you stick around here and wait to see when the others’ll come back.”

Percy huffed deeply. Dramatically. “Fine. Just like, grab me, if you need anything.”

As much as she would love to, Annabeth would not be grabbing Percy. They may have been the same height–a solid five feet and five inches the last they checked–but Percy most definitely weighed more than her. And she was not throwing out her back on top of everything else, thank you very much.

After making sure her Yankees cap was attached firmly to her head, she did one last glance at Percy. Tucked in safe against the wall, with his leg appropriately set. Although, very uncomfortable just sitting there and doing nothing, if the fidgeting was anything to go by.

Annabeth wedged her converse into a divet between the solid rock, lifting herself up slightly to test the weight, before pushing up. Luckily, that’s all she really needed to see over the top of the ridge. 

There was a group of men outside of the cavern (about twelve as far as she could see, she was right on the money) dressed in, strangely enough, ancient greek clothes and armor.

=Clothing in ancient Greece included a wide variety of styles but primarily consisted of the chiton, peplos, himation, and chlamys. Ancient Greek civilians typically wore two pieces–

With them, a herd of sheep gathered just beyond the cave’s entrance. Many of which had already been slain at the hands of the men, the blood carelessly coating their clothes. There were more sheep within the actual cavern itself, but either the men hadn’t seen them yet or elected to ignore them for the easier pickings.

This entire situation befuddled Annabeth. It didn’t seem like a re-enactment, the cloying scent of iron was too potent for it to be anything but blood. And the men were exhausted, dirtied. A projection maybe? A memory?

=Project Image; 7th-level illusion, Casting Time: 1 action, Range: 500 miles, You create an illusory copy of yourself that lasts for the duration. The copy can appear at any location within range that you have seen before, physical interaction with the image reveals it to be an illusion, because things can pass through it–

Annabeth considered chucking a rock at the group of them. One, to see if they were real, but two, to see their reaction. She didn’t necessarily want them heading over this way, especially with Percy being as stagnant as he is, but if she could just hear what they are saying…

She lowers herself back down into the trench carefully, not wanting to slip and crack her head open for a sixth time. That would draw a lot of unwanted attention right to them.

Without much of a pretense, Annabeth drops to her knees with a quieted thud and starts picking up some of the pebbles, “Help me grab these.”

Percy jumps slightly before sighing, “Hello, Percy. Nice to see you, I’m alive, you’re alive. The intruders are non-violent, here to help, and fart rainbows,” Percy stages a mock conversation full of sass and sarcasm, but adjusts himself to help her collect some rocks nonetheless.

“Hey, there’s about a dozen of them and they seem pretty harmless, minus some of the sheep that they killed.” She grinned, “No confirmation on that last one yet.”

Something was nagging at her. Something about the sheep. 

=Worldwide, it is estimated that there are more than 1000 distinct sheep breeds. There are more than 60 breeds in the United States alone–

But Annabeth just wrote it off as the concussion messing with her mind again.

Percy snorts. “Why do you need these in the first place?” He deposits about three small stones in her hands, which she adds to her collection of five.

“Research,” she tucks most, save one, in the back pocket of her jeans. She puts the cap back on, and makes her way over to the divet to climb out of the trench.

“Oh-kay. Keep your secrets, Wise Girl.”

Percy can’t see her, but Annabeth grins at him anyways. She manages to sneak her foot back into the divet, this time putting both of her hands on the upper floor of the cavern and pulling herself up.

The lava rock wall was good for something, after all.

=Dioynisus and Athena cabin paired up. Castor told a joke that made a ten year old Annabeth giggle until it was engrained in the back of her throat. She was still laughing, half-way up the rock wall, when her foot hit a particularly wobbly rock–

Other than concussions. Speaking of which, she was really craving at least a bottle of Tylenol and a solid helping of ambrosia right about now.

She swung her legs up a bit, adjusting so that she was pulling herself up with her shins, and rolling forward onto the floor for a bit for balance. It wouldn’t do her well to make it up here only to fall back down and break her leg.

After avoiding the barrage of sheep and creeping to the side of the cave, she let the back of her arms rest on the wall for balance, something she had admittedly been struggling with since hitting her head. Annabeth took the first of her stones and tossed it in the general direction of the entrance.

One of the men turned his head toward the caves’ general direction, his brows and the band on his forehead furrowed. But he made no move forward.

Clicking her tongue quietly, Annabeth pulled out another stone from her pocket. This time, instead of letting it roll close to the floor, she made sure that it had enough force behind it to remain airborne a little longer.

The same man had continued watching, this time calling out to one of his companions.

“Αδέρφια! Το βλέπετε αυτό?”

Annabeth flinched back. Ancient Greek. Though she expected it, given their attire, it was strange to hear it spoken out of the context of Camp or from a monster, nonetheless. 

Monsters, then? They seemed quite human. And projections and illusions could presumably speak greek, so that didn’t rule that idea out either.

Demigod brains were admittedly hard-wired for Ancient Greek. But that didn’t mean that their didn’t come a decent bit of studying that had to be done in order to understand it fully. Fortunately, Annabeth had taken a strange fascination with reciting the classics in their most perfect form for about two weeks when she was nine, so she was more than proficient.

The same was unlikely to be said about the rest of the group.

She shook her head, her mind working to automatically translate. Brothers! Do you see this?

=Brothers? Some sort of family? Or perhaps, and this was the most likely with the armor that they had affixed to their bodies, brothers in arms.

Annabeth pulled out a third stone, keeping it steady in her hand as she slowly made her way forward toward the entrance of the cave. It was difficult with the sheep that were slowly sensing her, somehow.

It seemed that the men hadn’t noticed the surplus of sheep within the cave until the man with the tainia around his forehead, ergo her, pointed it out. They bounded into the cave with a infectious sort of enthusiasm and desperation, one that echoed throughout the cave.

Annabeth listened in to the smatterings of conversations closely.

“Can’t believe this cave has all of this!”

“–for us to keep!”

“–enough sheep here to feed the entire fleet!”

Then the last man hesitantly steps through the entrance. He looked rundown and ruggedly handsome in equal parts, his beard a little long when compared to the rest of the group. “It’s almost too perfect. Too good to be true.” 

Before Annabeth can think on that anymore, an earthshaking rumble stops her in her tracks. It is only moments later, after she froze in place against the side of the wall, that she realized it was a roar.

This time, Annabeth was the last person to hear the footsteps. She watched the faces of the men turn pale and into pictures of sheer terror at the sight ahead of them.

There stood a pale, almost grey and completely devoid of color, figure. Everything about it looked entirely disproportionate, it’s shoulders hunched over in a show of mock relaxation but only succeeded in making it look larger and more threatening. It’s limbs dragged and dragged and dragged along the floor, the appendages were strictly oversized things that had dirt and dried blood caked upon them like some kind of second skin. In the absence of any neck, his cone-shaped head balanced on his body like some kind of bobble head, with his rows of teeth jutting out every which way.

And his eye. His eye looked far, far too large for his rotting face. It bulged out of his head like a fleshy-balloon about to pop, and it oozed of sickly looking pus. It was visually and disturbingly horrific. But it was also horrifically familiar.

“Hail, friend!” The bearded man called out to the monster, both arms held up in mock surrender as he stepped forward slowly. Either he was used to conversing with beasts of such terrifying nature or he was very good at hiding his fear, “We’re weary travelers, seeking a moment of rest. We come in peace.”

A leader of some sort. A general? A captain? With the banners, some kind of king. Most definitely of the Ancient Greek variety, if the armor hadn’t already given it away. He looked like an old legend. If she was being honest, he looked like–

Oh my gods. That’s the Odysseus.

Her mind started racing a mile a minute as she realized the potential implications. Scattered and muddled as it was, she threw open the doors of her mind’s library like she was in some kind of race against time. Because she–they, very well were.

=Our party quickly made its way to his cave but we failed to find our host himself inside; he was off in his pasture, ranging his sleek flocks. So we explored his den, gazing wide-eyed at it all, the large flat racks loaded with drying cheeses, the folds crowded with young lambs and kids, split into three groups–

=Some cultures such as the Greek saw time as cyclical - everything was re-born, every event would occur again. There was no ending. For this reason, their idea of "eternity," where the gods resided, is entirely different than the Christian idea of–

=Prophecy is a form of time travel, in which information moves from the future to the past. It presents exactly the same questions that an object moving from the future to the past does, and is indistinguishable from that circumstance if–

=When Althaea has a vision that tells her that her son's life will end at the point when the log in her fireplace burns away, that's time travel. When Laius learns he will be killed by his own son, that's time travel. When Agamemnon learns he will die with one foot on land and one in the water, that's–

=Luke Castellan was the son of Hermes, god of thieves, of language, of travel. But he was also the scourge of Kronos, the Titan-King of Time, and the leader of his army. Would it be so unthinkable to consider that he is at the root of–

There was no way this was a projection or some kind of illusion or remake. They’d passed the sirens, passed Circe, and outside of them, hadn’t pissed off anyone capable of that kind of level of illusory sorcery. The only ones still after them at this point was Kronos’ crazed followers…and Luke. 

This had to be the actual Odyssey.

So many questions flooded Annabeth’s mind. How? Why? And where were the racks of drying cheese? But she didn’t have time to answer any of that.

Where in the Odyssey Polyphemus says

=‘Strangers!’ he thundered out,‘now who are you? Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes? Out on a trading spree or roving the waves like pirates, sea-wolves raiding at will, who risk their lives to plunder other men?’

Squelch!

Something wet splatters across Annabeth’s entire front half of her body. She puts her hand to her face and it comes back a dark smattering of red with intermingling solid chunks of grey. She gags upon realizing the blood and brain matter that covered her face had gotten into her mouth, which she had only opened in the first place to cry out a warning to the man nearest to the Cyclops.

Or well. What used to be a man. Annabeth viciously rubbed at her tongue with the back of her hand, trying to get what was left of him off of her.

The entire room froze as blood drip drip dripped from the ceiling, followed by the occasional clunk of something a little more solid, a little more bone-like. Polyphemus lets out a torturously long groan as he lets his one stick-like wrist hang limply at his side, the other still clenched to where he pommeled an unsuspecting man into the floor with nothing more than his bare fists.

His jaw unhinged, and whatever semblance of him looking even remotely human vanished with it, as rows upon rows of razor equally sharp, molding teeth and a long-blackened tongue reveal themselves to all unfortunate enough to be in the audience. The smell of his open orifice (somewhere between a dumpster on a hot day on the Arizona streets and a rotten, leaking corpse) caused another round of silent gagging from Annabeth, only broken when she watches him shove his whole human remains-covered fist into his mouth and chew.

Whatever plan she had had to be tossed out immediately. Between the missing cheese, the entrails covering her own body, and the lack of any formal conversation to speak of from Polyphemus, it was obvious that maybe the Odyssey misconstrued things.

“Watch out!” came the shrill voice of the bearded man. Odysseus, she corrected herself. And not a moment later the Cyclops unhunched his back, popped a completely unharmed and clean hand from his mouth, and let out an ear-splitting roar as he barreled towards the crew of men with an unseeing sort of frenzy.

A lot of things. Fucking Homer.

Annabeth is quick to dart away from the corner near the entrance she had ducked herself into, her legs pushed off faster than that of a doe being chased in an active pursuit. 

The doe in question, stumbles about the meadow lazily in hunt of her own prey.

She doesn’t think that Polyphemus could see or sense her

=sheep that were slowly sensing her, somehow–

but she doesn’t want to take any chances. Annabeth did her best to quiet her rapidly spiraling mind as she came to a sliding halt in front of the opposing side of the cavern, having just barely dodged all of the lambs that were either being slaughtered or escaping with fleeing bleats. Apparently, Polyphemus had only grown to actually like his sheep within a more recent time period, if the unbiased massacre was anything to go by.

She wasn’t the only one that had had trouble.

Smash!

Annabeth flinched at the sound of rock-like skin meeting something that sounded like a water balloon. Now that she wasn’t being actively charged at, she whipped around to face the situation at large from her significantly better, minimally safer vantage point.

The group of men hadn’t been faring well. They were running amok, running from one side of the cave to the next and doing their best to play keep-away from the monster, much like the bleating and screaming sheep who were being crushed mercilessly underfoot.

Many of whom were next to the two bodies of dead men. One, crushed until there was no recognizable corpse. The other, cut completely in half, with guts and excrement spilling out of what used to be his midsection. Annabeth felt sick and decided the best thing to do in this situation was to not look at all.

Crack!

That apparently wasn’t a good option either. Annabeth held back a yelp as a man landed not far from her. He had been thrown into the sharp rocky wall with a scream that didn’t stop, even as his blood trailed down from where his head and spine had impacted the now cracked wall. Even as his battered body lay unmoving, his screams did not peter out for even a moment, his face trapped in something of pure agonizing pain.

“Men!” Odysseus called out before immediately running, having no desire to give the Cyclops a clear target. “Draw you swords! We have strength in numbers! Aim for weak points, his ankles, his calves, anything you can reach!”

It was a smart idea in theory, but Annabeth knew better. The Cyclops had near invulnerable skin. There was no way for them to disarm him based on brute force alone.

Crunch!

In the time that it took for Odysseus to come up with a plan, Polyphemus had already lurched upon another unsuspecting man who was frozen in place. Was frozen in place. Now, what remained of the man’s body hung from the Cyclops clamped jaw, his blood mixed with saliva as it poured out to the floor as his merciless killer sloppily engorged on his meal.

But Odysseus and his men do not take this blow lying down. While a few of the remaining men attempt to run up and distract the Cyclops from the front, shuddering as they watch their compatriot hanging, a few take to the back. With a quick slash, Odysseus and his men manage to score a gash upon the Cyclops’ rotting grey ankles.

With something of a pained keen and a raging roar, the Cyclops flings around and stomps his legs. The men are quick to back up, with the yelled chidings of Odysseus to guide them. But all are subjected to the earsplitting roar. Annabeth winces as she feels her brain practically shake back and forth in her head, she does her best to place her hands above her ears.

“Hey stupid!” 

Annabeth was going to murder him.

The english that Percy shouted out was a stark contrast to the rapid greek that was being thrown out from the others. Not that the Cyclops noticed the difference. What he did notice, was the level in volume.

“Ugly! Idiot! I’m over here!”

It seemed that Percy had managed to scale the rocky wall of the trench well-enough–despite the fact that Annabeth said he should stay put–that he thought himself to be competent enough to also attempt to distract the Cyclops’ as well.

Polyphemus turned his elongated, somehow even uglier than before face Percy’s way and Annabeth couldn’t read minds but in that moment she could most certainly read Percy’s. Since when the fuck could this guy see again?

And Annabeth was immediately hit with the mortifying idea that not everyone was as smart as her and therefore; wouldn’t be able to piece things together quite like her either. She cursed mentally, and would’ve cursed physically if not for the fact that it would’ve given her positioning away.

But Percy’s distraction gave the men enough time to scatter away from where they were originally concentrated, an area so close to the Cyclops that their death was nearly ensured. It did not, however, protect Percy in any way.

With yet another wordless roar, Polyphemus had begun to charge toward a very debilitated, broken-legged Percy. Annabeth ran toward him as well, but she did not have the same fortune of being able to crush all of the sheep underfoot like the Cyclops could. And this version of Polyphemus just so happened to be weirdly fast.

In a panic, Annabeth cried out, “Left! Go left!” She wasn’t sure if she was urging on Percy or Polyphemus as she said it, but both heeded her cry. Percy, in actually listening to it, by tossing himself to the floor with a stumbling roll. Polyphemus, in loosing focus on the target in front of him and turning to the new voice.

Annabeth froze in place.

=Rock-like skin meeting something that sounded out like a water balloon. Screams that did not peter out for even a moment. Blood mixed with saliva as it poured out to the floor as his merciless killer sloppily engorged on his meal–

She most certainly did not want to be another hapless snack for Polyphemus to chew on for the time being. 

Fortunately, Polyphemus made no other move to her immediate direction. Annabeth looked down at her–thankfully still invisible–hands and let out an non-audible sigh of relief, before scurrying back closer to the wall. Never once taking her fully off of the Cyclops.

Percy, thankfully, did not look in her direction and was doing his best to put as much distance between Polyphemus and himself as possible. The crew of men did the same. Save, Odysseus, who looked around the cave with a bewildered expression on his face. He mouthed something.

Athena, the goddess herself, faltered upon being called to by her champion of wisdom, her warrior of minds. A flicker of confusion.

Polyphemus did not consider the empty space that made noise for very long, and instead charged the man that just so happened–

Thwack!

–to be closet to Annabeth when she called out. 

“Augh!” His cry of pain was muffled from where he was held by the head within the Cyclops’ bony grip, but was certainly clear as he was brought to the monster’s maw. “Help, HELP! Someo–”

His voice was cut off by himself as he descended into wordless screams of pain, his left leg now separated by the rest of his body by way of rows upon rows of jagged teeth. As Polyphemus went to open up his mouth once more, presumably to add the other evading leg next to the dangling, mawed one, he froze as a rock hit him square on the temple.

“Hey fucker!”

The room once again seemed to freeze as they turned to look at the newcomer. Newcomers. 

Clarisse white knuckled her spear with both hands and poised it at the ready in front of her. She looked much more battle ready then even the soldiers, with her shoulder length hair tied back and her leather jacket shining like some kind of armor in it’s own right. If she didn’t know any better, she would think that her father had suddenly came down and bestowed some kind of blessing on her.

War was not one to give blessings sparingly. No, it seemed that every one was touched by the blessing of brutality, at one point or another.

But Annabeth knew better, knew he would never.

“Chew on something your own size!” She spat out, though not before giving him the bird.

=Clarisse had gotten her spear from the Cyclops earlier on. Before they fell. A weapon with decent range.

And Grover stood behind her, with his arm that he used to throw the stone still held up in the air, shaking like a leaf in the wind. A very white leaf, with his wedding dress having been bustled and tied up tightly, and on account of the fact that it looked like all of the coloring had left his face. He followed Clarisse’s much more enthused interjection with a significantly less aggressive, “...Yeah! What she said!”

The winds flit about playfully, happening upon all they touch. 

The Cyclops, even if he didn’t necessarily understand the words, did not take too kindly to that. With a resounding thud, the man that was now missing a leg was dropped unceremoniously to the floor, the monster was apparently content to ignore his sobbing at his feet and turned to face his new foes with a resounding growl.

The two took the hint and dodged. Left and right, completely avoiding the Cyclops who could apparently dash in no set direction but straight. He came to a crashing halt and whipped his entire body to turn right, to a Satyr who yelped upon hearing the roaring-focus fall to him.

Clarisse lunged forward and poked the apparently now very vincible skin of Polyphemus with a shout, “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Odysseus and the rest of the crew seemed to take the hint, despite not understanding what any of them had said. The Captain shouted out in Ancient Greek, “Men! Do not stop moving or shouting at any cost! Forward march until we defeat the Cyclops!”

The remaining men scramble about the cavern, doing their best to avoid the attentions of the shambling Cyclops.

She watched as Grover made stumbled haste over to the debilitated man who was doing his best to remain silent despite the blood that was gushing out in rapid amounts from his leg. He grips the man by the cloak and begins dragging him off to the side of the cavern wall near her. 

Annabeth and Grover make definitive, unmistakable eye contact for a moment. The satyr blinks before his eyes furrow in confusion.

Annabeth curses. 

It was not long lasting.

Thud!

Two of the men collide into each other, in their desperate attempt to keep the Cyclops in view. They don’t injure themselves but it does not stay that way for long.

The first is immediately stepped upon and crushed underfoot and his blood sprays up upon both the offending leg and the man that had splayed out across from him.

“No, NO! Ple–” the second man does not have a chance to finish his sentence. This time Polyphemus leaves no chance for escape, no narrow path to survival, and throws the man through his walls of teeth and straight to what Annabeth could only presume was his mishappen esophagus. He clamps down and the man is heard of no more.

This was not what happened in the Odyssey. One, two, three, four, five, six. Seven. Seven deaths so far.

=Out of each ship, six men-at-arms were killed; the rest of us rowed away from certain doom–

This was beyond even potential embellishments done by Homer. Precise numbers tended to not be up to interpretation, especially when the death toll throughout the Odyssey was so specific.

Not to mention

=With that he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side, and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet with chunks of human flesh—he vomited, blind drunk.

the Cyclops either cannot or will not talk. The take-down of Polyphemus would have to be entirely different from what was depicted. One of brute force.

Whack!

A spare, unfortunate whack to the head leaves a crew member’s brains spilling out onto the cavern floor.

Eight. Annabeth declares with a wince.

She couldn’t just stand here like a sitting duck waiting to get killed. She’d try and escape out the front of the cave, but there would be no conceivable way to get all of them out of there at once. But she only had her knife and two rocks in her pocket. What could she do?

=Blood covered the walls, the floors, the men. The bodies that were ravished weren’t much to look at, but they were all to be seen. What to do? What could she do?

Her eyes catch upon the bow that was lodged into the man’s mangled corpse. Then on the crushed, glowing flowers covered in blood next to him. A bandana that lay limply on the floor. And on the rocks within her own pocket.

Her hands part from the rock walls with a hasty kind of speed, as she stumbles to the center of the room, haplessly. She does her best to avoid slipping on any kind of remains, which was difficult considering the sheer amount of people killed upon the floor within the past couple of moments.

Annabeth watches her own hands carefully grab the bow and flowers. She feels eyes upon her and freezes. Eye.

At the sound of a deafening roar, Annabeth looks up to see a raging Cyclops charging towards her. She moves to dodge out of the way but the real question is was it quick enough–

Polyphemus screeches and Annabeth shuts her eyes tight as she believes herself to be done for.

Only for the Cyclops to turn around. Annabeth opens her eyes only to make contact with sea green across the way. Through the Cyclops jutted and bony legs, Annabeth sees an idiot that is going to get himself killed.

“Dude. Has anyone ever told you to chew with your mouth closed?” Percy says it directly to Annabeth, despite standing in front of the Cyclops.

Don’t bite off more than you can chew, is probably what he meant.  

=malaphor is an unintentional, often humorous, blend of two common idioms–

And Annabeth hadn’t eaten in days, as her stomach and now Percy so graciously reminded her. Though with the amount of people that were probably just generally hanging out of the monster’s mouth, his turn of phrase technically worked there too.

Annabeth wanted to scream at him. Tell him that he was an idiot for jumping in front of a huge, mindless monster in a cast that probably weighed him down a ridiculous amount. But she wouldn’t be one to take the gift horse in the mouth. Especially when this may be their very last shot at taking down this monster long enough to get the Odyssey back on track and to get out of here.

But Polyphemus, just as he had seemingly hundreds of other times, is easily distracted and took the bait. Annabeth almost wishes that he wouldn’t.

Percy limply carried a bloodied sword that seemed just as unbalanced as him. He must’ve grabbed it off of one of the downed soldiers. Given the haphazard cast that probably gave him an extra ten pounds, Annabeth wasn’t surprised.

Furiously, Annabeth made quick work of the rocks and flowers and the bloodied piece of fabric. Or, well, as much as her trembling fingers would allow her to. She pressed as many flowers as she could onto the rock, with the blood working as an adhesive. Then she presses it into the fabric, which she ties to the bow string in kind of a makeshift pouch.

=She remembers Arts & Crafts with the Hermes cabin. Sunshine beat down on their freckles arms as they worked carefully with twine and wood. One of the older boys, Cecil, wore a sharp grin as he taught the rest of them how to fashion a emergency weapon out of anything you could find–

Polyphemus dashes forward with a blaring roar and Annabeth tilts her head up in horror, unable to look away from her best friend’s coming fate

=She remembers having her head being forcibly tilted away. The feeling of warmth–the crook of Luke’s

only for the world to seemingly come to a complete halt.

Polyphemus’ open maw unmoving, Percy’s face remained hardened with anticipation and fear, Clarisse who was mid-run toward the Cyclops.

Annabeth blinks slowly. It is a luxury she hadn’t had since this whole affair started. It almost seemed as if her mind was clearing, her senses returning to her. But she makes no sudden movements. Partially out of fear, partially out of hesitation. Partially out of curiosity.

Her questions are answered moments later, when a dark blue cloaked figure dashes forward toward the Cyclops with shocking speed, given the state of everything else. Odysseus.

Before any particular thoughts or questions could cross Annabeth’s mind, the world comes to a very abrupt start once more, beginning with the swing of a sword to bony ankles. Dark brownish-green spurts out like a geyser as Polyphemus cries out in pain.

“Have you no honor?” comes the rage-ful sound of Odysseus as he moves away from the monster, careful to not get crushed underfoot like so may of his crew. “Killing my men? Attacking the injured? You spit upon the gods with your folly.”

=Folly: lack of good sense; foolishness.

Annabeth snapped back to her own task at hand, refocusing her eyes upon the haphazard ranged weapon and flower-and-blood covered stones. Stupid. She needed to work quick. She stood up as fast as she could and ignored the wave of dizziness that overtook her vision to the best of her ability.

=A much younger Annabeth had watched from her bunk bed in Cabin Six as one of her much, much older sisters packed the sum total of her life into a ratty duffel bag. She was twenty-three and would be leaving, be it through aging out of Camp or joining the hunters outright. Austen had told her, with a grim smile, that at least she was staving off wrinkles and taxes and other adult things that she hadn’t yet understood, this way.

She loaded the rock into the pouch on the string. It’s most certainly not comfortable, but it’ll do the trick. Annabeth, despite the bruisings and sores that lined her body, held the tense bow just past her shoulder as she waited for Polyphemus to open up wide enough to become a target.

=To eat a whole person, it would take about 3,000 to 5,000 "bite-sized" chunks–

Before she could even weigh out her decisions fully, Annabeth cried out once in English then in Ancient Greek. “Stab him! αὐτὸν νύξον!” 

Every remaining, intelligent party whipped their heads around in an attempt to track the voice. Some, notably the Ancient Greeks in the cavern, looked remarkably more terrified, bewildered, and reverent than the others.

The world came to a crashing halt once more.

Annabeth was left wondering what made Odysseus so special that he got a power from her mother that effectively allowed him to stop time itself. How unfair. This is how normal children must feel upon finding out their parents had a favorite and it was their much less deserving, annoying older brother. 

The Owl watches as the bird learns to flap its’ wings, and Wisdom takes a back seat to sheer power for the time being.

She wondered if it caused him any negative effects or strain.

=to gain something, something of equal value must be lost or sacrificed–

Odysseus lunged forward, digging his sword as high up and as close to the back of the Cyclops’ knees as he could. And based on the pale sheen that was slowly spreading across his face, her last question was answered, at the very least.

The world becomes loud once more, and Polyphemus opens his disfigured jaw to let out a booming roar at the offending hero of legend. Annabeth takes a deep breath in–

=Annabeth had always particularly liked the idea of the hunters. Even before her sister joined up. An immortal band of merry women, destined to spend their eternal lives laughing amongst each other, relishing in the thrill of the chase, and hunting.

–the rock hits graying, rotting skin. At the very last second, Polyphemus had stopped his roaring. And now it seemed that all of his one-eyed attention had fell to where the offending rock had come from.

=She’d spent months trying to become more adept with a bow. To the point, that the Apollo cabin kids had outright begun avoiding her in order to dodge her many questions on the specifics of fletching and avoiding drafts. She simply wanted to be ready for when she joined up when she was older.

So he couldn’t understand language but understood being a direction-honing beacon perfectly fine. Amazing.

=It would be like the family she never had. The family that she tried so hard to find, but kept losing. It was her dream, her destiny, and her goal. Because she’d knew that she would find a final sort-of family and peace within the hunters. She knew it to be true.

This time, it was Clarisse to make the first move to distract Polyphemus. Her spear suddenly found itself lodged in his behind, after she had thrown it a great distance across the cave. 

=Even if Annabeth hadn’t seen her sister since she left.

“Dumbass bastard! You should honestly just bite the bullet and die all ready! It’d save us all the work!” It seemed that they were all running out of things to say. With the exception of Clarisse whose potty-mouth and mean spirited attitude made cliche high school bullies from the movies cry to their mothers. “One-eyed looking freak!”

If Polyphemus could understand any of the disparaging insults being thrown his way, he doesn’t show it. But he did seem angry about it nonetheless. He lets out a final, blaring yell and charges toward Clarisse. In a panic, Annabeth re-angles her makeshift sling-shot–

=A fight in the Mess Hall over the proper sacrificial offerings to parents, one knocked out and one missing tooth between the two of them, and a lifelong rivalry bound in mutual respect and the occasional knife spar.

only for her to get passed by the charging Cyclops entirely. Clarisse herself blinks confusedly, having obviously braced herself for some kind of force that she would for once, be unable to face head-on without any kind of weapon to speak of.

Before Annabeth can process what’s happening, there is a–

Crack!

–resounding echo of a body colliding with something significantly large and, with more force. Annabeth’s eyes grow to the size of dinner plates as she witnesses Percy on the floor. Unmoving.

He doesn’t stay that way for long. And neither does Annabeth.

As Percy’s battered and bruised body is taken into the spindly, cruel hands of Polyphemus, Annabeth pulls the stone back at the ready. As the Cyclops begins to open his mouth,

=Risk is a classic strategy board game of global conquest–

=”Just like that.” Luke guides her clumsily-held bow to a point where she could hold it tighter and more steady within her grip. The breeze ruffles his light blonde hair and the leaves that held her forgone arrows. “When am I supposed to shoot?” She sounds petulant as she asks. He smiles and the scar on his face grins too. “You’ll know when.”

=Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

she fires. This time, the stone ends up past the monsters lips, past his teeth, and into a part of his mouth that she couldn’t see anymore. 

=A birdie in golf is a score of one stroke under par, and a bogey in golf is a score of one stroke over par on a single hole–

She just hoped that she wasn’t too late.

=Eating the lotus flower dulls the senses and keeps someone prisoner. What happens at the Lotus Hotel, stays at the Lotus Hotel... for eternity. But how long did it take for eternity to kick in?

Was she too late?

Annabeth watches in abject horror as a battered, unconscious Percy is brought up to Polyphemus’ mouth–

Almost against her will, Annabeth feels her eyes water and her throat close up as she cries out, “Percy!”

=Therein lies a legend of time, of cruelty, of cycles. Because all is true of the gods and beings of higher power. Because in the end, time eats all his children–

In an all-encompassing blinding light, the world freezes. Not like it had before. This time, the world moves.

Clarisse comes away, blinking and gasping, from the Cyclops. The spear that she managed to pull off of him still setting off sparks that no doubt contributed to her rhythmic tremble of her arms.

Polyphemus, the Cyclops in question, stumbles back and forth like an unbalanced doe learning to walk for the first time. And without warning–

The light-footed doe prances about the meadow contentedly, watching as her wolfish companion gnaws upon the bodies of those they had fell.

the Cyclops falls to the ground with an innumerable thud, taking out another one of Odysseus’ men–splat!–with him. Blood pools out from under the unconscious monster’s body, the thick sinew of guts and other bodily fluid following in droves, joining the already drenched and disgusting cavern floor.

It was a quick death, at least. Quicker than that of his fellow men, Annabeth reasoned, eaten alive and torn apart. She felt her entire body shudder and mentally sectioned off all of those thoughts for later. For when her and her friend’s safety was more guaranteed.

There are noticeable winces from those gathered around, but the cavern altogether holds its tongue. Careful and cautious, save the labored breaths from the gathered men and children and the sound of sweat to brow, there lies an emptiness inside that once held a foe to be fought. One that was, surprisingly, bested.

=he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side, and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet with chunks of human flesh—he vomited, blind drunk–

“Fucker.” Clarisse, who still remained the closest, kicks the air near the monster and curses him out in English. She was careful enough not to make contact. Even Clarisse, bitchy as she was, was not stupid enough to tempt fate in a manner such as this.

Her action alone is enough to reignite the room. Well, cavern. 

Odysseus calls out to his four remaining men, all of whom were scattered across the room and in varying states of disarray and injury. “Brothers! Gather near, make haste! We haven’t much time!”

The men hurry over the best they can, save the man who quite literally escaped from the jaws of death itself, who they leave off to the side unconscious for the time being. But it obviously takes them great strength, being that they have to cross the remaining entrails of the men that they had called friends for what, ten years? 

Annabeth couldn’t imagine being able to recover that fast from death. As illogical as it was, even with her life on the line, she would struggle. If she was any younger, she would likely be reprimanded for that. She could only imagine, one of her older brothers or sisters, telling her how pointless their deaths were. And how, if she were to die like them, she would only bring about shame to her mother and shame to her name.

Now that she was older, she supposed she was in charge of reprimanding herself.

Annabeth grimaced at the sight of the floor, nonetheless. More blood and excrements were visible than rock, at this point. With a hesitant hand–

=Attempting to stay invisible, when already revealed, was a stupid idea indeed.

she took off her cap and took a step forward, careful to avoid any of the…larger chunks. Ancient Greeks had very particular methods when it came to honoring the dead, and she didn’t want to accidentally set off one of her only potential allies in this mess before even speaking with them.

=the prothesis (laying out the body), ekphora (funeral procession), and the deposition of remains. Both inhumation and cremation were practiced, followed by placing grave goods in the tomb and performing ongoing graveside rituals to ensure the soul’s safe passage to the underworld

Her eyes almost immediately made contact with Clarisse, who had been scanning the room warily, prior to spotting Annabeth. And when she did, the other girl barred her teeth, glared, and relaxed her solider-stiff shoulders all in one fell swoop.

Grover, who was much less careful and likely less knowledgeable on the situation as a whole (much less long forgone Ancient customs), quickly sped over to the Cyclops as well, aggressively waving on Annabeth to hurry up.

“Is he okay?” were the first words that spilled from Annabeth’s mouth, as she carefully broached the area where the Cyclops had fallen. In his meaty-grey hand, lie an unconscious Percy who was practically spilling out onto the bloody floor.

Grover, who was still wearing that ridiculous wedding dress, flounced on over and leaned down on the floor next to the Cyclops’ hand cautiously. “He’s still breathing, at least. I’d be,” he cuts a finger over his throat. “Y’know.”

After a few moments of looking him over, Grover answers again. “Um, a little beat up, but I mean, duh. Just got knocked in the head by a huge giant.” He pulled out his reed pipes from a pocket in his dress, “I can probably try some of Apollo cabin’s healing hymns.”

(

Annabeth, with a deadpan sigh, asked, “And you couldn’t before, why?”

The satyr was sheepish, “I…still thought Polyphemus was around. Which in fairness, I was right about.” Then he turned indignant, as if remembering for himself as well, “And I just learned them! No idea if they’ll really work. One wrong move and we’d all be growing grapes from our nostrils.”

Clarisse snorted. “I vote you do that on Jackson either way.” Humorless. Annabeth couldn’t blame her, given the state of…things. She tried to avoid looking at the floor. And at herself, in any capacity. She turned her head to the left, “Is that…?”

The question goes unspoken, but Annabeth nods all the same. How the gathered men in front of them were who they were, she didn’t know. Couldn’t know, until she stopped and really thought about it, which she couldn’t do. Not until she knew they would be safe.

Without glancing back at the two of them, she started forward (“Annabeth!” and “motherfucking idiot…” are called after her without so much of a response), moving from the blocked exit of the cave to a couple of paces away from the group of men.

The hero of legend in question takes notice immediately, judging by the quick shift in his eyes. But he doesn’t stop his inspired speech to his men. “ –mark my word, men. This is not the last of it. We must continue our journey onward.”

His eyes flit about the room, the men, the monster, the children he didn’t know, all whilst talking and seeking to reinstill a sense of moral in his crew. Odysseus should consider himself lucky. Annabeth certainly did not get that skill from her mother. Talk about playing favorites.

Wisdom peers over long dirtied spectacles, strategy remains singularly focused and carelessly inattentive, and an owl tilts it’s head as it watches its’ only young.

“But Captain,” the burly dark skinned man to the left of Odysseus starts, “What of our fallen friends?”

=Who is he to be questioning his captain like this? One of Odysseus’ commanders? What major characters of the crew were introduced at this point in the story? 

The legendary hero looked grim and ragged. He glanced at the carnage that surrounded them and was unable to make eye contact with any of his remaining men.

“Remember them.”

“Know, that we will remember their sacrifice, for it is with their deaths that we will all make it back home. And when you stand among your families, it is these brave men that you have to thank for it.”

“Now brothers! Hold steadfast, heed my call! Take ahold of the monsters’ club, use your swords to sharpen the stub! We will not let our comrades die in vain!”

“Yes sir!” The men respond in loud, encouraged unison. Much more agreeable and demonstrative than one would expect out of a group of two that had just watched some of their closest friends die. But perhaps that was just the effect that Odysseus had.

Without anymore prompting, the men and Odysseus turned to the club/uprooted tree that had distanced itself from the body of the Cyclops, and begin hacking away at it. It’s evident that none of them would be carpenters any time soon, but they began to make quick work of it.

Speaking of work, Annabeth had her own job to do. One very important to their continued survival, at that.

“Excuse my intrusion,” Annabeth does her best to play to a role. Somewhere between noble young lady and poor, captured peasant. It’s difficult, with her Ancient Greek being as rusty as it was. She has a bit of an accent but she could hopefully play it off. Though, this was the infamed Odysseus she was talking to. “You said that we don’t have a lot of time?”

Odysseus’ eyes flicker away from the wood that he was carving up and towards her, fully taking her in now that she’s officially made herself known, both in terms of polite greeting and taking off her cap and making herself physically present. But there is an attempt at kindness there. “No intrusion at all. Your help in the fight was most appreciated, after all.”

=So the eye contact she had made with him at some point wasn’t just her imagination. She’d been spotted. First the Golden Fleece, then Percy’s sword, and now Annabeth’s cap. Something was very, very wrong–

It really was no wonder that he was trained by Wisdom herself.

The young woman watches her protege tending to the loom with pride, the solider continues to forgo the details to focus on other parts of his plans, and a sense of brevity fills the philosopher as he speaks.

Annabeth clicks her tongue, “Ah. If you mean acting as a distraction, then you’ll want to thank my friend. Though, you’ll probably have to wait, as he’s a bit…preoccupied, at the moment.” She tilts her head to Percy, who was collapsed and unconscious on the other side of the room. A pang of worry shot through her heart, before she pushed it down in favor of the more pressing task at hand.

Better to feign ignorance, in turn. Divert. He had no solid proof of her involvement, after all. And Annabeth would not want to get wrapped up in any Ancient-era drama, more so than they already have.

=Who was she in the scheme of all of this? She really needed to establish a airtight backstory and quick—

Odysseus laughs at the attempt at a joke, but it truly comes out more sad than anything. Mournful. “That, I will.” He tilts his head, “Now, if you don’t mind my asking, who are you? Why are you on this island?” 

=Speaking was governed by strict etiquette designed to protect the guest's anonymity and safety. Hosts were expected to offer food and comfort before asking the stranger for their name, origin, or business, ensuring hospitality preceded interrogation–

Annabeth felt the underlying trick almost vibrating in her bones like a warning rattle. 

=defensive warning mechanism to alert predators–

A test to see whether or not they were Greek or familiar with customs, then? Maybe he suspected they were gods, as was typical for the time period. Either way she would have to call him out on his supposed ‘misstep.’

From the corner of her eye, she saw twin flashes of curly black hair and brown skin and wished that the two just left the conversation to her. 

“We were betrayed,” came Clarisse’s heavily accented voice, uncaring of any greek social niceties or Annabeth’s carefully crafted planning.

At the same time, Grover (in equally bad Ancient Greek) says, “Our ship wrecked.”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. Annabeth rolled her eyes. Which still hurt, mind you.

“What they mean to say,” she says with a sigh, “is that we our demigods sent out on a quest–”

Completely true. Why lie, when in this era, demigods were a dime a dozen?

“–when our Captain abandoned us–”

Luke did technically leave them here on the island. Even if he wasn’t their Captain, he was a Captain. Of a evil cruise-ship stealing army that would stop at nothing to ruin their lives. In a manner of speaking.

“–and left us to fend against this monster, wrecking our ship in the process. We’ve been here for the better part of the past two days, hiding.”

Technically true. Grover had been in the cave for more like a month, and it technically was this cave. Just a couple thousand years into the future.

Annabeth waited for him to question who their captain was, waited for him to poke holes in the little flaws that didn’t add up in their story, or in the likely event that he accepted all of that at face value, move on.

“Demigods?” Odysseus looked confused. Much more than one would expect from someone of his notoriety.

“Pardon?” Annabeth tilted her head, owlishly.

Odysseus eyes flitted about again, jumping from one to another in a manner that seemed...confused. “It’s just that I’m not entirely familiar with the term.”

Ah. Maybe they called it different during this time, then. “Half gods.” She clarified.

The face the man made was sudden, his ruggedly handsome features quickly became ugly and twisted. Comparable to that of the Cyclops from earlier. He looked brutal and the pressure that she felt from his stare was enough to remind her just who they were speaking to: the legendary Odysseus of Ithaca, brutal strategician that had conned and tricked and masterminded his way through the war against Troy, against gods who wished to strike him down, and back to his homeland carrying only his bloodied hands and a taste for vengeance.

Before Annabeth could fully readjust herself and let her mind run rampant, she was elbowed in the gut. It was much less subtle than what she would’ve hoped for, given the conversation, but it did stop her from spiralling. 

“What my friend means to say,” came Clarisse’s jilted voice. “Is that we were sent by the gods. On a journey.”

“Ah. Yes, pardon me. That is the correct term,” she played up the accent and the awkward speech for a moment. Poor, captured, foreign girl. The descriptor slotted into the mental image she was crafting for herself easily. And it would make sense, given the color of her skin and hair, to not be Greek in the traditional sense.

She swallowed and did her best to look more sheepish, less guilty. “We are still getting used to your language, you see. We’re from far West.”

Odysseus’ shoulders slumped slightly, the first indication that he relaxed a bit. After a few more quick and compulsory glances, he allowed his face to fully smooth out and he grinned. “I see! Come, allow yourself to relax among us for a moment, you’re among fellow champions.” 

Clarisse gave him a sharp nod, Annabeth a small smile, and Grover managed to not bite at his dress (which likely would’ve raised some alarm bells around the men).

Annabeth recognized that it was more pretenses, then anything. 

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, my friends can help with the carving of the spear. And, if it is not too much to ask, of course.” They’d need to ingratiate themselves with the crew, if they wanted any chance of getting out of here. Their best chance in doing that was with the Captain himself.

Annabeth feels deep, scathing glares on her back and does her best to ignore them. Ignore Clarisse, at least. She felt bad that she had to sacrifice Grover, but this conversation would take all of her already low-functioning brainpower, and she couldn’t deal with anything else for the time being.

Odysseus eyebrows shot up. Perhaps not expecting the offer of help, despite the fact that they very much would need it, with only two able-bodied men remaining. “That would be deeply appreciated. Thank you.”

They stand to the right of the club, watching the men and now, the two unwilling children, hack away at the wood on the far left. Annabeth begins to carefully walk and do her best to avoid anything that could be considered to be remains.

“How far out west do you hail?” As they walk, Odysseus makes a show out of pulling out a jug of dark-colored liquid, taking a sip from its contents.

“Quite far, I’m not so sure you would be familiar with it.” Annabeth watches him, carefully–

=‘Here, Cyclops, try this wine—to top off the banquet of human flesh you ’ve bolted down!

Judge for yourself what stock our ship had stored. I brought it here to make you a fine libation, hoping you would pity me, Cyclops, send me home, but your rages are insufferable.

He holds up the glass, as if offering some to her. “Try me! I am an aging sailor who has traveled near and far. Even if I may not have seen it firsthand, I’m sure I’ve heard of it in passing.”

Annabeth weighed out her options. 

=Spanish was not invented on a specific date, but evolved from Vulgar Latin spoken on the Iberian Peninsula, taking distinct shape around the 9th century–

Her brain was foggy enough as it was. But to deny a drink, would be to deny xenia to a certain extent. And that was a protection that she wanted to make use of for the longest amount of time possible. She nods gratefully and takes the heavy jar into her hands.

In the heaviest Spanish accent she could manage (which was difficult to really conceptualize  because again, she hadn’t taken Spanish since she was last in school which was six years ago), Annabeth said, “San Francisco.”

She takes a decent swig of the wine, choking down the heavy acrid taste of fermentation, sea water, and figs. Annabeth is just glad that she managed to not spit this stuff back up on Odysseus’ fancy armor and cloak.

Gods, how on earth did Mr. D truly miss this stuff?

The burn of alcohol sweetens the laughter and food of the feast, the ladies sat around the washroom giggle with a manic kind of glee, and the Helots lazed around the fields once their work was done.

Odysseus blinked, before laughing. Seemingly at himself, but Annabeth was a bit too on edge to chalk it up solely to that. He grinned, “Good gods! Perhaps I’m not quite as well traveled as I thought. Though, that does explain your interesting style of dress.”

Annabeth smiled. It was a more tense thing, which comparatively was much better than the feelings of pure panic and fear that she had been feeling these past couple of hours. “Yes. My homeland tends to be more relaxed when it comes to dressage,” she said in reference to her dirty dark-wash jeans, orange tee, and tattered magenta sweatshirt. 

=According to xenia, the host provides food, bathing, and gifts to the guest, often exchanging parting gifts to solidify the bond.

Still, Annabeth continues, “And you’ll have to forgive me. I have nothing but conversation to share with you.” She does her best to look apologetic, and she hopes that it doesn’t fall as flat as it feels.

Odysseus shakes his head, “It is of no matter. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of xenia, then?”

Annabeth nods. 

“Then you should know that is was I who invited you in first, therefore I take responsibility for your safety and well-being. A young girl such as yourself should not have to worry about such things.” Odysseus was kind as he said it, but it didn’t stop Annabeth’s more modern ideals from inherently wanting to clash against his claims. But in the end, it was for their own safety, so she bit her tongue. 

He continued, “So San Fran-sísko,” Odysseus says it almost as if he was in a battle with his own tongue. “Is that in the continent of Libya?”

Annabeth swallowed the urge to correct him upon the fact that Africa was toward the South. “No, it’s actually of the Americas. If you’re familiar.” She knew he wouldn’t be.

“I am not. Pardon me, I just assumed based on you and your friends disposition.” He gestured to his own skin and then to hers. Though Odysseus was quite dark himself, it was likely more an effect of the long periods out in the sun while at sea than anything. Annabeth’s more umber toned skin was a obviously a product of her birth. The same probably went for Grover and Clarisse, though how Odysseus thought Percy and Tyson were possibly African was beyond her. “

His eyes take up that sharp, owlish quality to them again, “Tell me this, at least. Am I familiar with your gods?” He frames it as typical conversation, but Annabeth sees the true probing intent behind it. They stop in front of the unconscious body of Percy.

Annabeth knew that Odysseus was a very clever man. He wouldn’t have been followed around by the mythos he was if not for that fact. And clever people tend to pick up lies and discrepancies very quickly.

She’d know her lies (because there was no universe in which she would be able to tell the full and real truth in this situation) would have to have some basis.

Measuredly, Annabeth responded. “We are champions of certain truths, uncertain futures, and a variety of different knowledge.”

Some truths.

Futures that could possibly happen, though with how much they’ve changed, it really is uncertain. 

And between the four (five?) of them, they did know a lot of random information.

Knowledge surrounds mortals indiscriminately. 

There was implication there. Not so much that, if they were caught in their lie, they couldn’t chalk up to misunderstanding. But enough that they were thought to be divinely protected in some capacity.

Odysseus blinks, as if shocked but not wanting to clearly show it. Which did make Annabeth a little uneasy. The only reason why she felt so comfortable being a fake follower of one of the gods is that it wasn’t uncommon these days.

“I see. Now, if I may be so rude,” he doesn’t wait for her to respond, which is a presumptuous thing in of itself these days. “Does that apply to just yourself? Or are all of you champions?” He kneels to take ahold of Percy’s shoulders.

Annabeth pursed her lips, as she bends down to take ahold of Percy’s ankles. They raise his body up into the air and begin to carry him back toward the rest of the gathered group at the front of the cavern.

The emphasis on the word champion was…strange. At best. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was some kind of disconnect to what Annabeth was intending to imply and what Odysseus was actually understanding of it. 

=Divine champions in ancient Greece were often demigods or mortals blessed by the Olympian gods, acting as intermediaries or agents of divine will–

Play it safe. So long as one person was perceived as divinely protected, that should extend to the rest of them, she reasoned.

She adjusts her shoulders slightly, making sure that part of her bright orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD emblazoned t-shirt could be seen. 

=Often worth more than its weight in gold, premium deep-orange or red-orange dye was a luxury reserved for elites, royalty, and high priests due to the immense labor required to produce it–

The vibrancy of sunsets paints pictures of red, orange, yellow, and a rainbow myriad of other colors.

“I’m a champion but I cannot say the exact same for my friends. Though we were all sent out on this quest in accordance to the will of the gods,” Odysseus flinches lightly at that. Annabeth takes note but continues on, “we take on different roles.”

“My friend behind you,” she gestured to Clarisse who was helping the men towards the front make quick work of the rapidly shaping spear. “She is a warrior and has been training her entire life in service to the gods. And my other friend,” she pointed at Grover who had realized that he was obsolete with a sword and moved to make sure that Percy was still breathing. “Is a Satyr. We are on our quest together.”

Odysseus gaped at her, his jaw practically dangling off of his face. Annabeth cursed herself out mentally, wondering what she said or did wrong.

They place Percy down on the floor near the club.

=Did he presume they were barbarians? She didn’t outrightly say it, but he could potentially read through the lines straight to that answer, given the unfamiliar language. What was the current relationship between the Barbarians and Gre–

“Pardon me, but did you say a Satyr?”

Was this a situation of the ancient and modern language not translating over right? Annabeth pursed her lips.

“Are you not familiar with that phrase? I may be using–”

Odysseus cut her off quickly, shaking his head and emphasizing with his hands,  “No! No, of course we are familiar with Satyrs, gods. Please forgive me, I’m afraid that I did not pay your friend the proper respects that he deserves.” For that, Odysseus did seem very earnest.

“...Pardon?”

With that, Odysseus attentively marches on over to a suddenly targeted and very bewildered Grover. Said Satyr, held his borrowed bloodied sword up in the air in order to come across as non-threatening as possible.

Odysseus bows his head as he speaks, and it feels blasphemous and just plain weird all at once. “Please excuse our earlier impertinence, ‘O Paniskoi. It is not often that we come across beings of your status, especially in the given situation.”

Grover gave her a look. What is he on about?

Annabeth could do nothing but shrug. Beats me.

“...Er, “ Grover’s voice came out stunted. In the modern day, Satyrs were somewhere between attendants and spirits. That is to say, not highly respected. “You’re…forgiven?”

That seemed to satisfy Odysseus enough for the time being. He gave a little bow–a sight in of itself–and turned back around, not seeing the openly gaping Grover. 

=Satyrs were generally not respected in Greek mythology, often viewed as mischievous, drunken, and lecherous followers of–

There was a strange disconnect between what she knew to be true about the Ancient world, and what was actually happening. Annabeth’s eyes glazed over and her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. She’d have to investigate a little more later on.

But first, to ensure there was a later on to begin with.

Annabeth shook her head as she began to follow Odysseus to the other side of the cave where one of his men had been left to after having been attended to by Grover.

“So, stranger. Tell me, what’s your name?” Pleasantries of food and comfort had long since been exchanged. It would now be considered polite and proper to ask more questions. Even the ones that she technically already knew the answer to. “Where do you and your crew hail from?”

“My name is Odysseus, the reigning king of Ithaca. We are heading back to our homeland after a long ten years at war.”

War reigned long, but some eventually fled from its vice grip.

“The war in Troy?”

“You’re aware of it, then? It’s hard to think I suppose with your patron it does make sense.”

And the sun shines upon all those that do.

“Ah, yes.” Annabeth did her best to look as uncomfortable as possible. Which wasn’t hard, given the situation. “Your reputations precede you. But my companions and I have no qualms with the Greeks, if it matters.”

“Then we shall have no qualms with you…?”

Annabeth liked to think that she was funny.

“Nobody.” 

And strategic. Because apparently Oddyseus didn’t use the clever joke that he was infamed for, so Annabeth called dibs.

They needed to get back to their own time. It wouldn’t serve them well to get wrapped up in the literal Odyssey after they had just essentially gone through their own. Plus, no one had to hear about Annabeth and Co’s adventures with the Ithacan crew. The origin of Anglican names, centuries before anything Anglican even existed.

“Οὖτις? Quite an unusual name, especially for a girl of your age and status.” His eyes narrowed, hand fidgeting just above his belt where his sword sat. “And, forgive me for the assumption, it just sounds quite similar to my own…”

=Priestesses in ancient Greece tended to be wealthy, or at the very least, they belonged to the upper classes and aristocracy of their respective city-states–

Not wanting to get accused of being a monster that steals names or faces of some kind, 

=The Empusa (plural: Empusai) is a shape-shifting, vampiric female phantom in–

Annabeth was quick to relent. “Κανείς, then. Direct translations are difficult from my original language, you see.”

It was a more modern form of greek, but she would have to make concessions where she could.

“Kaneís of San Fran-sísko.” The words came out all jumbled to her more modern ear given the ancient-twang, but it was confident regardless. “I’m certainly grateful for your and your friends help. However may we repay you?”

=Charis, a term denoting both a voluntarily rendered beneficial service (a favor) and the gratitude or returning favor it elicited–

Gods bless ancient xenia traditions.

Hospitality, and that which ruled over it, was everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

“That’s terribly kind of you, Captain. I wouldn’t want to ask too much of you–”

“Nothings to big of an ask, I assure you–”

“Thank you for your kindness again. Could you perhaps spare some more room in your fleet? Say, for a couple of grateful heroes?”

In the end, xenia was a battle of wit, of words. Something Annabeth knew that she was assuredly good at. Though, without a doubt, Odysseus was too.

The ruler of what was just and the keeper of guests.

And that of the true battalion of wit and words.

Odysseus smiles, a sly and mournful thing. “We would be happy to have you accompany us on our journey.”

Annabeth does her best to smile back. It isn’t too difficult, given her temporary relief, but she knew this is only the beginning. But her shoulders un-tense as she says, “We’re grateful. And we will do our best to help out around the ship.”

Before they can continue their mental game of three-dimensional chess barely disguised as a conversation, one of the few remaining crew members breaks through to them. “Captain! We’ve completed our task.”

Odysseus gives a grim nod to her and then to the man, “Hiereion, thank you.” He turns to the downed Cyclops and the carcass of the tree turned haphazard stake. “Men! Take up in arms the spear you have created and turn it to the monster at hand! On my count, we will stab him right in the eye!”

Annabeth did not want to be around for this part. She snuck toward a wall, where a rock could safely cover her, and watched as Clarisse and Grover–with Percy in tow–did the same. Towards the back of the cave and front of the cave, separately. 

“Τρία! Δύο! ένα!”

With a heave, the pointed wood plunged directly into the sliver of the Cyclops’ eye that was most open. In an instant a pained, screeching roar shook the cavern, to the point that Annabeth felt unstable on her own feet and her teeth and brain (ouch) chattered incessantly. 

The Cyclops’ finally came to and brutally swang its’ limbs and head about in a seized display of violence. Odysseus and his men immediately scattered to other parts of the cave, not daring to stay so close to a raging beat.

Annabeth placed her hands upon the cavern wall for stability, looking away from the gathered uproar for just a moment.

She felt it before she saw it.

What first was a soft hum along the walls turned to a growing thud-thud-thud. Then became the echo of the roar that was just ahead of them. Then another. And another. Closer this time.

Annabeth's eyes widened.

She forgot about the others. Cyclops. Giants. Whatever. Shit.

=Hearing his cries, they lumbered up from every side and hulking round his cavern, asked what ailed him:‘What, Polyphemus, what in the world’s the trouble?–

In an instant, huge, grappling mounds of flesh protruded from the an entrance deep inside the cave. And faces, equally ugly to the Cyclops’ in the middle of the cave, poked out. Their rage was primal and scrawled into what could be called their features.

Laergynstians. Monsters. Ones that could see.

Their jaws unhinge and the roars they let out ring in Annabeth’s ears loud enough that she completely stops in her tracks, her bones rattling around her body like wind chimes.

Though, they didn’t seem intelligent enough for conversation, unlike what the Odyssey suggested.

=Did Polyphemus grow more capable of speech over time? The other monsters, the Cyclops and Laestrygonians, was their level of intelligence misconstrued over time? How–

Her rapidly spiraling thoughts are only interrupted by a strong shove to the shoulder that nearly throws her to the ground.

“Move!” Clarisse is quick to remind Annabeth of the situation, with just as much force as ever.

Annabeth’s stumble turns into the quick movement of feet meeting the stone floor. She’s not the only one. Ahead of her, were one of Odysseus’ men who had been hiding behind some of the rocks, and jus beyond him, was Grover who had managed to slip out of the cave with an unconscious Percy when Polyphemus was throwing his tantrum. Behind her, Odysseus, Clarrisse, and the last remaining man, all of whom were hauling in order to avoid the monsters that had begun to move themselves.

The first man is quick to overtake Grover, on account of the limp person he was dragging by the wrists. Annabeth makes a beeline over to the two, grabbing at Percy’s unbroken leg and picking him up, his body sagging in the air like a pig on a spit.

If she throws out her back doing this, she’s literally going to be killing him. Well, if they survive. If not, she’ll just have to settle for beating him up before they’re spirited off to wait in line with shades for the next two centuries.

“Move!” She parrots Clarisse, her head jilting forward, directing toward the surf.

Odysseus passes them, not before yelling out, “Our rowboat is anchored beached just up ahead!” At least he had no plans to ditch them. So long as they didn’t up and die first.

The final man does not have the same luck. He managed to catch up to just behind Annabeth, before his body was jerked out from where he stood and with barely so much as a scream,

“CAPTAI–”

and he was crushed into a thick red paste under the giant’s meaty fingers.

Grover and Annabeth do not have the luxury of so much as a shudder, as they barely manage to get their legs moving forward in time to dodge a fist that could crush them in one go, poking out from the entrance. The two–three if you counted the unconscious Percy–stumbled and kicked up dry sand as they fell forward and collapsed into a pile of bodies. Bodies of meat that were very much still the target of massive cannibals. 

Annabeth flinches backward on her hands, practically crawling over a limp Percy as she faced her imminent doom with a feeling of incomparable horror. Only she wasn’t turned into a mysterious red meat sauce the same way that any of the unnamed crew members were.

The horrific, almost biblically-accurate looking amalgamation of thick stony arms and legs poking out of the relatively small cavern entrance had a far reach, but it stopped just short of where they had fallen. 

Annabeth’s shoulders shook as she tried to re-regulate her heart and breathing pattern. The roaring and reaching of the monsters did not stop.

Fortunately, it seems that in just moving a few paces forward, they had made it to relative safety. Thank Tyche.

Fortune smiled upon– but the prayer went unreceived.

After a few moments of simply staring at the cavern’s entrance, she turned to face Grover who was laying down as in his own personal amalgamation of moldy-white wedding dress, dusty sand, and what Annabeth hoped was just sweat.

“Are you…crying?”

“No,” Grover spat, very clearly crying his eyes out. “I’m just stressed.”

“Oh, kay.” Annabeth, still slightly shell-shocked about surviving the whole ordeal, turned her head back to the cave before looking down. Upon realizing that she was still actively trampling an unconscious Percy Jackson, she rolled off of him and listened for any sign of life. 

While Percy was still breathing and his heart seemed to be still beating (she thinks, anyway), there was no other indication that he felt anything. Annabeth’s face screwed up at that. He must’ve gotten hit really hard. 

She was hit by Polyphemus, technically thousands of years later when you really think about it, but had been able to recover at a much faster pace. Admittedly, she still was suffering from what she thought were concussion side effects

=Concussions and ADHD share a significant overlap in symptoms, as both can impair the brain's executive functions like attention, memory, and emotional regulation–

but at least she was conscious within a relatively decent time. He’d been out for at least an hour at this point.

Annabeth was pulled from her thoughts when, from her left, Grover asked, “How’d they get there?”

“What?”

“The giants. And the Cyclops. The cave is just like, so small.”

“Maybe they were just born there?” Annabeth knew it wasn’t that simple, but her mind was still reeling to keep up with all of the other new developments. Namely, surviving.

“Yeah but like. It was so much bigger back then. I mean, back at home.” Grover tilted his head, as he eyed the desperately reaching hands with fear. “That’s weird isn’t it?”

“Maybe they’re just trapped there. Intentionally.” Annabeth was just as a quick to give an answer this time. A cut and dry one. “If I was the gods, I wouldn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of monsters for children either.”

=the Laestrygonians are a tribe of man-eating giants who descend from Laestrygon. Laestrygon himself was the son of Poseidon–

The sea shifts in the same kind of fitful restlessness that always overtook it these months.

“Move your asses!” Clarisse called out from farther down the beach to them. “We don’t have all day!”

She was right. Even if the cave was holding back the giants for now, the cracks that were slowly spreading through the rocks told her that they didn’t have very long before the Laergynstians were upon them again.

Annabeth swallowed and parroted Clarisse again because it seemed to be all she was capable of in the moment, “We gotta go. We gotta go.” She stood up on the beach with shaky legs. Because of the sand and totally not the massively extended concussion she was getting.

Grover quickly, fearfully, nodded and pulled himself up as well. “Grab his leg.”

They hauled Percy up on their shoulders, who didn’t stir at all. Annabeth was starting to get worried. They all probably had concussions at this point, given the fall and all, but it was notably not a very good idea to be unconscious throughout one. And Percy really needed all the brain cells he could get.

Annabeth and Grover attempted to sprint forward, but between his legs, Annabeth’s balance, and Percy’s un-able bodiness, it came out to more of a stumbling trudge. They finally made it past the shoreline anyway.

“Drop him and drag,” Annabeth took him from her shoulder and let him fall to the shallow water. “He of all people can swim.”

Grover just nodded and started to move further ahead, Percy in tow.

Annabeth sighed and followed suit. Her humor would be better appreciated when they all technically weren’t fighting for their lives.

She watched as Grover heaved Percy onto the rowboat, where the two men were quickly setting up shop to get to their fleet as soon as possible.

Annabeth crashed into Clarisse, who stood frozen, her legs stuck wading in the knee deep water.

“Gods, Clarisse, we don’t have time for this. Move!” Annabeth tried shoving her forward onto the rackety little rowboat.

Clarisse’s face was completely devoid of any color and her eyes were watery. Her voice was so quiet and shaky and unlike her, that Annabeth could only hear, “...Tyson.”

Annabeth froze this time too. Shit, shit, gods above. She hadn’t seen Tyson since they’d sent him off into the cave with Clarisse and Grover.

“Clarisse, where is he?” Annabeth took the taller girl by the shoulders and shook hard, “Clarisse, Clarisse, where is he?”

=Did they abandon him in the tunnels? None of them, with the exception of Percy, particularly liked Tyson but that didn’t mean that they should just abandon him like that–

Clarisse looked uncharacteristically small as she swallowed, “I told him to wait at the bottom.”

Fuck.

“Whats the hold up?” The burly man from before, at the tiny lee helm of the rowboat, spat out. “We’re leaving. With or without you.”

Grover, at the middle of the boat with Percy in his lap, looked back at Annabeth panicked. “Um, sir. Please, just one moment–”

The goat boy continued to try and plead their case, but Annabeth saw Odysseus face and could read between the lines just fine: his crew came first, in the end. Highly regarded Satyr (for some reason) aside.

At least that didn’t change from the canonical myth. The beginning, anyways. Before he traded their lives to make it back home to his wife, his son, and his kingdom.

Clarisse shifted backward in the water, “...’m going back. Stay righ–”

Annabeth shoved her forward toward the boat, letting her stumble into the hull. “No, Clarisse. Tyson–”

Gods, poor Tyson. Poor sweet Tyson, left among monsters. The only saving grace was that he himself was technically a monster, and maybe that would save him. But considering the bones that littered the cavern, how they were of many different shapes, and kinds, and forms–

She gave a shaky breath, “We’ve got to move forward. For now. We’ll come back.” She turned her head to look at the collapsing entrance once more.

There lingered trembles of earth and rock. It was clear that the Laestrygonians were clawing at the sides of it, and it wouldn’t be long before their battered and raw hands met air instead of solid rock and debris. 

“We’ll come back.”

A plan. And an assurance. 

Because it was all she could do, all she was good for at this point.

Clarisse dumped herself into the boat, hauling her body over the side until she had collapsed to the floor of wood that looked, frankly, worse for wear. Ten years of war would do that. Annabeth followed suit, with what she hoped was a bit more grace.

Odysseus and Eurolychus had taken up the oars of the rowboat that was meant to be powered by far more men than they. 

Annabeth and Clarisse offered, but the two refuse and call it improper on account of the fact that it violated some law of xenia (according to Odysseus) and that they were young women. Grover offered, but they outright refused on account of his supposed status. Percy does not offer. For obvious reasons.

Before they had even reached the shelf break,

=steep submarine drop-off point where a shallow continental shelf transitions into the much deeper continental slope–

the entrance to the cavern collapsed in on itself in a series of rumbling thuds. Through the dust, the unmistakable beastly hands and feet and bodies of the Laergynstians 

“They’re catching up pretty ‘effing quick...Can they swim?” Clarisse tensed and whipped her head around to the heroes of legend that were struggling to pilot the boat with the weight and lack of manpower. “Does this thing go any faster?” 

She didn’t switch to English but the point was made. Odysseus called to Eurolychus who was manning the back of the boat in resounding Ancient Greek, “Brother! Faster! The beasts may yet stride through the waters to our ships!” A grunt, as he continued to row, “Our men!”

There was no verbal response, but there was a serious uptick in their speed. But was it enough?

Annabeth swallowed and her head pounded.

=It takes surprisingly little electricity to make water lethal, requiring a voltage gradient of just 2 volts AC per foot or as little as 10 milliampere–

“Throw your spear.”

Clarisse dumbly blinks up at her. “Wh-“

“You said it yourself. They’re big enough to tread water.” Annabeth points to the spear hooked onto the belt on her back. The one that Clarisse had worked so hard to keep with her this entire time. “We’re going to have to kill them.”

Because they were just big enough to catch up to the fleet of ships that supposedly marked their safety, off in the distance.

Clarisse must’ve realized that herself. She took the spear that she had attached to her back, holding it in her hands for a considerably long time, much too long in Annabeth’s opinion

=She remembers the day the Ares’ daughter got it. Proud tears and hard-earned blood from practiced battles streamed down her face without abandon–

before pressing down on a special, silver button and throwing it as hard as she could directly out into the ocean behind them.

Before either of the two remaining crew mates could give the girl any weird looks, the Laestrygonians let out an ear piercing shriek.

The water burned and bubbled and boiled as rickets of pure electricity hummed over the waves. Within moments, the wind smelled of burnt flesh and rot. Annabeth saw some of the Laestrygonians–the decently smart ones–scramble back on land. But there were some who weren’t so lucky.

She turned to face Odysseus, whose face was agape in equal parts wonder and terror, and spoke in Ancient Greek. “Please, try and avoid touching the water. If possible.” It would be best if their ticket to safety stayed alive.

Slowly, the cavern on the island vanished into the distance. And something peeved Annabeth in the way that it looked nothing like how she remembered it would. In the future.

But there were bigger fish to fry. Ha. Bigger Laestrygonians (or other monsters! she wasn’t picky) to fry.

Annabeth turned to Grover and Percy, checking on them, before she glanced down at Clarisse who was splayed out against the floor and wall of the rowboat, eyes completely glazed over as she focused solely on the island.

She hesitated but placed a warm hand on Clarisse’s shoulder. This time in English, she spoke,

“Don’t worry. We’ll be back.”

–

Tyson really didn’t like waiting.

It was another one of those things that he wasn’t really good at. Alongside remembering things, words, and sewing (Annabeth had him help once. Never again). 

He remembers following behind Clarisse and Grover as they made their way back through the twisty-turny cave system. Then, he remembers roaring. Then, the sound of hands meeting rock. 

Then, a splash. And screaming.

He remembers Clarisse and Grover rushing through the rest of the tunnels after that. They didn’t pause or take breaks or even look around all that much like they did before.

When they arrived back to where they fell, Percy and Annabeth weren’t there. 

“Shit. Shit.” Clarisse cursed under her breath as they slowed down their running to a stop right where the last pieces of the fallen bridge were. Tyson’s hearing wasn’t working too great still, but through the screaming her heard her mutter, “Those idiots.”

She turned to him. “You’re tall enough, check what’s going on.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and pinched, “Be careful. Your brother will kill me if you like. Die or something.”

Tyson nodded but he didn’t think that Percy would kill Clarisse. Percy was very nice! And didn’t like killing anyone except ‘people that were already trying to kill them.’ Especially not someone who was one of his closest friends! 

He stepped closer to the rocky wall and stepped up on his tippy-toes, peering over the edge.

He saw a lot of men running around. They all had their swords out and seemed to be yelling in Greek? Which was weird, because he thought everyone spoke English nowadays and he wondered if he worked hard to learn the new language for nothing. 

Annabeth was on the side of the room with some of the scared bitey-sheeps and had her hat on which was weird, because usually that meant that Tyson wouldn’t be able to see her. Oh! She’s gone! And–now she’s back! She was like the one lightbulb in Sally’s house that constantly was turning on and off again. Flickering!

And there were his two brothers in the very center of it all!

Tyson told Clarisse and Grover as much. 

“Stay here.” Clarisse’s finger nearly poked his eye out as she said and continued, “Don’t move, don’t do anything, just sit and stay here.”

Without blinking, Tyson frowned and argued back, “But I can help! I’m very strong!”

“She’s right, it’s not safe up there. There’s other people up there. They could hurt you.” Grover looked afraid as he said it. “Tyson, just stay down here for now.”

With a quick shove, Tyson fell to the floor, and Clarisse backed away. She said it a lot more angry this time, “We’ll be back in a minute. Do not,” her mouth pressed down heavy on the words, “come up. No matter what.”

Tyson gave a slow nod and held up his pinky with a smile, “I promise!” 

And up they went, to the one part of this new (old?) cave that the three of them hadn’t really explored yet.

He sat there. Just staring at the wall. Tyson was all alone with nothing but the rocks and his thoughts.

So , in between the screaming and yelling he heard up above, he dreamt back to the times before, with words he could remember well.

So, yeah. Tyson really didn’t like waiting. But he would do it! Because he wanted to be good at helping, so he would wait!

He kicked his feet back and forth against the rock that he was sitting on. He did the thing that he saw people in movies do with their thumbs when they were bored. 

…really didn’t like waiting.

He hadn’t heard anything in a long while. It sounded like there was a huge fight, then he heard his friends talking to the new people, then he heard his brother wake up and call for his friends. And then he heard a big loud crash and a bunch noises that sounded like when Sally’s neighbor’s cat got into a fight with the walls. Then, nothing.

There was a lot of nothing for a long while. Maybe they forgot about him? Tyson wondered. It had been an awful-y long time.

Then, a sad sounding cry and a quiet, calming voice.

He frowned. His friends had told him to sit and do nothing. But they had also said that they would be back in a minute and, even though Tyson wasn’t good at telling time either, this sure felt like more than a minute. So maybe they could both bend their pinky promises a little bit…

Tyson stood up from his rocky seat, raised himself onto his tippy-toes once more, and propped his arms on the upper level floor, peering over it to get a good look at who was there.

His smaller, bigger brother still stood in the very center of the room, holding his long hands to his eye. Tyson winced at the amount of blood that was dripping down his face. It looked like the time that he broke his paints in the school’s art room and they exploded everywhere! He had gotten into a lot of trouble with the Principal again after that.

But Tyson was smart enough to know that it wasn’t paint this time. So…he got hit in the eye again?

Tyson was confused but shook his head and continued on looking around anyway. There were a bunch of other Giants around the room. But they were all slumped over on the floor. Not moving even an inch.

His eyes flitted back to the center, trying to see who Polyphemus was talking to. Or, well, who was talking to Polyphemus. He didn’t seem to want to talk much at the moment. The person with the calm voice was rather large and their head of cascading dark hair 

Tyson leaned far, far to the left. Almost until his head was entirely slumped over the upper cavern floor. Then he saw him. He can’t believe he didn’t recognize him at first! Even with a different form he would recognize him anywhere!

In a show of strength, he begun to pull himself out of the trench and called out.

“Dad!”

–

In all his years, Poseidon could perhaps count on one hand, the amount of times that he had been truly happy.

An immortal that lorded over sea and tide, as he, would never be presumed to be unsatisfied. After all, at his mere command, he could summon boundless treasures from far away lands to his feet, plentiful feasts to waste away in wait, peasants and kings and champions alike to order around at his very whim. 

But here he sat. Upon his highly decorated Olympian throne. Unsatisfied. 

“Feeling wistful, brother?” 

To his right, Hera. Sat in her own gilded throne next to her husbands’ empty one.

His family, his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, they knew his pain well. They knew of his pain as it was their own, because not only did they share among them immortal life, but the curse of having no one but them to share it with.

“No more so than usual.” 

Hera’s eyes would never take on a sense of pity. Unlike his brother, who seemingly had it in spades. Or his other brother, Hades, whom he had no option other than to pity himself. She smiled, a thing of thinly veiled mischief and sorrow, into her teacup, “So I take it we should expect quite a bit of prayer this storm season then?”

The tides of Ionian sea turned slightly, herons circled uneasily, and the winds whereupon Olympus breached the mortal realm whirled.

“No more so than usual.”

“You’re such a bore like this.” Hera sighed, gently placing her cup onto the saucer lying in her jade chiton covered lap, before resting her hand upon her chin. “I wish Demeter were here.”

Said goddess’ throne lay full of all except the goddess herself. Poppies and Narcissuses bloomed intertwined with one another, trailing up and down the sides of her seat of power, barley and wheat glowing and growing at it’s feet. It was a sign of abundance that she so infrequently felt the need to show.

But it was, as the mortals referred to it, the start of Hekatombaion. The very beginning of their year.

Poseidon didn’t much feel the need to quantify the years into beginnings and ends. He was a god, after all. There was no end. For him, time was either good or bad. And there was no in between.

Demeter would likely agree. Her time was instead divided into the days that she had her daughter, and the days that she didn’t. 

It just so happened to be the latter. For the both of them. “Give her time.”

“We have.” Hera pouts as she says it, uncaring of how unbecoming it was of her. “A whole month of it.”

That miffed Poseidon. He could never understand why they equated themselves to such mortal ideals, such as a calendar. But he couldn’t say that he disagreed with the sentiment at hand.

“She’s just missing her daughter, is all. Imagine if you had to part from any one of your children, even for a little.”

Hera’s eyes were that of fire, of destitute marriages, of screams of women in childbirth. Of infertility. “I would rather die.”

Poseidon’s own eyes rolled. So serious when it came to topics such as this, but her voice dripped of sarcasm any other time. “Exactly. The thought of parting from Triton or any one of my children…”

The earth shook its warning tremble. Mortals and higher beings alike, watched the sea with a growing sense of fear and wary.

“...unforgivable.” He growls.

Hera gave pause to that, her hand that glittered of gold and dripped of jewels was held hesitantly above her cup, before letting her fingers trail across the saucer. A stark contrast to the earlier passion of that which she held so clearly in her eyes. “Yes, your…children.” Her voice was stunted as she paused. 

Awkward was not a word anyone would use to describe Hera, Queen of the Heavens, goddess of motherhood, marriage, and family. Could use. She wouldn’t allow for it. But, in this moment, she certainly looked it.

Hera’s honey-colored eyes glaze as she found an apparent fixation with the marble wall across from her. After a few moments (the mother gazing upon family, a vision of protection and growing calculation–),  she shook herself out from whatever stupor she had found herself in and asks, “How is Triton? And Amphitrite? I haven’t seen them since Dionysia.”

Poseidon allows himself a moment of calm waves and the serenity of all that lie in the sea. He smiles, soft and sharp at the same time, “Good! Triton has been taking to his studies well. He finds much more entertainment in attending to kingly affairs than either I or Amphitrite do. And just the other day he calmed a storm off the coast of Libya. He takes after his father, in that!”

“If he took after his father, he’d be starting storms not smoothing them over,” Hera points out.

Poseidon rolls his eyes, electing to ignore his sister’s teasing. “And Amphitrite” 

His mood sours, waves churn and summer storms brew on the line of the horizon.

“...is spending time with her father.”

“Hm. I suppose it is that time of year again.” Hera’s face turns sad. Not pitiful, never pitiful. “I’ll pay her a visit, if she permits me.”

Poseidon couldn’t say if she would. After all, it was partially her fault–just as it was his–that all but one of her children would die.

“She will.” He says. Despite the fact that they both knew very well that she wouldn’t. The summer months were always the worst. It was happenstance, that all of their children could never find the strength to make it past these short few weeks. To evaporation, ailment, or simply being slain, they all struggled their ways into early graves.

Hera must be desperate enough to escape this topic of conversation that she then asks, “And…what of your other children?”

Just as he was quick and happy to respond before, Poseidon answers with equal fervor. “Ah yes!”

Please my lord–

Grant us safety–

Motherfu–

Poseidon tunes into the sea that surrounds his daughter, listlessly ignoring the cries that pleaded for his mercy. Mercy that he would not grant. “Charbydis seems to be doing well. Perhaps swallowing one too many sailors for my tastes, but what of it in the end if it makes her happy?”

Hera smiles. It is a strained thing.

The next prayers aren’t directed to him, but Poseidon hears them anyway. After all, any information that concerned his son would concern him as well.

O Great Zeus, I beseech thy to send a champion to our humble abode–

–it killed my family, I will kill it, I swear to you–

My mother has fallen to–

The second prayer does give Poseidon pause. Only for a moment, before he lets a storm simmer near the tiny village. “Chrysaor has been terrorizing the Iberian Peninsula for the past couple of years now. He has run into no trouble thankfully.”

And that lack of trouble would remain. Prayers for vengeance soon turned into prayers for mercy, as the unknown little city began to choke and bleed and drown from the storm wrought upon them.

“Antaeus…”

Poseidon stopped in his tracks, his mood souring. As did the entirety of the Grecian ocean.

He heard his younger son, Triton, calling to him and asking what was the matter.

The sea smiled upon that. What a dutiful, kind son he had. How lucky was he to have been gifted with such a blessing. For his trouble, Poseidon let his son smooth over the rough patches of sea, letting him calm them impending storms.

“He did apologize for that, you know. We told Heracles,” Hera, whom the great greek hero had apparently derived his name from, rolled her eyes in contempt, “to not stray from the labors he was given. And to not kill those he hadn’t already been decreed to.”

“Never good at listening, that one. Seems to be something my brother has in common with his champions.”

“Poseidon…”

“No. No, it’s fine.” Poseidon grew a little restless at that. And, having no where else to vent his frustration (he didn’t want his son thinking that he had done something wrong), his seat of power responded in equal measure. The water under his feet churned and the wind that was condensed into something of shape whirled unsteadily. 

He huffed, leaned forward, and his eyes grew into something sharp and unstable. “In the end, it was I who turned his bones into dust. Let his guts pool at the bottom of the sea floor. Watched as he returned to nothing. Because that’s all he was. Nothing.”

Hera hummed, “He was quite mad at you after that. Zeus. To kill his champion, without even asking? A misgiving indeed.” She takes another sip from her cup, grimacing at the taste. Why she continued to drink something she so obviously didn’t like, Poseidon didn’t know.

“An eye for an eye. It was justice and he understood it well enough.” Poseidon crosses his arms and leaned back in his throne, content to let the barely seated rage dissipate from his body.

“To your face maybe. He cares too much for how you feel to fight with you.” Hera sighed pointedly, “And while he did feel bad about Antaeus, Heracles had very quickly become one of his favorite mortals.”

“What’s done is done. My son…does not live,” he swallows deeply at that, grief was slowly overtaking his limbs. He shook it off, just as he did the rage prior, “So it was only justified that I took something of his as well.”

None of Zeus’ children though. Precious as they were. Poseidon would never stoop to the level of killing any one of his beloved nieces or nephews. The thought of it made him sick, almost disgusted with himself for merely conjuring up the image of it.

“Perhaps…” Hera’s voice was hesitant, “This wouldn’t be as much of an issue–”

“No.” Poseidon stopped her in her tracks with a quick, vicious word.

“I have not finished–”

“But I know what you’ll say. The answer is no.”

“You are only causing yourself more endless, pointless grief, brother. Just as you are causing them pain.”

“My children are perfectly content!”

“Your children cannot feel!” Hera cries out and her voice echoes through the nearly empty Great Hall. After several beats, she sighs deeply. Sadly. “You feel much pain, Poseidon. And I understand that. We all do.”

“But all you are doing is prolonging the inevitable.”

There is a lull in Olympus’ throne room. A disquiet. There is the sound of iridescent water pooling into vases and fountain bases, cascading from golden tier to golden tier until vanishing into the clouds below. The ambient sound of birds chirping–likely brought about by Artemis or Apollo or any one of Hera’s children–flitted through arches of marble. And a near constant breeze that ruffled the foliage that trailed down the pillars of gold.

It is the background noise that is all the Poseidon is able to hear or think about. Even after having reason thrown into his face.

So. Poseidon continued, ignoring the disappointed look from his sister, “And Polyphemus–”

Poseidon listened in once again, through whispers upon wind and the wavering droplets of sea that encroached upon all it touched, to his child. But instead of being greeted by the typical groaning on of his son’s sheep or perhaps his rather heavy breathing, he was greeted with wordless cries of pain and rage.

He shot up from his throne, to a look of alarm from Hera.

“Give me a moment.” 

It is less than he would like to say but more than what is needed.

–

And with that, he was gone. In a bout of fitful rage and waves upon waves of saltwater and sorrow.

Hera sighed, leaning her head on the very back of the throne until she was entirely slumped over. With the exception of her lap, which she held steady if only to make sure her cold tea did not spill all over her himation and onto the gilded floor. It was a position unbefitting a queen of her stature, but in the end, she decided what was and wasn’t befitting no? 

She watched the tea leaves, gifts from the Huaxia pantheon delegation the last time they visited, spin and flitter about the water. Disturbed. And they weren’t the only ones.

Her eyes flitted over to her brother’s, now empty, throne. 

The topic of Poseidons…children, was a sore subject among their family. Not Triton, of course. Her nephew was nothing but a sweetheart and an upstanding, beloved member of both their family and pantheon. He was close with Athena and Hermes, two of her own beloved children

She remembers–like it was just yesterday–attending his birth.

His parents had a variety of different domains prepared. Sea storms, sailors, marine life, islands. Even his grandfather, Oceanus, had been ready to gift him with spring water, if none of the others succeeded in taking. And there was a very scary moment when none of them would.

Hera remembers, the panicked sobs of Amphitrite and Poseidon that filled their underwater palace, when their son had not yet taken his first breath. When his face was much too blue, even for the son of the Sea, and was not taking to any sort of powers at all. It was only after hours of searching, that a distressed Oceanus was able to gift upon the young god a saltwater lake in Libya that allowed the boy life.

She had remembered wiping the sweat from her brow. Which was an odd feeling considering she was in the very depths of the sea, but she thanked and thanked the powers that be profusely that the boy was of sound mind and relatively sound body. The weakness he garnered from birth still followed him like a plague in the present, but it was much preferred to the alternative.

At the time, she hadn’t known how many more unsuccessful births that the two could take. The ones that ended with a new headstone and site to be attended to by Chiron. Rhodes. Kymlopeia. Benthesikyme. Or the ones that ended with children that did…survive, but would never truly live.

Monsters, they were. Husks of empty mind and horrible, brutal body that had no true instinct but to sin. To eat. To kill.

Poseidon wasn’t the only one afflicted of this particular part of the Curse. Zeus had had many of his children turn out this way. As did Demeter. And many of her own children had had nothing but.

But the god of the sea was the only one–of sorrowful heart and addled mind–to continue ‘protecting’ these children as if they were still alive in any meaningful way. While the rest of the gods saw the need to put the mockeries that the Curse made of their children’s corpses to rest, Poseidon clung onto the idea that there was some semblance of personhood there.

He protected these monsters even from the champions: righteous and famed heroes chosen by the gods to carry out their bidding. In most cases, champions were tasked with ‘slaying monsters,’ as most mortals put it. When in reality, they were tasked with putting to rest the soulless children of the gods when their parents were too grief-stricken to do it themselves.

It was pointless. And it was harming him. They all could see it.

Amphitrite was stuck grieving children that never got to exist, while Poseidon was convinced that by letting them remain as mangled, reanimated corpses, he was giving them life.

Hera sighed as she took her saucer into her hands and stood up from her throne. “Darling? Are you there?” She wasn’t calling out to any one person in particular. Olympus was a small place and she always presumed that there would be someone lurking around.

A mother puts her ear to chest listening for the breath of a child, a wife hums as she lie in wait for her husband to return home, and a bright-eyed cow flicks it’s ears at the slightest disturbance.

The moon whispers it’s stolen secrets, the wilds smooth over, and the hunt draws near.

Her youngest daughter daintily stepped into the throne room from the main entrance. Artemis’ bare feet met the cool marble floor and the sound of her draped finery–as tarnished from her adventures as they were–echoed throughout the air as the twinkled and twinged together.

“I didn’t think you would hear me,” Artemis pouts rather childishly. She, of all her children, liked to switch what form she presented with most often. Wildly, as was her very nature. Yesterday, she was a young girl no older than eight, with rosy red cheeks and equally flushed hair. Today, a young woman with chestnut colored hair and wolf-like eyes and ears. Tomorrow, yet to be seen. Though, Hera was sure that she would be lovely nonetheless.

“I didn’t,” Hera admits with a smile and tight hug around her daughter’s shoulders, “I just knew one of you would be here. A mother’s intuition.”

Artemis rolled her slight eyes but did not pull away from her embrace, “Very funny.” Then, with the amount of seriousness you could expect from the goddess of the Wilds, she asked, “What do you need?”

Hera brushed imaginary dust off of her daughters shoulders and clothes. She pursed her lips when her fingers came away dirty. Perhaps not so imaginary after all. “What, can’t a mother just want to spend some time with her daughter?”

The look that Artemis gave her was scathing and suspicious all at once. “Mmm not after that conversation…”

“Hmph. Well I suppose I should’ve expected that.” They were having quite an intense conversation (not argument, never an argument) in communal space, after all. Hera places a hand upon her chest, “You see, darling, your mother is worried.”

Artemis tilted her head and stared at her knowingly, the diadem of wood and crystals and silver chiming together as she did so. “I gathered as much.”

“Yes. Your Uncle and Aunt–and you cannot share this with your siblings–they are struggling a lot at the moment.”

Hera expected that this would get shared around the family regardless. Artemis was one of the best of her children when it came to keep secrets, but that was much like being the smartest Greek.

“He loves his family. Truly. But he wants for more, and it is breaking his heart,” Hera whispers it like it is some kind of secret.

Artemis nods very seriously, her eyes sharp and ears standing at the alert.

Hera smooths out her daughter’s hair and makes a show of biting at her lip. “And I know you love your Uncle too, dear. And you would stop at nothing to protect him. Just as he would protect you.”

Artemis began connecting the dots, “You want me to help him.” She paused, “How?”

“Do what you do best,” 

Hera had spent so much time with her siblings, her family. And endless amount. They’d been through so many trials and tribulations together. Between the Titanomanchy, the Giantomanchy, the well-before, and the well-after.

She knew them. Often times, better than they knew themselves. She knew what was best for them. Even when they hadn’t come to the same conclusion yet.

Poseidon just needed to realize that. He’d be angry, yes. But coming from his niece and not a champion (not that one would ever be able to get close at this point), he wouldn’t stay angry for long.

“Hunt.”

Artemis kept her face relatively flat and restrained, but her empathic ears betrayed her. They shot up at the ready. Ready for action, ready to hunt. If she had had a tail in this current form, it would be wagging behind her as she practically salivated over the idea of a chase. Of an earned kill.

Her daughter, a goddess of the Moon, the Wilds, the Hunt, nodded and in a show of filial respect, tilted into a deep albeit quickly broken bow. In gazing upon her eyes, just as light and shining as the moon, glints of malice and determination and love could be seen in equal parts. “I won’t let you or my Aunt and Uncle down, Mother.”

Artemis turns to leave, exiting in the same fashion she came in. Odd, considering she could simply disappear and appear wherever she wanted, but Hera had always thought her youngest daughter to be a little more mortal-inclined then some of her other children.

Bemusedly, Hera calls after her. “Oh! And darling?”

Artemis tilted her head up in a show of attention.

“Please get cleaned up and changed into a different set of clothes. You’re filthy.”

Artemis rolled her eyes.

–

“Shhhh…you’re fine, you’re fine.”

The cavern that his son was confined to was not a particularly large one. He’d thought that it was much too small for the son of the sea, but it was the one place he could ensure that he was fully protected at all times.

Could’ve protected him.

Poseidon held himself back from a biting growl. His youngest son–his now very injured, blind son–did not need any more stress put upon him. Especially by he who was supposed to protect him above all else. He who failed.

Polyphemus let out a pained cry from where he was knelt down on the floor, his jaw unhinging as he held his spindly arms to his bleeding face. Poseidon himself knelt down on one knee in an attempt to avoid the rocky ceiling and soothe his son in one fell swoop. He gently brushed over his back, uncaring of the rigid spines or spikes along his back that drew pinpricks of soft, golden ichor that streamed down his fingers.

“Dad is very sorry,” Poseidon said, his tone soft but he did nothing to curb the echo that sounded out around the room. They were the only ones here, after all.

Around them lay the mangled corpses of the Laestrygonians, hapless carnivore giants that Poseidon had specifically places here on his son’s island as an extra layer of protection and a source of food, should his son have so desired it. And they failed even at that, if Polyphemus’ thinning frame was anything to go by.

When Poseidon had arrived, in a fit of ____ and _____, he had seen the damages that had been done unto the Isle. Half of the giants were found dead, brutalized by either bludgeoning or galvanic shock. The other half remained screeching out into nothing in the open ocean, toeing the line of the sand carefully. And as the waters of the island brimmed with electricity, his beloved son sat wailing in pain and misery and shock, trapped blindly in his cave while his supposed protectors lay distracted.

The Sea included himself in that statement. But he could only punish those in front of him for their faults.

“Very sorry,” his voice was like a whisper when drowned out by all of the pained screaming.

Which is why the two of them were surrounded by half-drowned, headless corpses of said failed excuses of strength and protection. Poseidon took as much pleasure in their pain, in their suffering as he slowly tore their blood from the inside of their body to the outside via means of a sick and twisted form of evaporation, as he took pain at his son’s own.

He had never been able to heal Polyphemus before. One of the worse parts of the Curse, was rendered unable to heal some of his own children. Him. A god. It was humiliating and heartbreaking in equal parts. The only exception to this fault of his being Triton, who he was lucky enough to have been able to soothe since the day he took his first breath.

As Poseidon’s fingers brushed over his son’s bruised brow bone and mutilated eyelid, he wondered if there was anything he could do–even for a moment–to rid his son of this pain. To rid himself of the pain that was watching all of his children suffer.

Polyphemus himself allowed his unhinged jaw to inch closer to Poseidon’s gentle fingers. His rows of razor sharp teeth biting down at the wrist, tearing it from his father’s body with a pained but greedy cry.

Poseidon allowed him. His son must’ve been so hungry, after all. Surrounded by these sorry excuses of meat and bones.

Ichor gurgled out from where the hand was hastily cut from and splattered across the floor, joining what seemed like hundreds of other smatterings of entrails and remains among it. The bodies of his son’s presumed attackers.

Unflinchingly, with his other remaining hand this time, Poseidon caressed Polyphemus’ face and spoke quietly as his son messily engorged himself on his meal, hazy golden-red colored saliva dribbling from his face to the floor.

“My son, my poor sweet boy.”

“I swear to you, to the River Styx, even. These Greeks will not rest easy knowing that they hurt this you, son of mine.”

“I’ve been so gracious, so kind to let them haunt my waters for as long as they have. But no longer will I even give them the opportunity

“Watch as their blood pools from their flimsy necks, watch as I replace it with the salt of the sea instead,” Poseidon is then reminded of the fact that his son can’t see and almost grimaces. “Their bodies will haunt the surface of the sea, warning all who enter not to mess with the Sea.”

Poseidon was quick to continue, caught up in a feedback loop of vengeance and familial love, “Son–”

“Dad!”

And for a brief moment, Poseidon experienced something of true joy.

The kind that he had only experienced at the birth of his son Triton. Or when he saw Amphitrite on their wedding day. Or when he saw his siblings faces for the first time, clear of the darkness that had enshrouded them for their entire childhood.

The ephemeral joy that he had only experienced a few amount of times. All of which he could count it on one hand. 

Though his son was blinded, attacked, and crying, he thought that somehow he was, miraculously, cured. Cured of all the afflictions that plagued his waking moments. Cured to the point where he somehow found the ability to think, to speak, to exist beyond this cursed and Cursed existence.

He remembered the grief of his wife. Watched as her body had convulse, as she wept and screamed and threw any object she could get her hands on, upon seeing their son born as he was. 

“My boy!” She wailed in a pile of damaged porcelain and torn fabrics, “I’ve lost him! Lost another one of my children!”

Poseidon had restrained his newly born son into his arms, holding on tight to him both in the physical and emotional sense. He was too shattered to face the truth. “My love, our son breathes! Please, look at him,” he crowed desperately.

But breathe and bite, as he gnawed with vicious intensity, was all he would do. Already was their son full grown but he had all the traits of a monster. The emptiness behind the eyes, the inability of speech, the brutal and total need to take out gods and mortals alike. Cursed.

Amphitride turned to him and her eyes were red of tears and rage. “That thing is not our son. It is the Curse! The Curse is piloting the corpse of our son and you know it. And you did this! You know it to be true!”

The hapless wailing started anew, she faltered to the floor on her hands and knees with her head held heavy and low. “Oh my boy. My sweet, sweet boy.” Her ivory red hair falls over her face as she looks upon the physical remnants of hope, of dreams, of domains that they had prepared in hopes of having one more child to care for (islands, fishermen, and dew was what they decided on).

As the goddess of the sea’s gilled and guiled attendants came rushing in whispering assurances and cleaning up the mess made upon the floor, Poseidon had faded into the background, carrying his son with him. He walked through corridors of sea glass and chiseled pumice, upon sandy shores and jade colored meadows, until he happened upon the marble and gold temples of Olympus.

Through the gates, he stumbled upon his brother and nephew. The first, a towering man with chiseled features hidden by a beard of spun clouds and a sky-light toga. And the second, a feathered young man with a mischievous grin and a foot already half-way out the door. Normally, Poseidon would chalk that up to his nephew’s adventurous nature. But given the frown upon Hermes’ face and the smell of rain and ozone and devastation in the air, it was clearly for a different reason.

“Brother, have you seen your son, Apollo, as of late?” He makes no greeting, customary or familiar. Zeus knows what he is here for. All of Olympus did, if the cleared out great hall was anything to go by. None would want to accidentally cause more harm to Poseidon in these moments. Or themselves.

He is sure that he looks quite a mess. He sure felt like it. With all that he received from the projectiles launched at him, the ever-present stink of grief and exhaustion, and his over derelict display.

“Hermes, son, you have much to do.” His brother–his darling youngest brother–does not look upon his son as he says it.

And his dear nephew looked upon him concernedly, before turning to his father to presumably voice as much, “But–”

Zeus cuts him off before any of his thoughts could even be fully voiced, “You have much to do. Please.”

At his father’s insistence, Hermes closed his mouth and gave his Uncle one last worried glance before nodding and taking off into the ever-blue sky in flight.

How lucky, his brother was. His brother who was to be able to watch one of his youngest enjoy and travel and fly unrestrainedly in his domain. It was a luck that Poseidon would never get.

“Poseidon,” Zeus’ face looked pained as he turned to him and said it, “Apollo...cannot help with this.” He places a steady hand upon Poseidon’s shoulder.

This, being his son. His poor, poor boy that was terminally afflicted by the Curse.

“Your son is the god of healing, is he not? He healed himself and his twin of blindness from birth, strengthened armies under his care, surely he possesses enough strength to heal just one.” Poseidon laughs though it comes out all shaky and wrong. Like he knows it to be a lie.

“Not like this.” Zeus grimaces, a product of watching thousands of children die at the hands of the Curse that none could heal. His voice is sadder as he looked upon his brother’s broken form, “Not like this.”

Poseidon does not make any demands after that. No amount of begging or pleading could change the way things were. The way things would be. He collapses to the floor with his son held tightly in his arms, out of fear that Polyphemus would decide to gnaw on his uncle as well. 

And Poseidon did not want to share this pain with anyone. Especially his family.

Zeus is quick to steady him and narrowly dodges the sharp tooth of his newly born. With concern in his eyes, he guides Poseidon to the marble steps just ahead of his ever-shifting watery throne. 

“What of your wife?” is the first thing that his youngest brother asks him. It is not a question of the son, fully-grown, that lie unwittingly in his lap. 

Poseidon touches Polyphemus’ head gently as he speaks. If he was born as he was supposed to, would he have his hair? His wifes’? His next words come out soft, “Regretful. Rageful. Full of everything in life but the truest of things that makes life worth living.”

Children. Of which they all truly lacked.

“I never took you to be a poet, brother. Don’t speak to your nephew of your attempt,” Zeus said rather dryly. He then shook his head, his wise-looking beard followed suit, and sighed, “Amphitride is…grieving. Just the same as you, Poseidon. You cannot take the things she says to heart, she doesn’t mean them truly.”

“How could she not? In our deepest emotions, it is there that we are able to express our truest of selves.” He gives his finger to a teething–biting–Polyphemus, whose teeth are sharp but not as sharp as this now-constant pain in his chest.

Zeus hung his head in a moment of shared grief, as he eyed the boy in Poseidon’s arms with a mixture of emotions. Desperation. Disgust. Guilt. “You do not mean that.” He said it with such a finality that it must be true. “What…happened?”

“We did nothing different, if that’s what you are asking.”

“That’s not–” Zeus cut himself off. Squabbling over something so simple would not fix any of the problems at hand. “I just mean, was there any indication?”

“That something was to go wrong?”

“I must ask this, brother, you know this.” 

There was still much unknown about the workings of the Curse. That it prevented them from any sense of true happiness, yes. But why did Demeter’s offspring crumble to dust, why did Hades’ children rot away? Why was Zeus able to have seven children, while Hestia could not even have one? Why did some of their children seem so strong only to die before becoming fully realized, why were others dead but forced to live even if only puppets to their father’s greater scheme?

Poseidon sighs. A mournful thing. “Not particularly. It was…different. From Triton’s birth, that is.”

Triton was born all too soon and too late. From the moment that he took his first breath, a struggle as it was, it was evident that his lungs and gills were far too large for his body. 

Polyphemus was born exactly as scheduled. Neither too late or too early. They had enlisted the help of a nymph to carry, as to not put any unnecessary strain on Amphitride who had only been growing incrementally weaker with every birth. It should’ve been perfect. Would’ve been perfect.

“His blood?” It is not so much a question, as it is a statement. One that his brother evidently already knew the answer to.

Poseidon says nothing, but the silence speaks for itself where he can’t find the heart to.

Zeus gently takes his nephews’ dangling feet into his hand. Despite Polyphemus being large himself, he truly looks like a newborn when handled by a giant god. And on the bottom of his foot, lies the remnants of the same murky green-gold coloring. Just as gently as he picked it up, Zeus drops his nephews’ foot with a quietly sad hum.

The silence dragged between them. Perhaps neither knew what to say. Or maybe, one just wasn’t sure how to voice it. But for several moments, the only thing that sounded upon the marble entablature being the slowly winding of the breeze and the audible hum of a coming storm.

His younger brother hesitates but brings his large hands to hold him steady by the shoulder. “Brother. I know that you struggle with mercy. But it may be easier–”

Poseidon cuts him off with a quickly growing intensity that shook him out of his unfocused daze, “No. No, absolutely not. How could you even suggest that?” He shakes his head with a sense of disgust, a sense of shock.

“But brother,” Zeus practically pleads. His eyes are pitiful. Full of pity.

“Enough! I will not be killing my son,” Poseidon pulls away from his brother’s grip, wrenching Polyphemus away with all the strength and viciousness of a father scorned. The venom seeps from his tongue, “Just because it is so easy for you, does not mean that it is for the rest of us.”

Or just for him, perhaps. His brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, all killed their children just as easily. Easily.

Zeus’ face darkens at that but his voice does not lose that same unwavering kindness. “I know you are grieving, brother, so I will forgive you for that.” He pulls away his hand and stands up, pacing toward the very center of the room where a fire slowly flickers, weak.

With his back facing Poseidon, he says, “But know this. You are only bringing more pain upon yourself and our family.” It is said with such an air of finality that even Poseidon, through his suffering, is able to mentally laugh about his brother’s flair for dramatics.

There is a moment of hesitation, a sense of unresolved tension. “And to your sons.”

Poseidon felt the need to rub his success in his brother’s face. 

He was right, after all. His son had overcome the odds of his birth and come into being. Real being. Not just the show of eating and killing and breathing that he had been at for the past hundred odd years.

The illusion–the dream so short-lived–was dispelled when Poseidon felt something collide with his leg.

He was, at first, irritated to have his time with his newly re-born son interrupted. He titled his head down to see the offending party in full view. Likely either a half-dead Laestrygonian or a Greek attacker that begged for mercy far too close. But he was instead met with something entirely different.

Too large to be a Greek, too small to be a Laestrygonian, this ball of hair barely reached his knee in this form. It wrapped it’s appendages around his calve in some kind of vice grip. Was it trying to kill him? It was doing a very poor job, if so.

It spoke in tongues. How irritating.

Poseidon was quick to kick the thing off. With much less force than what was warranted, might he add. He was feeling rather gracious at the moment, for the simple fact that his son had just gained consciousness. 

The hair ball flies backward into the stones and yelps. 

“What insolence! You’ve interrupted a moment that will go down in history, you. Be glad I do not smite you where you stand.”

And perhaps he could use the hairy-thing as a good treat for Polyphemus later if he still craved meat like he had in the past. He turns back to his son with a smile. Poseidon had so many questions! And so many apologies to gift upon him, for keeping him from the splendor of which he so wittingly deserved.

“Ouch! Dad! Why’d you do that? Why are you speaking Greek? Did you come to save us?”

The words did not spill from Polyphemus’ mouth. He, who was still focused on gnawing at his decided upon meal and crying from the pain that was his blinded eye, seemed just as unchanged as always.

Instead, it seemed the words had come from that–that creatures’ mouth. It had decided to stop speaking in tongues, it seemed.

Poseidon felt many things at once. 

Shattered. He was made to celebrate this newly found life of his son and then to mourn again upon discovering no difference, no change, and no sign of existence beyond the golden-red saliva that dripped dripped dripped to the floor. He had been made to mourn so many times and found himself growing quite tired of it.

Rage. He was angry at the impertinence of this thing that lay at his feet. How dare it? How dare it create one more happy moment for him, only to tear it all down and reveal the trickery that it had created.

He said as much. “How dare you?” Poseidon begins to slowly turn toward this–this thing. His voice booms as he says it, enveloping the entire isle itself in the beginnings of flooding and tropical disturbances. 

The hair-ball blinks it’s one eye–(one eye?)–up at Poseidon with a naive innocence as it if wasn’t aware of the total blasphemy against the sea, the gods themselves, that it had just committed.

Poseidon does not need to move toward it. The world moves around him, shifting and turning in on itself instantaneously. Faster than what should be perceivable, his fingers find purchase on a ratty chunk of hair.

“Have you any idea what you have done?”

The thing cries and swings it’s dangling legs back and forth desperately, “No! What, Dad? If this is about not doing well on the quest I’m really, really sorry! I tried my hardest! I promise! Pinky promise!”

The thing continued blabbering on and on like some kind of annoying mutt. Poseidon didn’t care to listen and just planned out what he would do for this audacity, this atrocity. To call him his father again and again and again. It was spitting in the face of the gods who had so long been unable to have children, to not be able to delight in the same joys that mere mortals were able to, and he would not stand for it.

It would only be just to sow upon this creature an equivalent amount of pain to what he caused Poseidon. Perhaps, he would start off by tearing apart it’s family. Ripping them apart limb for limb, and having him relish in the fact that he was the one who caused their suffering. Having him watch with his one eye. And when that was done, Poseidon would have the thing tear it out himself and leave it for the maggots to feast upon. He’d watch him writhe. Writhe in the wrath of the sea, as his body moved involuntarily from the vicious shocks that were imposed upon his son.

It was merciful, in the end. And barely equivalent exchange for all the suffering his son had experienced. After all, pain you sow is pain you reap.

“Dad! Please!” Tears were pooling in it’s eye and streaming down the thing’s face, little trickles landing on Poseidon’s larger hand.

And found that it was of the very same wavering droplets of sea that encroached upon all it touched.

Poseidon froze.

A naiad that tried to catch his attention at the wrong time? A ketos that was very confused and mistook him for its’ father? The water of the things’ tears held too much salt and not enough sea for it to be either, but it was also far too concentrated with the pure rhythm of waves, the echo of the depths, and the everpresent hum of guyots. It was of the sea, in the very least. 

But how?

He considered the thing–the boy, he amended–for a moment. His eyes darted across his skin. It was a warm, sun-kissed thing with moles and freckles lining every inch that was visible under his strange bright orange and dark blue garments. His mousy brown hair was ruffled and curly, but felt incredibly soft from where Poseidon held the boy up at. Because he was that. A boy. Though he was incredibly large and had significant musculature, he lacked the scars and mind of a true man. That much could be seen in his one eye. A warm, dark teal.

They very same as Amphitride’s.

Poseidon dropped him, partly from shock, partly from horror. Before he–his son his son his son–could fall to the ground, Poseidon shrank his form instantaneously to catch him in his arms. His boy–his–shouted out but cut himself off mid-way through the air, when Poseidon saved him from hitting the floor with what would have been a horrifying splat and cradled him deep in his arms. 

Oh. That was a scary thought. Poseidon had nearly lost his (youngest?) son before he had really had him. He’d tossed him around, kicked him, yelled at him, planned on killing him–

What a terrible father he was. So, so terrible. Worse than even his own, maybe. He didn’t deserve such a blessing. And yet.

Poseidon resolved himself to having to find some way to make up for his terrible past actions. Starting with giving his new-born son the love and care and attention that he deserved. He had no time to stand around and wallow in his shock, to celebrate his long-forgone pittance, to relish in the fact that his wildest dream and truest desire had finally become his reality.

For the Father of Monsters, his children always came first.

He placed his hand beneath his son’s jaw, one finger brushing against his eyebrow bone and another finger on his chin. It was a tactic that he had always used in order to soothe Polyphemus. He had hope that it would work on his young(!) son as well.

His son finally blinked up him, eyes bleary and teary all at once. “Dad?”

Poseidon damn near sobbed. He gave his baby a watery grin and moved his hand from his face to the back of his son’s head in a soothing cradle, “...Hello.” And what a strange feeling this was! To be be able to converse with one of his blood, knowing that they’d be able to respond back. He cleared his throat. “Hello, yes, that’s me. Your Dad.”

His son smiled back at him! It was a cautious thing, hesitant. But why wouldn’t he be? When his idiotic father had just treated him so cruelly. “Hi! You’re acting silly!”

Poseidon blinked. In all millennia, he hadn’t had a single being call him silly. Not his family, not Amphitrite, not Triton, and certainly not any worthless mortal. But his son, his sweet sweet son, did. And he would allow no other. For his baby, he would be a silly dad, he swore it.

“I was confused, so confused. And very silly.” He brought his son close to him, rising him up so his head was near the crook of his neck, and just embraced his warmth. His real, true, un-cursed warmth. “Your Dad is very silly…”

He realized then, that he hadn’t even named his son! Silly indeed. Normally, he would let Amphitride help decide on a name. She decided on Triton’s and…left the naming of all of their other children up to him. She deemed them not worthy of names, after all. 

So perhaps she wouldn’t mind letting him name their youngest on his own after all!

“...Pharites.” Bright virtue.

“Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Poseidon was practically purring under the weight of his youngest and newest son’s warmth and attention, a luxury usually reserved only to Hera, given her domain for it. But nothing quite allowed for him to announce his satisfaction and pleasure, such as this. “You, dear boy.”

Pharites giggled. “But Dad, my name’s Tyson.”

Tais? Beloved. Oh just how right that was.

Poseidon grinned and pressed a kiss into the crown of his son’s head, just where his curly brown hair began to take root. “Tais Pharites. My dearest, youngest son, my bright pearl.”

A fitting name for such a bright boy. The brightest of all of his children by far! Not even a day old and he was already speaking. And nothing seemed amiss!

Nothing seemed amiss…

Suddenly, Poseidon’s godly ichor ran cold, his nerves came to a crashing halt, waves trembled underneath his temper. He pulled his son out from his side to directly out in front of him.

Pharites blinked.

Poseidon looked upon his son, checking each and every visible hair on his head to make sure he was not in a lick of pain. The curse came for every child of the gods. Even if you wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance.

“Come, ἡ μαργαρίτης μου. Let us return home. We’ll have to introduce you to our family and the sea and…get you all checked out.” No curse would be harming a child of his. Ever.

He had begun to prepare to vanish the two of them away before a tugging at his hand stopped him short. 

Pharites pouted his lips and his eyebrow trembled, “Wait, but what about my brother?”

What a terrible father he was being! Treating his youngest so cruel, and now he was forgetting about his other son? Poseidon would have to sit down with his sister, Hera. And maybe his niece, Artemis. Get some tried and true advice on properly taking care of his family.

“Ah, just a moment then.”

He turned to his other son, who was still simpering on the ground and tending to his own wounds by way of feeding. He refused to place his youngest down so he held Pharites close to his chest, and placed the other slowly-regrowing hand upon Polyphemus’ head. In moments, he was out like a light.

The gods were unable to offer their children any comforts aside from being put to rest. Temporary or…otherwise.

Pharites shook his head. “No, no. Not that brother, my other brother. Percy!”

Poseidon blinked. And suddenly, he grew very concerned.

It was very nice of his youngest son to come up with a nickname for his older brother. Polyphemus, Persi(?), whatever. He didn’t see the connection but if it made his baby happy. Was he concussed? And seeing double?

Or was this the Curse in action?

Poseidon decided to placate him, “...We will get to that, ἡ μαργαρίτης μου. Let us just go home, for now.”

This time, Poseidon decided the front door was the better option. What was he thinking before, instantly transporting himself and his potentially sick, young son? He wasn’t apparently. Now to add his other niece and nephew, Athena and Apollo, to his consult list. Something must be wrong with him now, to be thinking this unclearly.

Poseidon ducked and weaved through the collapsed rock up front, and before his feet could even touch the sand, the hairs on his head stood up-right. In the same way they always did when his brother was in a bad mood.

But his brother wasn’t here right now. Shouldn’t be here right now.

Poseidon’s brows furrowed as he brought Pharites higher to his chest, closer to his collarbone, than anything else. He could be weak to electricity, and he wouldn’t yet know. Better to be safe.

The god of the sea walked cautiously through the beach, the soles of his feet sparking up against the charged sand each and every time he moved.

From the corner of his eye, he saw as the waves pushed and pulled a small metal object against the shoreline. Poseidon stood right in front of it and let it thud dully against his foot. With it, it brought a small electric shock. One that would be enough to kill hundreds of mortals.

Or a Cursed child.

“You are only bringing more pain upon yourself and our family.”

“I know that you struggle with mercy.”

“I will not be killing my son.”

“Killing my son.

“Kill my sons.”

How dare he. How dare Zeus, who called him brother and made an attempt on his son’s life. Who brutally maimed his own nephew to the point of permanent pain and blindness and tragedy. Who potentially threated or harmed the youngest of Poseidon’s children. How dare he.

The world shook with rage at the mere thought, the mere inclination of an idea. An idea which had countless amounts of evidence to back it up. 

In an instant the silver stick splintered underneath his fingers, the shattered pieces crumbling to the floor without so much a glance. His son, his Pharites, flinched slightly into him.

There he goes again. Being a terrible father.

Poseidon schools his expression and shakes of the remaining metal splinters from his hands, before bringing the offending hand back up to the top of his sons hand. He ruffles the curly hair underneath his fingers, enjoying the almost calming draught feeling it gives him.

“I’m sorry, son, your Dad is just a little stressed right now.”

“...Why?” His son sounds cautious and Poseidon’s heart breaks all over again.

“Me and your Uncle need to have a nice long,” he hesitates. “...chat.”

Preferably, a very stern one. Preferably.

Poseidon continues forward and without so much as a flick of the wrist, the electrically-charged water parts into two towering waves, leaving only a path of safe sand and slowly dying algae in their wake.

His son gasps at this, shaking back and forth in his hold as he moves around to stare in awe at the unnaturally floating water. “Wow! This is so so cool, Dad. You have to teach Percy this. We’re going to go see him now, right?”

Poseidon preens under the positive attention of his son but bristles at the mention of this delusion, that his son has somehow conjured up. But…he was already a bad enough father, what harm would it be to indulge in his son a little bit.

“Yes. We’re…heading that way right now.”

After all, he was guilty of the same thing himself.