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2022-05-01
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Defying The Fate

Summary:

"The winner takes it all", sings ABBA. Well, in Percy's case some things might be taken literally. What's the price of defeating Chronos might be for the daughter of Poseidon and how will her path diverge from now on?

Notes:

Hey, guys, that's my English version of this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38702550
I suspect I got perpetually stuck with all the Perpollo shippers (no regrets, lol, we are all sailing the same boat, I reckon). Anyway, I've decided to further feed this obsession of mine and write this drabblish fic so stay tuned!

Just to be clear, my Percy is a fem!Percy with a relatively okay self-esteem. There might be some OOC behaviour, AU and divergences from the canon starting with the end of the 5th book and further on.

And yes, I can't stand Annabeth (sorry, Percabeth fans!), so that may be not your cup of tea.

PS: English isn't my native language so don't be too harsh. Regards!

Chapter 1: Part 1

Summary:

Percy makes a choice (which kinda has some consequences)

Notes:

My fem!Percy's full name is Persis, meaning "from Persia", cause, you know, according to some myths Persians were descendants of Perseus;)
Nerd alert and stupid puns ahoy, love them to bits

Chapter Text


What is a deity? The embodied faith clothed with flesh, ichor flowing in its veins. A supreme will endowed with sense and understanding. A metaphysical phenomenon projecting itself onto reality. Or is it? Where is the line between Kronos and Zeus, between Artemis and her hunters, between heroes and monsters?


"It's about a choice", Persis thinks, staring at Luke's lifeless body at her feet and Annabeth sobbing all over him. We all make choices, some sooner, some later, picking who we want to become, be it an obtuse mortal, a self-sacrificing hero or someone, something more. No matter how much the gods reshape and readjust the reality on their whims, the opposite remains true: it is people that make the gods, birth and empower them with their own thoughts and deeds.


And, as the saying goes, more often than not, the sleep of reason breeds monsters.


"Everything will be in vain", Percy's intuition supplies, this wonderful, terrifying understanding nurtured and honed with four years worth of quests, confrontations, battles, and losses. As if through a veil, the thunder of Zeus's proclamations about the victory of Olympus over Kronos and his army comes. Awards and titles being distributed not long after, accompanied by the joyful sounds of flutes and festive patterns blooming on peploses, as the deities, minor and major, rejoice, not understanding, not hearing, already forgetting the cause and consequences, the price paid.


Well, if people don't change, not truly, how can anything else be expected from the beings born of collective consciousness at the dawn of humanity?

 

"But there are exceptions," Persis reflects, recalling conversations with Hermes and his pleas for the salvation of his son. Thinking of Apollo and his fear for his sister's well-being, about Artemis grieving over Zoe's body. Remembering the look in her father's eyes, who despite having called her his mistake, still tried to help her in every possible way, albeit in an awkward manner. And then there is Hestia's tired, warm smile when Percy handed her Pandora's pythos filled with Hope...


Percy thinks of Silena and Charles, of Michael and Bianca, of Ethan and Chris, of all the dead and injured in innumerable fights and battles simply for the right of being recognised. Heard. Accepted. Few of them sided with Kronos thanks to his illustrious personality. No, it was simply a matter of children battling with, for, against, or instead of their parents.


"A single choice shall end the days, Olympus to preserve or raze", the prophecy keeps on ringing in Percy's ears. But how one actually goes destroying it, is it about being demolished by Titans or, perhaps, undergoing a change? Does preservation equal stagnation, or can it be reached through evolution? Pythias anticipate and forewarn with their predictions, while Moirae weave their canvas, but is there no will strong enough to cut the Gordian knot and change the tides of fate?


Doubtfully, the divine ichor is humming steadily in mortal blood, and the barely noticeable, almost tangible yet not visions echo the sentiment. The defeat of Uranus, the dethronement of Kronos, the fall titans - in a golden haze events and years, decades and centuries pass by, unseen by the rest.


This is how it was, how it is, and will be. Over and over again, in spite of times and epochs. 


Those who do not know their history are doomed to defeat, because stories tend to repeat themselves, slightly changed in every other iteration. Persis, for all her dyslexia, ADHD and dislike of myths, has never been dumb or naive. She's long since known to learn from mistakes, her own or others'.


And so Percy Jackson exhales and refuses the offer of immortality in exchange for a better future. The future where children know about their roots, where heroes don't die as soon as they reach adulthood, where the Pantheon can finally exist in balance, and the repentant may gain the right to redemption.


But the gods don't change, reiterate the golden visions, and intuition agrees. With Olympus being preserved as it is, all the efforts will be in vain.


"We'll see", mentally disagrees Percy as her gaze meets Apollo's. The blue of the sky against the aquamarine of the waters. "Let the Moirae spun their spindle, however, their hold over me will exit no longer, for no one can hold the sea".


Nor can they tame the ocean. Very well, the die is cast.


The gods will have to change, whether they want to or not. Olympus to preserve or raze? Well, first let's see what choices the beings here will or will not make. And Percy, she will be waiting, she can afford it. After all, a lack of patience has never been her fatal flaw. She'll be waiting.

 


When all is said, Percy leaves, not turning around or looking back. She smiles weakly as feels a greedy gaze on her back, scorching, devouring. She feels like that someone's eyes are glowing with gold where usually the blue skies reside.

Chapter 2: Part 2

Summary:

Apollo is a simp, but we knew it, Percy is oblivious, and nobody appreciates Doja Cat (the pity!)

Notes:

Names "Perseus" and "Apollo" mean "destroyer"
"Phoebus" means "bright"

Chapter Text

"Lord Apollo? Or is it Fred today?" Persis Jackson's are a dark void, still waters running deep. A Sea of Monsters lurking just close enough to the surface to notice. The young saviour of Olympus has Poseidon's looks, the blood of a mortal and an overly sharp tongue. Apollo is fascinated: he has always longed to possess that which does not belong to him.

 

But Percy Jackson… Persis, she is a steel blade in a deceptively fragile shell, a Greek soul with a Persian name, a sweet poison-like nectar. The rarest pearl in Poseidon's collection, eliminating anyone who dares to steal it. Apollo knows that were she a boy, she would be named Perseus, the destroyer.

 

Persis is no better in this respect, really.

 

"Well, as it's for me to choose, let's stick with Phoebus, Percy. I must say, though, you look simply divine today, seashell", the god smiles, eagerly imprinting in his memory a slight blush on golden skin and the trembling of long eyelashes. "How did Uncle P let you leave the house looking like this, babe?"

 

 Gold and emerald colours suit Percy, and in her green dress, she looks like a living picture, a dream come true. Apollo is fascinated: he remembers her being worried and dumbfounded during their first meeting. Assertive and sharp on the train. Desperate and purposeful under the yoke of the firmament on the Sky on her deceptively fragile shoulders.

 

 He also remembers seeing her in Pythia's memories, in the thoughts of the inhabitants of Camp Half-blood: indomitable as a storm, sweeping away everything in its path like a tsunami, bowing to none's will like the waves that gave her birth. She was divine in the battles, with black unruly strands escaping from a tight braid, pupils dilated, and a delicate mouth stretched in a mad grin.

 

 Oh, how he wanted to kiss that grin off her, crush her perfect scarlet lips with his. To steal and hide her on Delos and then to lay her on the altar and worship as his personal deity. To light a fire in the icy blood, to inflame the skin with radiant blush, as if the sun had penetrated into her veins, and to evoke the moans sweeter than any music. To clothe her in his colours, crown her like the winners of Ancient Olympics, and lay the whole world at her feet.

 

"He tried to forbid me from to go to prom", Percy rolls her eyes in irritation, "Something about puny boys and wandering hands, I just couldn't listen to him. As if it's an everyday occurrence, to graduate, I mean". But he's just like, ugh, and now we're going to have storms for like, two weeks, I suspect".

 

 She waves it off like a queen in the presence of commoners. Apollo fully shares Poseidon's fears: Percy is a whirlpool, it will draw you in just in a blink of the eye. If the gods can't resist, how are mere mortals supposed to?

 

 "Well, since you've so valiantly defended you right to attend this prom," Percy nods in agreement, but all her thoughts, Apollo contemplates, are most likely resorted to sampling lots of food, not to romance (oh, the stories that reach him from Camp Half-blood! How easily and effortlessly Percy breaks hearts, never once being distracted from devouring blueberry muffins), "Allow me to give you a ride?"

 

Percy looks thoughtfully, as if looking and seeing into the very depths of his immortal essence. The Mariana trenches in her eyes? Oh no, these eyes have the magical green of Rhea, deadly, life-giving. Persis Jackson, a sixteen-year-old demigod, both young and ancient, an elemental in the flesh, the calm before the storm.

 

"I'm afraid to ask you what it might cost me", Percy frowns as if afraid that Apollo will steal her to Delphi. Or Delos. Okay, she has every reason to doubt his intentions, especially now that she stands before him like the embodiment of youth and purity, not defiled by monsters, titans, or gods. "No haiku, okay? I spent an hour writing the one after the Atlas quest, poetry is just not my cup of tea".

 

"Oh, my dear incomparable Persis, you wound me! So be it, though, maybe a little sonnet? No, okay, seriously, I'll just drive you. No haiku, limericks and sonnets. And even no Britney Spears".

 

"And no Doja Cat, let's stick to Queen, shall we?" Percy laughs, wrinkling her nose, and in her smile Apollo feels the beginning of something exciting that will turn his whole life around. He felt something similar after the Battle of Olympus, when Percy had the guts to refuse the offer of Zeus and reject immortality for the sake of a group of minor gods and heroes. Even the gods of divination are not all-seeing, and this feeling he gets, it is as frightening as it is wonderful.

 

"Galileo, Galileo," the Sun God sings in agreement, enjoying the laughter of the young demigoddess and the scent of the summer breeze thinly permeating in the car.

 

 "Thank you, Phoebus", Percy says, a little hesitantly and at the same time joyfully, as she leaves the chariot, and oh, in her mouth his name tastes like nectar and ambrosia. Uncle P will throw him into Tartarus if he dares to touch the Princess of the seas, with her consent or without it. And yet, and yet…

 

Immersed in his dreams and plans, the god of divination and prophecies does not yet realise that in 2009, Percy Jackson could in no way have known about a performer who would become a household name almost a decade later. Would it have made any difference?

 

Nah, unlikely.

Chapter 3: Part 3

Summary:

Sometimes you can't just let go, right, Percy?

Chapter Text

"I feel like I've forgotten someone, someone very important", Persis whispers as she watches the waves roar.

 

It's been a week since she arrived to New Rome, and it's overwhelming. Deities, heroes, monsters… Percy stifles her outrage, thinking of all the disrespect the Romans have been showing her godly father. And now, now they praise and fear his daughter.

 

Percy sighs tiredly. She might not remember a lot (cue in the sarcasm) and even the last two months are blurry and vague at best, but her gut tells her it's not in her nature to harbour malice towards some narrow-minded fools. 

 

To coil like a snake waiting for the moment to deliver a final blow? Probably. To be angry at things she can't really change or, better yet, live in the past? Certainly not. Persis is a doer, not a thinker, and so she doesn't indulge in empty dreams, nor does she linger in what-might-could-have-beens. Her nature is pragmatic and spiteful of inaction that permeates New Rome.

 

But her dreams (visions? Might that be a remnant of her father's stint as a god of prophecies? Was he?), they are bright and wickedly golden, and so harshly truthful. That's the way of Rome, they whisper. Duty and righteousness, but also corruption, nepotism, and connivance. 

 

It suffocates Percy, this place. The girl is more at peace among chaos and disorder, among waves, and tides, and cold waters hungrily catching the brilliant rays of sun. This young demigoddess is her father's daughter, untameable like oceans, unrestricted like seas.

 

Then what will you do, little godling?

 

"Act", thinks Percy and smirks, somehow assured that this is what she always does, more brilliant as a tactician than as a strategist.

 

"And although I don't remember you, Stranger, I still can hear your laughter and feel the smell of leather in your show-off car. And something about shooting arrows or what?" The last one is ridiculous because projectiles are not Percy's forte at all. How much unlike wielding her trusty sword and her ridiculously loyal powers over her father's domain.

 

"Maybe if we saw one other often… But the memory of you lingers, just there, in the corner of my mind, so there must be a reason. I'll find it out", she promises. "And then I'll find you".

 

If she squints just a bit and pushes through the brain-splitting headache, she can almost envision blonde hair, sky-blue eyes streaked with gold, and hear some dreadful haiku that this someone stubbornly considers awesome. How that all meshes with girly pop songs and "Queen", she never knows, but she does. It's important, it matters.

 

"Galileo, Galileo", Percy hums, scrunching her nose. She closes her eyes and lets the sun kiss it as she lets go for the time being. It'll come soon, she hopes.

 

The waves splash and part obediently, like a pack of hungry hounds at the sight of their beloved mistress, and the sun on her skin is hot and gentle like a lover's caress. Persis, in her glowing uniform, with unruly strands of hair escaping a tightly-plaited braid, looks more like a Roman statue than a human being. A Galatea of her own making, a militant maiden akin to Amazons and Diana's hunters.

 

Enshrouded in light and waters, Percy Jackson is as close to divinity as a mortal can get, a goddess Hazel had unknowingly thought of her as. A little indestructible mistress of oceans and seas.

 

The inhabitants of New Rome rarely meet their gods, and none of them can restrain their delighted amazement when they gaze at Persis. Only Hazel and Frank though notice that the sun rays never leave her, like a cocoon enveloping the deceptively fragile figure of the praetor of the 12th Legion.

 

Soon Percy and her friends will have to go on a mission where even the sun can't follow her. But something tells the princess of the undersea kingdom that this is just the beginning of a dangerous adventure, which means it is possible that one day she will see shining eyes again and hear "seashell" from someone else's lips.

 

Or so the golden threads spinning around assure, and they have never deceived her yet.

Chapter 4: Part 4

Summary:

Apollo being a sad lil meow, basically.
Well, as much as a Greek-Roman deity can be;)

Chapter Text

To strangle Hera? Or, maybe, Juno? Sounds like a plan!

 

Just like others Apollo is forbidden from leaving Olympus and contacting mortals. Is it any surprise that he learns of Persis' abduction entirely by chance?

And let's not start thinking of who and how had been hiding her for four months. 

Joining the evil stepmother in her crazy plans, Diana the huntress?

 

Not that he doubts Percy's ability to unite two opposing camps but... Spending two months on her own, with no memories, surrounded by monsters.

And now by Romans.

If gods could've turned grey or had a heart attack, Apollo would've been right there with Poseidon, given how eagerly trouble follows Percy.

 

This assuredness brings his aspects closer, not that they differ much: the Greek is casual in style the Roman prefers military. And both of them wholeheartedly believe that Persis Jackson is theirs.

To befriend, to fawn at, to yearn for, to obsess over.

 

Where Phoebus is radiant, Apollo is just as destructive, and no one but their mother could call them affectionate. Many a monster he slayed.

He had also bested numerous gods, destroyed countless heroes. And the lovers he had lost - Hyacinth, Castalia, Admetus, Cypress, Marpessa, Hyacinth, Coronida, Daphne, Cassandra. And Commodus, oh the immortals, Commodus!

Many he had wooed with hus hymns and poems, and many he had cursed just as easily. None of those he had cared for he could save.

 

After the fall of Rome (don't think of him, oh heart, be still!) he no longer trusted himself, nor could he love as freely and passionately. Close to two millenia spent on fleeting romance and one-night stands. 

And then she appeared, Persis Jackson, the young princess of the seas, now basking in Phoebus' rays as she gazes pensively at the tumultuous waters.

Had he been stronger, he'd have strangled her to avoid future torment, but no, it's too late for the sun god. Her eyes promise the torments of Tartarus and the bliss of Elysium, no man would've been able to give up such sweet torture.

 

Will Percy, brave, defiant Percy, accept a god at her feet when she had outright rejected them once? Phoebus is stalling, he knows it. Putting Gaia to sleep is a priority, now, and what happens next... It will pass, one way or another, not that Apollo is courageous enough to try and predict the outcome.

The sun deity isn't known for his tolerance or mercy, not even in this soft, peaceful age, but Phoebus had to learn compassion.

 

However, for her smile, for her benevolence he will kneel as if at the alter of an unattained perfection.

Everything for a sly look, a glint of passion of poisonous sea-green eyes.  Ovid said once, "I will hate you if I can; and if I can't, I will love you against my will," and Apollo can't help but argue with the long-dead Roman as he watches Percy bask in the warmth of the sunshine.

Because Phoebus can't hate her. Never could.

Chapter 5: Part 5

Summary:

What is the difference between gods and heroes, between a man and a monster?

Chapter Text

Even the gods struggle to survive in Tartarus, a place not meant for heroes. Percy is all too familiar with this harsh reality.

 

She doesn't want to blame Annabeth for what happened, pride is not the most pleasant of vices and the worst of fatal flaws one could imagine. Admittedly, if it weren't for Annabeth's devotion to her friends and loved ones, it's unlikely that Percy would have followed Athena's daughter on this dangerous and uncertain journey.

 

Or not?

 

Dreams tell Persis that she has too little time. "Hurry up, time-child," they urge. Sometimes, she sees so much that it drives her mad. How can Phoebus live with this? Why hasn't he taken the title of god of madness from Mr. Di?

 

However, immortals have their own rules, maybe it's easier for him?


 
Phoebus, she remembers that name. Apollo, the sun god with deceptive blue eyes, golden curls, a gentle brother and a formidable destroyer.

 

In Tartarus, she recalls the warmth of his rays on her skin, the summer heat cutting through her cold sea blood. His warmth is absent in the darkness of this realm; only poison fills the air, broken glass crunches underfoot, and lava scalds her throat even as it flows through subterranean rivers.

 

Despite everything, Percy can't shake the feeling that something significant is about to transpire here—something unrelated to the Gates of Death and the House of Hades. A choice must be made by her, regardless of the circumstances. Of course, Percy is familiar with this, as fate only burdens the weak.

 

The strong create their own destiny.

 

Similar to titans or giants, Percy finds her strength increasing with each challenge. Her wounds heal rapidly, and her powers respond more promptly when summoned. Only continuous monitoring and rigorous training prevent her from succumbing to the relentless passage of time, which flows in various directions before her eyes.

 

She knows Iapetus-Bob, remembers the first battles of the gods, sees the fall of Typhon and the triumph of Kronos over his father. The rise of the gods, the defeat of the heroes. Rome, Sparta, Troy, London, Mycenae, New York, Athens, Crete, Delos.

 

In her own skin, Percy had never felt so confined.

 

Achlys was unlucky enough to cross her path. Percy saw the horror in Annabeth's eyes—her reflection in the dilated pupils: tousled black curls, poisonous green eyes, and a snarl stretched into an evil grin. Oh, the naive daughter of Athena. Did she really believe that Poseidon's children were always quiet and harmless, even the calmest and most relaxed among them?

 

Those in whose blood waves, and storms rage, in whose veins the sea splashes, hiding monsters that live in their souls, strive to break free?

 

Regardless of how wise the descendants of the grey-eyed goddess may believe they are, few of them can claim to have a clear understanding of the world. Just like her mother, Rachel always knew and was never deceived by what her friend was truly capable of.

 

In Tartarus, the realm of the strong, a choice arises—should one release Achlys, the goddess of misery, or offer compassion? Here, there's no room for remorse or gentleness; survival demands strength.

 

Percy sees what could have been: how she, horrified by Annabeth's fright, lets Achlys go, how she tolerates claims and reproaches, how she locks up a part of herself and endlessly gives, gives, paying off a non-existent debt until nothing remains of herself.

 

Another piece of her soul breaks, just as it did after the victory over Kronos when golden visions of Time invaded her life. That time, the choice was made for her; this time, Percy had to decide for herself whether to submit to the Moirai or forge her own path. And even though the visions are silent now, the choice seems more apparent than ever.

 

Percy doesn't want to torture Achlys, it's not in her nature. She is a child of Poseidon's best side, the quiet tides, the gentle storms, the foam of the sparkling waves in the sun. Percy is merciful, and she also remembers that you can't leave your enemies behind.

 

Not in Tartarus.

 

What is the difference between gods and heroes, between a man and a monster?

 

"Will," Percy adds to her earlier musings.


 
The palm extended towards Achlys confidently clenches into a fist.

Chapter 6: Part 6

Notes:

did you miss me?;)

Chapter Text

Apollo swears to himself that if (when) Percy survives the war with the giants, he will chain her to him with handcuffs. Perhaps Poseidon will even support him in this.

 

Surely.

 

The thought of golden chains, winding around tanned skin like snakes, stirs excitement in his cracked mind, and that is still better than the horror the sun god feels listening to the demigods’ story of how the heroine of Olympus emerged from the Doors of Death on the side of Tartarus.

 

Nothing and no one comes out of that meat grinder unchanged.

 

One doesn’t need to be a genius to understand that something terrible happened, something that broke Percy herself and finally severed all ties between her and the offspring of Minerva. Athena.

 

Ugh, cursed duality of minds and actions.

 

Still, deep in his immortal essence, Phoebus rejoices. Percy may dislike the gods — looking at the deeds of Zeus-Jupiter, who could blame her? — but now Apollo has hope.

 

To become closer to the daughter of Poseidon-Neptune, to steal her heart and share with her at least a short fragment of endless eternity.

 

(oh, but how he craves more)

 

His anger at her rejection of immortality fades the moment he remembers that thanks to Percy’s demands, Phoebus now has a new, not-cursed Oracle. (Seriously, Uncle A? Why are the prophetesses always to blame, and not Daddy Z, huh?). 

 

Apollo is still a god of knowledge and logic — praise the Fates — otherwise he would hardly have been able to stop himself from locking Percy away on Delos until she ate a fruit salad of golden apples from the Hesperides and pomegranates from Persephone’s gardens.

 

Just to be sure they're bound for eternity, not that he will do it (oh, but how he longs for her love and hatred, aren't they both the same, after all?)

 

It is not the time to think about Percy, even if one of his parts, the one controlling his domains, not shackled by Zeus's orders, watches her ceaselessly from the heights of his heavenly chariot, like sunflowers following the sun until night falls. All gods know the power of passion, but none of them have ever tasted obsession like Phoebus Apollo, eldest of the divine sons of Olympus’ ruler.

 

But now is not the time.

 

Even though Python has blocked his gift of foresight, Apollo knows: battles are coming, where children and adults, mortals and heroes will die. Battles in which once again the fate of the Olympian gods and Western civilization will be decided.

 

What can he give the demigods, he — the immortal and helpless Phoebus Apollo?

 

What can he do to insure that his Persis stays alive and comes safe to him? The object of his desire, his fatum, his obsession?

 

Apollo gives Leo Valdez the key to defeating Mother Earth and plucks the Pylosian mint, granting it in exchange for the hero’s invention.

 

“Better him than Percy,” Apollo admits to himself, cowardly recalling the prophecy.

 

“Let them succeed,” thinks Phoebus, silently blessing the Seven and hoping they will manage to subdue the ancient primordial essence.

 

And if not…

 

Then in the best or worst of universes and dimensions, he will find Percy Jackson all the same.

 

Perhaps, Apollo muses, when the divine twins, freed from the forced split of their essence, leave Delos to join the fight against Gaia’s followers — perhaps then he might write something greater than a haiku.

 

A limerick, maybe?

Chapter 7: Part 7

Notes:

Since I don't know when my mania subsides and changes for depression yet again (the meds suck, but they help somewhat, but it's still all touch go right now), here is another chapter!

Chapter Text

“They want me to build you a shrine,” Jason Grace says, frowning in that way that makes him look exactly like Jupiter. “And I’m going to do it.”

 

Percy can’t even find the words for how utterly ridiculous this sounds.

 

Seriously, dude?


“And what about Kim? My sister is… let’s just say passionate."

 

But then again, all the Big Three kids are. Too much divine ichor in the bloodstream to be otherwise.

 

“Percy, someone will build one anyway. In New Rome, in Camp Half-Blood. Whatever Annabeth thinks, she wouldn’t have made it out of Tartarus without you. And even though we don’t know all the details—” her cousin gives her a loaded look, “Nico’s words alone are enough to paint the picture. But…”

 

Sometimes Percy really doesn’t get how Jason manages to juggle it all.

 

And it still annoys her how easily the daughter of Aphrodite dumped her cousin.

 

Divine interference? Seriously? After everything they’d gone through?

 

It was even dumber than her own breakup with Annabeth. At least that ended because Annabeth thought Percy had turned into a monster down in Tartarus, not because of Athena’s feud with Poseidon or the goddess of love pulling strings.

 

“Percy, you have to understand. To a lot of half-bloods, to us, you’re already more than just a hero.” Jason shifts, but his gaze is steady, insistent. “You’re not just the savior of Olympus. Twice over. You’re our shield, our protector. When you’re with us, we actually believe we’ll make it out alive. Because you, with that loyalty of yours, never turn your back.”

 

Oh. So that explains the mountain of offerings outside her cabin at Camp Half-Blood.

 

“O-okay?” Percy feels the rush of blood in her veins, her heartbeat steady, controlled. Beating Achlys had left plenty of consequences—some she hadn’t expected at all.

 

Like learning to control liquids that weren’t just ocean water. Sure, the Styx wasn’t technically under Poseidon’s domain either, but rivers were one thing. Poisons? Or the fluids inside people? That was different.

 

(Is it? What's river if not the blood of earth? What is blood if not the river flowing in all bodies? And technically, technically, Poseidon does preside over all waters)

 

“So, whether you like it or not, I’m building you a shrine, Lady Persis,” Jason smirks, and Percy feels something twist in her chest. Because that smile—that’s what children of Zeus look like when they’re sincere. It’s the same smile Phoebus gave her in his chariot.

 

Where is he now, she wonders, the radiant Apollo?

 

“Because we deserve that, too. Accept it, and maybe the shrine will be blue instead of, I don’t know, orange.”

 

“Hey, don’t mix me up with Naruto, cousin,” Percy mock-punches him, grinning as he laughs with her—her brother-in-arms, her cousin, her unexpected friend.

 

The trials had bonded all Seven together, but between Jason and Persis there was always something more. A quiet understanding, born of the same weight they carried from birth: responsibility, not just for themselves, but for everyone else.

 

And if Jason Grace was willing to risk sacrilege in the gods’ eyes for the sake of hope in the younger demigods’ faces…

 

“Fine, Jay. But keep it small, okay?” No need to attract too much divine attention. Not yet. Maybe never.

 

“Sure, sure,” Jason grins, then adds with a mischievous spark, “One shrine in each camp. And only blue offerings allowed. I’ll even carve the warning on the doors.”

 

“Jason Grace!”

Chapter 8: Part 8

Notes:

may your teeth rot from my fluff, I regret nothing))

Chapter Text

“Percy, darling, you look amazing!”


Persis Jackson could pull off literally anything, but in denim shorts and a T-shirt she looked like one of those ‘90s Coke ad models: sporty, sunny, effortlessly perfect.

 

“Phoebus? What’s going on?”

 

Sleepy Percy Jackson looked so soft, so relaxed, that Apollo wanted to wrap himself around her and keep the whole world away.

 

“Lester, you never told me you had such a hot girlfriend,” Meg cut in, blunt as ever. Thanks for the reminder about Zeus’ punishment, by the way, may no one ever suck his flacid cock.

 

He ignored the thunder rumbling across the clear blue sky. He was used to it. Whatever. 

 

“Hi, I’m Persis Jackson — but Percy’s better,” she said warmly to the daughter of Demeter. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll talk in the kitchen.”

 

The mortal home of Poseidon’s daughter breathed peace and comfort. Too unlike Olympus. Too much like his mother’s house.

 

After Gaea’s defeat, Zeus had planned to lock Leto away somewhere in Florida. Apollo hadn’t been able to confirm that, and Artemis still wasn’t answering.

 

Not that things with his sister had ever been simple, no matter how much they cared about each other (or did they?)

 

And Percy — with her kindness, her easy acceptance, her soft smile — she undid him. Because no one should be allowed to be this mortal and this perfect at the same time. Close, yet untouchable. Especially while he was stuck as Lester.

 

“So. Details?” She asked.

 

While Meg was stuffing her face with blue cookies (and wow, miracle of miracles, she actually managed to chew with her mouth shut — how did Percy pull that off?), his personal saint was flipping blueberry pancakes for him.

 

Honestly, it could’ve been the opening of a romance novel. Or a poem. Erato would be proud. If he survived to tell her the tale.

 

“Zeus,” Lester muttered, as if that explained everything.

 

“Zeus,” Percy echoed, exasperated. Yep, that said it all. “I can’t really help you, I guess, but we’ll see. Eat something. I need to feed Estelle.”

 

When she came back with a dark-haired, blue-eyed toddler on her hip, the only thing stopping Apollo from throwing himself at her was the fact that he hated his mortal body. Well, that and the certainty that the princess of the seas would knock him flat if he tried anything before at least two dates.

 

Hey, at least now he had extra motivation to get his godhood back!

 

But seeing Percy with a child in her arms… yeah, that went straight into the fantasy vault. It wasn’t that Apollo disliked kids — clearly not, given the number of demigods he’d fathered. It was just her.

 

Percy, who had welcomed them into her home, cleaned them up, fed them. Took in a Demeter kid she didn’t even know, and him, a disgraced god.

 

Just because she knew what demigods went through.

 

Just because, she counted him as a friend.

 

(could there be more to it?)

 

Oh, if only there were a chance for more. Percy was too perfect.

 

“We need to get to Camp Half-Blood,” Meg said, relaxing as Percy braided her hair into a flower crown. “Will you help us, Lady Persis?”

 

“Just Percy, Meg,” the princess of the seas corrected with a grin, wagging a finger at giggling little Estelle and then flashing Lester a mischievous smile. “I’ve got an idea. If Kim helps me with Estelle.”

 

Apollo didn’t know what had gone down during his six months away from the mortal world, but one thing was clear: if Kymopoleia and Persis were working together, then Triton and Poseidon deserved all the sympathy they could get.

 

And with Benthesicyme and Rhode in the picture, too? Gods help the fools who thought Poseidon’s sons were the scary ones.

 

His daughters could run the world if they wanted, and the world would thank them for it.

Chapter 9: Part 9

Notes:

Sea god sisters for the win (I headcanon that Estelle is a daughter of a threesome, actually, not that I plan on writing about it, but sue me anyway, I regret nothing!)

Chapter Text

Persis Jackson had plenty of relatives on her father’s side.


There was grumpy Triton and elegant Amphitrite, the stepmother Percy called “Mother.” (Sally Jackson was queen among mortals, but her immortal mother was a true queen — and mistress of the seas.)

 

There were Rhode and Benthesikyme, with whom she usually kept in touch through Iris rather than face to face.

 

And then there was Kymopoleia — Percy’s favorite sister, even if Percy had nearly died because of her, going up against Polybotes. In Kym burned the same passion, the same storm, the same unrelenting tide that lived, quietly coiled, inside Percy herself.

 

They were tied by more than their father: the wildness of the sea, that dangerous swing from cruelty to mercy. Terrifying in a goddess.

 

Irresistible in Percy.

 

“My temple’s still bigger than your shrines, Persis,” Kym drawled when Percy came back from Camp Half-Blood. It was strange to watch an immortal goddess pull faces and swirl toys into a whirlpool just to make a mortal baby laugh.

 

Strange, and somehow exactly right.


“You deserve it, sister.” Gods, Percy would never get tired of seeing that radiant smile on the storm goddess’s lips.

 

Knowing what Poseidon had done to Kym… Percy didn’t excuse him. Old times weren’t the same as now, but she wasn’t going to whitewash his choices either.

 

What bound Percy, her mortal mom, and her immortal mother was the same thing: fierce, untamable love for the ones they’d let into their hearts.

 

As long as Percy lived, she’d protect her sister as best she could. If that meant a temple in New Rome or a cabin in Camp Half-Blood — so be it. Jason had things under control anyway.

 

“He still owes me a banner and a figurine,” Kym reminded her, watching fondly as Estelle mauled a stuffed octopus. “And who’s this little monster-tamer, huh? Who? Of course it’s you, my little jellyfish! Sister Kym will name a storm after you, my fish.”


“I thought I was your jellyfish, Kym,” Percy said, mock-pouting.


“No, you’re my cuttlefish,” Kym shot back firmly. “Right, Estelle? Percy’s the cuttlefish, the one who keeps forgetting to make time for training with her big sister.”


“You know I can’t leave Estelle.”

 

And testing new powers on monsters with a kid around? Worst idea ever, Percy added to herself.

 

“Then Triton can babysit,” Kym cut in without hesitation. “Rhode’s busy with something about the sun and chariots… Oh! Or we could call Father and Mother — no, bad idea, then they’ll start nagging about grandkids again. Ugh, still shudder whenever I think of Briareus. So Triton it is. Let him be useful. And meanwhile, we’ll have a girls’ night. Just imagine: you and me, storms, monsters, ten out of ten fun!”


“Deal,” Percy agreed.

 

She should have been named Perseus, really: destruction was in her blood no matter how hard she tried to hold it back.

 

“But you’ll help me with this new… ability.”

 

Anyone who thought the sea could be tamed or the ocean subdued, had clearly never dealt with Poseidon’s children, those born to command the waves. Percy didn’t need to see golden threads of time to know: sooner or later, she’d master it. She wouldn’t let anyone hurt the ones she loved.

 

Least of all herself.

Chapter 10: Part 10

Summary:

I was sad, so I decided to write this. Enjoy!

Chapter Text

Percy sinks ships in ways that make you want to write in hexameter.

 

While Lester and company had been wondering how useful the daughter of Poseidon would be, they could never have imagined that the princess of the seas herself would come to the rescue — and with that kind of entrance.

 

No wonder the Romans still fear Neptune’s wrath.

 

There’s too much of her divine father in Persis, including his love for Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts.

 

(So much power, packed into such a fragile mortal frame.)

 

“Sing, O goddess, of wrath — of Persis Jackson, daughter of Neptune…”

 

“If you’re starting the Persiad, at least wait until the quest is over, Lester,” Jason groans. “Percy, leave that ship — no, Percy — oh, for the love of the gods — did you learn that from Lady Kymopoleia? Or your brother? Yes, that, thank you.”

 

Phoebus isn’t even surprised anymore by how close the sea deities are to their half-blooded sibling. The mere fact that Percy left Kymopoleia to watch over her mortal sister so she could help Meg and Apollo reach Camp Half-Blood says everything.

 

By the gods, but she’s magnificent — a true mistress of the waves.

 

It seems only as a mortal could Phoebus finally see and feel the full might of Poseidon’s daughter. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was witnessing the birth of a new goddess of the deep, so unearthly, so radiant did the twice-saviour of Olympus and protector of the demigods appear at that moment.

 

“Complain too much, and you’ll age faster, Jay,” Percy laughs, having just destroyed an entire fleet without even blinking. “I’ll tell Kym her favorite fanboy was thrilled by the storms.”

 

‘And in the meantime, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Phoebus,’ reads the glint in her sea-green eyes, and Lester suddenly wants to hide from that piercing gaze.

 

In ancient times, heroes and gods alike would’ve gone to war and razed kingdoms for a single look like that, for even the faintest hint of her favour.

 

But Percy smiles at him just because, and Phoebus feels himself undone, a novice again, kneeling before his deity for the first time.

 

“All right, out with it. What exactly are you planning to take from that last ship? And I really hope it’s not gonna be through some blatantly suicidal stunt, cousin,” Percy says pointedly, and even the heroic son of Jupiter flinches.

 

It’s doubtful Kymopoleia’s keeping that close an eye on Jason Grace just to eavesdrop on Sibyl’s prophecy… though who really knows with sea deities?

 

Apollo had access to all prophecies through his domain (used to).

 

Hermes, of course, has an uncanny talent for knowing everything he shouldn’t — maybe he let something slip to Percy. But would he really risk getting involved again?

 

After the whole Luke disaster, after Apollo’s own punishment, however?

 

Something tells Phoebus it’s both far more complicated — and far simpler — than that.