Chapter Text
The first thing you think when you open your eyes is: Oh no, not again.
What is this, the thirteenth time? You’re not sure how many more times you can take. Your gaze is unfocused, like there’s a film of wax paper obstructing your vision.
To make matters worse, it looks like I’m in the body of an infant this time.
It’s always a different age: nineteen, fifteen, twenty-four, thirteen—but you’ve never been an infant before.
Your cheek presses against a warm, pillowy surface. A faint, familiar scent fills your nose as your eyes begin to grow heavy.
This is the first time I’ve had a body from the start, maybe I can do it right this time.
The next time you’re able to fully process your surroundings, and hold a cognitive thought you’re three years old.
This hardly seems fair.
You stare into the void—eyes unblinking—and your Father stares back at you. He doesn’t look like your original Father, but that doesn’t come as much of a surprise.
This isn’t the first time my parents haven’t looked like my original parents. Somehow I always end up looking like myself though.’
This time your Father is a young man, somewhere in his early to mid-twenties. A mop of disheveled dark black hair sticks in every direction on his head. His skin is as smooth and pale as moonlight, and with mis-colored eyes; one a tawny hue of fine amber, and the other a dark green that could rival any emerald.
Your Father’s defining trait isn’t his unique eyes, however. It’s that everything about him seems to be tinged with red; the hue saturates his knuckles, flushes across the bridge of his nose, and stains the white of his eyes.
He doesn’t look angry though.
You place your small hands on both of his cheeks, watching his eyes grow glassy.
Just sad.
“What’s wrong Daddy?” You ask. His large calloused hand covers your own, completely engulfing it as he presses a kiss to your palm.
“Nothing baby, I’m just happy you’re here.”
You’re four years old when you get the feeling that something isn’t quite right.
Your first curls around the wriggling mass, thick scales pressed against the thin, pulpy flesh of your hand. Beside you your teacher wails, their blue apron soiled with playground mud. You anticipated her reaction, despite your strong mind, your body is still that of a child, and every so often the intense emotions you harbor slip out.
What is surprising is the dead snake clenched in your fist.
Are normal four-year-olds strong enough to kill a snake with their bare hands?
You tilt your head to the side, watching the snake trash before going completely still, tongue hanging out from the side.
One fire at a time.
You let the snake fall to the ground with an unceremonious ‘ thump’ , wiping your hand on your school uniform before walking towards your teacher, she’s curled in on herself—collapsing like a dying star. You pat her shoulder comfortingly, taking deep breaths to get your own emotions in check.
“It’s okay, see—you and me—we’re both okay,” you reassure.
It’s only later; after your favorite pre-school teacher’s sobs muffled into hushed whimpers, after the other staff members came rushing towards the both of you—shielding your gaze as they disposed of the reptile, after recess had ended and you were shuffled on to your pillowy mat for nap time while your eyes bore at the stars on the ceiling, that you had the peace to reflect on the moment.
That wasn’t normal.
You hold your hands in front of your face, they’re no bigger than the base of the tea cups your father keeps in the fine china cabinet. It’s been a long time since you’ve been this young, but even you can determine given the other’s reactions, that killing a snake with your bare hands is not within a normal child's capabilities.
Where am I this time?
You haven’t put much thought into what world you ended up in this time, almost all your energy has been directed towards merely existing. You doubt you’re in some comic book world where everyone is overpowered from birth. You’re in New York, Manhattan to be exact, your sad but present father had made you memorize the address to your Penthouse on the Upper-East side under the guise of singing a song.
Something about this feels familiar, crushing a snake with your bare hands, I’ve read about that somewhere.
It isn’t reminiscent of something profound, but it reminds you of a line in a movie or maybe a book—
Oh no.
You’re in Percy Jackson.
One by one the puzzle pieces begin to float into place; your super human strength, the fact that you were able to inhabit this body and recollect your past lives from infancy, your absentee Mother, and your handsome heartbroken Father.
Shit.
It’s still just a hunch, for all you know you’re just abnormally strong for human reasons, not immortal ones.
There’s only one way to know for sure though.
You bite the inside of your cheek, you watch your father lean forward in the driver seat before changing lanes, already feeling guilt bloom in your chest for what you’re about to do.
“Daddy,” You gulp hard as his mismatched eyes meet yours through the rear view mirror. “Why don’t I have a Mommy?” He reflexively hits the brakes a little too hard, and you bite your lip to keep your expression neutral.
“Your Mother…your mother went somewhere far away.” He finally says, a sad flicker in his eyes. “Somewhere we can’t follow for a long time.”
Fuck.
In all fairness, it is awfully vague. On one hand maybe your Mother was a mere mortal who passed away before her time. On the other hand you strangled a snake with your bare hands this afternoon.
“What kind of person was she?” You ask, and your Father gets a far away look in his eyes. A fond smile curling onto his lips, the warmth reaching his eyes.
“She was— is the love of my life.” He reaffirms. “She was the kindest soul I ever encountered. She was the kind of person who brought warmth into any room she entered”
Fuck, my mom was a Goddess.
Again, your Father chooses vague descriptors, which gives you no concrete evidence to who your Mother is.
His lovesickness aside, maybe my mom is a minor god; like Hestia, Nike, or Themis.
For all you know your father could be so in love he’s completely blind to her true nature, for all you know she could be Athena or Artemis.
But regardless of who my mom is—
“Come on baby,” your father says as he hoists you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he tosses the keys to the Valet. “I heard you had a bad day at pre-school.” You nod against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’ll make you something yummy for dinner to make up for it.” He promises, kissing your forehead as you step into the glass elevator.
—I’m glad I have my Dad.
He may not be a parent you recognize from a previous life, but the way he holds you so gently, the familiar scent that wafts over you—like flowers and amber mixed together—has your eyes drooping close. You feel a sense of comfort you haven’t felt in many lifetimes, like you’re finally home.
“I love you Daddy.” You yawn against his neck. Your eyes close, catching a hint of the tender smile that blooms on his face.
“I love you too baby.”
***
You’re seven years old when you meet the black do for the first time.
You’re walking home from Elementary school, along the same roads you had practiced with your Father several times before he granted you permission to make the journey alone with a conflicted expression. You sigh as you wait at the crosswalk across from Central Park. You bag feels heavy, the sharp corner of a mythology book poking your back.
I have to be more careful, Dad practically had a heart attack las night when he saw me reading ‘The Iliad.’
“W-why are you reading that book sweetie?” His hands fumbled with the dish he was drying. For a moment you thought you might lie and say it was a part of assigned reading, but thought better of it at the last moment.
Those teachers at the fancy school he sends me to talk to him twice a month to make sure we’re aligned on learning objectives as a family.
“The pictures looked pretty.”
You could see him practically deflate, anxiety whispering out of his chest with a long sigh. The careless comment hadn’t eased him entirely however, as he scrambled over with another book, saying: “W-w-w-what about this book instead? I think these pictures are prettier.”
I should be able to handle this with tact. I get about thirty minutes a day for silent reading in class, but if I pick a book about Greek mythology everyday my teacher will mention it to my Dad, so I’ll need to limit myself to one day a week.
You’ve formed half of your schedule in your mind, the exact order you would trail to appear as an unusually organized child instead of the freak you are.
That’s when you see it.
At first glance it doesn’t seem like anything special. It’s a big dog—but you’ve seen bigger. It’s fur is as dark as night, bright amber eyes practically glowing as it’s tail wags a mile a minute.
Looks like a Great Dane.
You’re halfway on the cross walk when you catch a glance of something big and spherical clenched between it’s teeth.
Looks like a ball.
Despite yourself a smile twitches on your lips as you get closer. In your collective lives you’ve been around animals long enough to know when they’re uncomfortable—and the grinning dog in front of you is the exact opposite .
“Hey boy, what you doing here all alone?” You hold out your hand, expecting a hesitant sniff or two, but instead the dog places his whole face in your hand. You laugh as a wet nose nudges your hand onto his head, stroking the fur back in comforting motions. “Why’d your owner leave you alone like this?” You wonder aloud. The dog looks like a purebred, and he’s friendly and well socialized to add. It doesn’t look like a case of classic abandonment, but he doesn’t have a leash, just a heavy leather collar with large blue jewels embedded in th luxurious fabric.
Whoever’s dog this is, they must be dripping with cash.
Not that you can judge them for their wealth, it’s hardly like you and your Father are hurting for money in your Penthouse apartment on the Upper-West side.
You feel something heavy drop into the palm of your hand, stilling as you look down.
It’s the red ball.
Does he want to play fetch? Your eyes narrow as you peer at the object. On closer inspection it’s not a ball at all, it’s—
“A pomegranate?”
Before you can wonder aloud what kind of person gives a dog a pomegranate to play with, the dog gives your hand a hearty lick before skipping away. Leaving you standing alone in the street, pomegranate clasped in your hand, and your eyes blinking.
“That was weird.”
***
You meet her when you’re eight years old.
She’s adorned in a worn red varsity jacket, a shiny silver flip phone in one hand, and a dog leash in the other.
The black dog wags its tail when they see you, pink tongue hanging limp out the side of his mouth.
So this is the bad owner.
She looks like a college student, maybe twenty at most. Short jet-black hair falls to her shoulders, and eyes as green as the trees in Central Park. She looks like a college student, maybe twenty-three at most.
She looks familiar.
There’s a tint to her, a gold hue that lingers on her skin; gold flecks in her eyes, a gold aura that surrounds her, a golden sparkle to her dark hair—you’re not sure what to make of it.
“Hey kid,” the woman jerks a thumb to herself. “Do you know me?”
“Yeah, you’re the lady I’m going to report to my teacher when I get to school.” The woman sputters with laughter, her hand covering her mouth. The dog shuffles towards you, a wet nose pressed into your hand. You pet instinctively.
He really deserves a better owner. How hard would it be to sue for custody of a dog from an eccentric owner?
“Looks like Cerb has taken a liking to you.” She muses. The dog is practically curled around you. It’s head firmly placed in your small hand.
“You named your dog Cerb? Like Cereberus?” That sort of name fits a Rottweiler or a Mastiff better than a soft-hearted Great Dane.
“I didn’t pick the name, I um… inherited him from a distant family member recently.” She pats her side twice, and while Cerberus pouts, he obediently returns to her side.
“See you around kid.” She says with a wave. You feel a strong wave of nostalgia roll over you when you’re left standing alone on the street again.
This is starting to get weird.
There’s an unfamiliar prickle in your chest as you stare at the spot where the woman stood. She seemed so familiar…maybe that was your mother. You dispel the thought with a shake of your head.
Dad could do better, you think, turning on your way back to school with a sigh.
***
You stumble into adolescence hardly feeling the years that pass.
You run into the college student, who’s name you discover is Maki, and her Greek mythology named dog more often.
“So are you in college?” You ask, fingers unwrapping the ice cream bar you got from a nearby vendor. The gold glint in her eyes seems to intensify.
“I guess you could say that, I’m getting a degree in architecture at NYU.” You nod in response.
You mainly put up with her for her dog.
You continue your discreet research into mythology, trying to work out if there are any twists in this universe, and who your godly Mother might be.
“They seem very interested in Mythology, they even have a schedule on what region to explore every week.” Your Teacher informs your Father with a smile at your semi-annual parent-teacher conference. The plastic chair beneath you feels burning hot, but for what it’s worth, your Father takes it with a smile, either unaware or unalarmed. “It’s still early, but exploring archeology might be a good idea for them.”
A wobbly smile stretches across your father’s face, his face barley containing his joy as he affectionately ruffles your hair.
“They’ve always been fairly independent, but if there’s anything I can do to support them as a parent please guide me.” Your teacher only gives him a kind smile in return.
“We have a Parent-Teacher Association, if you’re interested in joining.” You watch your teacher inform your kind Father about parenting classes and the extracurricular activities they offer.
I wonder how he manages to pay for all of this.
It’s something that’s never struck you as odd until now. Your otherworldly origin is partly to blame, you’ve lived with luxury in enough lifetimes to be numb—if not to expect it eventually—by now. But now that you’re thinking about it; the penthouse apartment in the Upper-West side of Manhattan, the elite private school, even the designer uniform you wear from Barney’s—the money has to come from somewhere .
He does seem to work a lot.
Your Dad is always there for you before school and after school, but you have no idea what he does while you’re at school. You’ve seen him mulling over a stack of paperwork more than once when you woke up in the middle of the night for a glass of water or to use the bathroom. The sound of a tortured sigh echoing in the hallway, followed by the shuffle of papers.
Maybe he’s an executive at some company with really good work-life boundaries.
You are also fairly certain that your Mother was a minor goddess. For one, you don’t seem to have any special powers aside from your usual despair aura, and second…monsters are few and far-between. There’s been the odd occasion, a snake that tried to poison you, an eagle that latched on your arm and refused to let go, a man with only one eye that stared at you from outside the playground. One look is usually enough to make them scamper away.
I must not be worth the trouble.
It’s not like you need protection, as long as you have your despair no monster on earth can harm you.
You leave school earlier than usual, a frown curling onto your lips when you notice Maki’s bench is empty. Well, you are earlier than usual. You cut through the street on your familiar crosswalk, walking through Central Park. Refracted light lands on your skin in comforting blocks of gold, and you think maybe this is fine.
You don’t need to know who your Mother is, your blood is weak enough that you won’t need any additional training, and it doesn’t seem like any gods have an interest in you.
Maybe this time…you can live a long peaceful life with your wealthy Father.
Maybe this is my reward for the tumultuous lives I’ve lived until now.
You give your doorman a bright smile as you walk through the revolving doors of your building, he returns it with a rosy cheek grin of his own. He asks you how school was, and you say good.
And that’s okay, I’m getting tired of being great, you decide. Heroics are fine, but you’ve outgrown the childish need to prove something to the rest of society. You’re happy as you are, you think with a nod, tapping the key code for your lock.
You’re greeted by the usual sight of you pristine white foyer and living room, a glimpse of your Father coming into view. Instead of his usual place on his favorite armchair, he’s seated on the sofa—his mouth stretched in a tense line. Across from him is a woman—if you had to describe her, you would say she reminded you of a fresh pink peony. Everything about her felt like a blossoming flower; pinks cheeks, perfectly round pink fingernails, rosy palms. Long brown hair the color of tree bark, her eyes a vivid green.
She looks familiar, have I met her before?
The woman stares at you with equal interest, an amused smile twitching onto her lips.
“(Y/N), come sit by me very quickly.” Your father’s voice is strained and tinged with urgency. The woman rolls her eyes.
“Come now Zagreus, you think I would harm my own grandchild?”
“It’s never stopped you before.” He grumbles.
Your eyes flick from the woman—her piercing green eyes—to your father—the same hue embedded in his right eye. The last puzzle piece floats into place.
All this time you’ve been fixated on finding out who your Mother is, because that’s the absent parent in your life.
But that Persephone, and if she’s my Grandmother, then I’ve been looking at this wrong the whole time—
“It was just the one time Zagreus, and I already told you I don’t approve of Melionoe’s choice in a partner, naturally I wouldn’t approve of the child either.”
—because that means my Dad is Zagreus.
This entire time your godly parent has been right under your nose, a mere hallway across from you in your own home.
“Well, shit.”