Work Text:
The old fears, but I’m here (through the long night with you)
Rain patters against the slightly ajar window, water leaking in and dripping down the sill, onto the floor. It beads together before the tension breaks, streams tracing the cracks of the floorboards, seeping in.
Her head throbs—threatens to pound its way through her skull—and she can’t think. But she’s aware enough to know that she shouldn’t be here. Rain and fear and a shroud of golden dust are all she can remember.
It’s going to be hard, for the both of you .
She can see Percy screaming from across the field, glowing bronze sword in hand. He knows now, who he is. She hopes he’ll understand the words she never got to say; she hopes he can hear her thoughts through the downpour— he loves you, he’s proud of you, he wanted to stay .
It’s going to be torture, for the both of you .
She sees it now more clearly than ever: he is his father’s son. The anger on his face and the set of his jaw and the look in his eye that says find out who I am, I dare you —she only hopes that she’s there, too, in his head, in his heart, in the choices he’ll have to make. He is his father’s son, but he is her son, and that has to be enough. It will be enough.
He will be stronger for it on the other side . His mother raised him well .
It will be enough.
The fist around her neck closes tighter; Percy yells for her. Her vision goes black. She is gone.
And now she’s here. A dream—it must be.
The cabin creaks in the wind, forces its way through the open window and blows the curtains around like horses thrashing. It whistles in her ears, cuts through her skin—a warning.
Percy .
Percy , Percy, Percy —she jolts out of bed. Every move is felt deep in her stomach, a widening pit of dread threatening to come up to choke her. She brings a hand to her temple and presses; it does nothing to dull the ache. And so she moves, she moves as fast as her body will let her. But the bed next to hers is empty, and the couch is empty, and the lights are off and the world is spinning around her as she throws the front door open—and the car is gone, no tire tracks in sight—and it’s raining harder, harder, harder, and any hope that this is a dream shatters.
She squeezes her mouth shut, her eyes. Something pokes at her back through her clothes, and she realizes she’s slid down the old wooden door. Splinters—her back, her head, her heart. Splinters.
Percy .
Her stomach churns again.
Sixteen, sixteen, sixteen .
Sixteen years was never going to be enough time; twelve is unbearable.
Thunder claps, deafening.
Her ears ring.
Through half-opened eyes and hot tears she sees the water recede too far back too quickly.
Thunder. Rain. The water creeps further back.
And then it falls.
But it’s not a torrent, as if a dam had finally broken lose; it releases its breath gently, the fight taken out of it. The wave crashes gently against the shore, surrendering. Thunder booms. Lightning dances across the sky like laughter, a victory.
It can only mean one thing.
And so she cries. She cries and she grieves, a childless mother. A little boy, a cruel world, an even crueler fate—she had always known it would happen, that they’d find him, that her choice to keep him close would come back to haunt her.
Twelve, twelve, twelve .
He was just a kid, forced to grow up too much too soon.
He will be stronger for it on the other side .
Stronger is good, but maybe dead is better. Dead, spared from the pain and trials. Dead, saved from gods and monsters and fate. Because fate cannot be changed, and she is just a woman—oh, how desperate a woman you have to be to believe you can outsmart fate.
His life was a tragedy disguised as a choice—a child forced to watch his mother die, a mother forced to live after her child is gone—it could only ever have ended with a loss.
His mother raised him well .
A lamb raised for slaughter.
Percy .
She sits. And she cries.
And it rains. And it rains. And it rains.
It leaks down through the cracks of the porch roof, dripping onto her head, running down her cheeks.
Silly girl, the Fates say, washing away her tears. Don’t cry; you should have known better.
She should have known better.
She did know better.
Glass cuts through her body, slicing her skin with every movement, every breath. She lets it happen; she has nothing else to lose.
She’s heavy. Her mind whirls but she’s too numb to understand any of it. She lets herself be lulled by the drumming of her head, relentlessly beating against it’s cage. Thump. Thump. Thump. It hurts, everything hurts—it will always hurt. Thump. Thump. Thump .
But even the thumping of her head turns to mocking.
Percy. Percy. Percy .
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Silly girl, stand up. This was always going to happen.
Stand up.
And then her body is moving, but she’s not the one moving it. A strong arm slides under her knees, another across her back, and she’s weightless. Through the ringing of her ears she hears a voice, muffled by the rain and her sobs and the shoulder the words are spoken into.
“—okay,” she hears. Feels, rather. “He’s okay. He’s okay.”
And this is what it’s like to straddle two worlds: ropes tied to your limbs, pulling you apart. Left and right, up and down. She’s a woman, mortal, breakable. He’s a god, eternal, divine. And their son toes the line—mortal, god, mortal, god.
He’s okay. He's okay. He’s okay .
He fixes her on his lap, presses his lips against her shoulder, says the words like a prayer rolling off his tongue. He says it into her skin until it seeps into her bones, water filling the cracks, sharp edges eroding away. She takes a breath, fills her lungs, exhales shakily.
He’s okay .
“Sally.”
His voice stops her thoughts, stops her heart, stops the throbbing in her head; her eyes follow the sound.
“Sally.”
Her name tumbles from his lips, a memory, a ghost, a dream.
“Sally.”
His voice is not steady; it shakes when their eyes meet.
“Percy,” she says. Her voice cracks around the name of their son.
The corner of Poseidon’s lips pulls up, a whisper of a smile. “He’s alive, and he’s safe, and he’s perfect, Sally.”
He reaches a hand out, slowly, gently, his eyes locked on hers. His fingers meet the angry marks on her neck, and it hurts, and she pulls her head back, just for a moment—but then the pain goes away and the marks begin to fade, and her head lulls into his hand.
“You saw him,” she breathes. It’s not a question; she can tell by the look in his eyes. There’s longing, regret, pain—but it’s less, somehow, like the knife had been dulled. Like he’s found a balm to soothe the ache and heal the scars, and maybe there will always be marks, but they will fade with time, with the knowledge that their son knows who he is, and where he belongs, and trusts his father to be there, to care for him, to love him.
“I did.”
She relaxes into him, then, her head heavy against his chest. It’s familiar, it’s comfortable, it’s everything she’s ever needed and everything she can never have.
“Do not think for a moment that you should have done anything different.” Poseidon’s fingers tilt her head up, his eyes meet her own. “He is better than all of us. He is yours, through and through.”
He will be stronger for it on the other side .
His mother raised him well.
They don’t say much more; they don’t need to. Their words are spoken in the thrumming of his heart beneath her ear, in her hand clutching his shirt, in his arms wrapping around her and holding her as close as he can. His fingers dance on her skin and her breath comes easier than it has in years.
Their son is alive, he is safe, he is loved. Oh, he is loved.
And it is no surprise that the rain had slowed to a halt, the whipping wind tamed to a breeze, the waves rolling in and out, in and out, in and out with the rise and fall of his chest. It is no surprise when he picks her up and carries her down towards the water.
His actions are a declaration, a promise, a threat. I cannot stay here, but I will not hide , they say. You will not take this from me .
And here, sitting in the surf, she feels years younger, a foolish girl in love with a god, a foolish god in love with a girl. Time does not exist right here, right now—the endless summer they had once whispered about between lips and laughter. The tide kisses her skin and rinses away her pains. She feels eternal.
And here, sitting in the surf, she is just a woman. And he is just a man. And their son is alive, and they are together, and for now that is enough.
It is enough.