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i.
This is how creation starts: a god feels lonely.
The skies, the seas, and all the creatures within come to be when a god feels a stirring of loneliness in the vast abyss of its nothingness.
Creation is created when a god wants love.
Poseidon does not create the skies or the seas, and his inheritance of the latter does little to make him lonely. It does little to make him understand love.
This is what creation is for: to love its creator.
But Poseidon is not the creator of his lover. Being loved is not his right.
This is a story with love brimming on its edges.
◇
Jade green leaves litter the streets of New York the first time Poseidon sees Sally Jackson. He doesn’t see the scattered leaves; Poseidon rises from the powder blue water and settles down where the sea kisses the shore. Grey skies hang over the beach, dotted with melancholy clouds that makes him wonder if Zeus is nursing a splintered heart somewhere. It’s difficult for him to imagine his brother with a broken heart. A bruised and battered ego, more likely. Perhaps Hera caught him tumbling with someone else, but that still would not mean a broken heart.
Gods do not give away their hearts for a beating.
The deserted beach is a sore sight for Poseidon; water calls to humans the same way their lungs call for air. For his realm to be forgotten in the middle of the day like this is a slight to his might. They cannot make him smaller. He is not Hades, cast off to the night and its cloak of darkness. Humans make the foolish mistake of equating death with the dark, of thinking they are safe when the sun looks over them.
Death cannot be contained and water cannot be restrained, avoided.
Poseidon lifts a hand to curl his fingers, to call the water to him; he doesn’t need to. Before his hand is level with his chest, the sea rushes towards him in a violent wave and lays itself at his feet, crashing into the small, rocky boulders around him.
A worried, human voice cuts through the roar of the water.
“Hey! You there!” it calls. Poseidon turns towards the voice to find a woman rushing towards him. Her dark hair blows in the wind and even from a distance Poseidon can sense the kindness rolling off of her. She stops several arms length away from him and clutches a vibrant knit bag to her chest. “Oh my god, I thought that wave would take you with it,” she shrieks, though it’s with worry more than anything else. “What the hell are you thinking just standing here when it’s obviously not safe?”
Poseidon glances from the woman to the sea; around them the water is docile as always. He smiles and tips his head at her.
“It is as safe as life,” Poseidon says. Up close, her eyes are the most inviting blue he has ever seen. Blue as the ocean, some would say. That’s not right, he thinks. Ocean blue does not exist. The ocean reflects Poseidon’s musings and Zeus’ temper. Her eyes are a stable, constant blue, a rarity in nature.
“How come it didn’t drench you?” she asks. A crease pulls her eyebrows together, as if she sees more than she’s letting on. Poseidon knows she’s trying to line up the pieces, but it will be to no avail. She will ponder it for a moment and then give up on trying to make sense of the incomprehensible.
To thank her for kindness without explaining much, he settles for honesty. “I’m Poseidon,” he says simply. “Water cannot harm me.”
Instead of incredulity or disbelief, her face settles into something akin to understanding. He will one day come to read her like a well-loved book, but not today. Today he does not know her well enough to recognize the expression for what it is: hope.
“Lord of the sea,” she remarks. “Like from Greek mythology.”
He chooses not to take offense to her referring to it as mythology, and summons his trident. Her mortal eyes would not be able to see it in all its glory, but it would pass as a neat parlor trick. “See?” he spins it above them in a flourish. He wonders what object she really sees.
This time, instead of charmed amusement, her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Holy hell, you’re serious? Is that why you’re… glowing like that?”
Only mildly bewildered, Poseidon looks down at himself. There is no glow, but perhaps even his human appearance is too much for her mortal mind. Then the rest of her words sink in and he stares at her. She stares back with clear blue eyes, gaze unwavering in front of a god.
“You have the sight.”
“Well, I would hope so. Or my nonexistent optician has some truly bad news to share with me.” There is laughter in her words and the sound will become one of his favorites to hear.
He can’t keep the awe out of his voice. “No. You can see me.”
Poseidon extends a hand, testing, expecting her to back away, to flinch from the power that emanates from him. She surprises him again and takes a step forward. Then another. And then her hand slips into his, slender fingers curling around his palm.
“I’m Sally,” she tells him. A warm smile hangs from her mouth. It’s inviting, just like her eyes.
He tugs her towards him once, gently. “I’m Poseidon.”
“You already said that.”
“And you believe me?”
Something glints in Sally’s eyes. He will learn to recognize that mirth for what it is: excitement about loving a god. Pride for being loved by one.
◇
Rain pelts down on New York City the first time Poseidon kisses Sally Jackson. He doesn’t see it on the beach in Montauk, but Sally mentions the weather forecast to him in passing, lets slip that she loves the raindrops falling on her face. The sky above them is deprived of clouds and the beach is crowded with mortals enjoying the sun; Poseidon silently curses his brother for always being in the way of what he wants.
What he wants is this: raindrops falling on Sally’s face, her feet in the wet sand, her body in the cradle of his arms.
What he gets is: Sally glowing golden under the sun, Sally stepping onto his feet, Sally rising up on her toes, Sally winding her arms around his shoulders, Sally craning her neck up, Sally closing her eyes, Sally stealing the breath from his mouth, Sally Sally Sally—
The water surges around them in a frenzied rush, voicing the avalanche of emotions in Poseidon’s chest.
Dimly, he is aware of people rushing away from the shore. It doesn’t matter.
Too big, he thinks. This is too big to be contained in a mortal body.
Poseidon keeps his arms around his Sally, anchoring her to him.
Too big.
He will learn what it is to love a mortal, to have that love mirrored. He will learn what it is to be lonely, when the echo of his love is not enough.
When Sally tells Poseidon to leave, he will learn what it is to be a god with loneliness tucked into the tips of his fingers.
ii.
This is what love wants: to be echoed.
Sally Jackson lives her life at a seven.
On any given day, any given moment, her pain is at a seven. Wounds from the death of a parent never truly heal and Sally’s scars are twofold. The memories she has of her parents are blurry, dulled around the edges even more over the years—but not smooth. They are riddled with guilt, bumps and dips here and there. Guilt at not remembering them well, at forgetting the things she did remember, at not holding on stubbornly enough. There are scabs from her uncle’s death, jagged with guilt for not being able to save him.
There is resentment, too, for that second wave of guilt. Why must she feel the responsibility for everything?
Sometimes the pain threatens to cross a threshold, an invisible mark she refuses to let it travel beyond.
That pain, too, lives in memories—of a life lived and loved, of a life cherished to its fullest, of a life with unrestrained happiness. Adored by a god and treated like something heavenly. Sally Jackson, who believed in science and in love and in second chances, who believed in fact and reason and logic. Sally Jackson, revered by a god and made holy.
Poseidon curling his fingers over hers. Poseidon sweeping kisses across her cheeks. Poseidon bracketing himself around her. Poseidon fashioning her rings from seashells. Poseidon parting the sea for her. Poseidon murmuring her name into the night, like it’s the sole prayer for gods. Poseidon offering to build a castle for Sally. Poseidon cradling an infant in his arms. Poseidon singing lullabies in an ancient language.
These are the moments Sally holds on to. Even when they hurt her, she knows the pain is a mirror of something real, something worth remembering: a time when she loved and was loved in return.
That is what love does: it demands to be felt, even after its conclusion.
Love is a rock thrown in a river, causing ripples that echo where sound does not travel. Love creates its own voice. Love cannot be silenced.
When Poseidon returns to Olympus and Sally's life continues in New York, the love she shared with Poseidon does not go dormant. It echoes in their son. In his black hair and sea-green eyes. In his kindness and his fierce loyalty. In his desire to do the right thing. The older Percy gets, the louder that echo becomes. He is a spitting image of his mother and his father, a culmination of their very best traits and sometimes even their flaws. Brave. Strong. Stubborn. Witty. Hot-headed. Loyal to his core and unafraid of making mistakes.
Love is never a quiet thing, Sally learns. It is never something that ends. It lives in a heart that beats. It lives in bones.
It is a lesson she teaches Percy.
"Your father loves you very much, Percy," Sally tells him, knows with absolute certainty the words are true.
When Percy mumbles fragments of a lullaby in a language she does not know, she tells him with a hand against her son's chest, "He is in here."
"You are always in here," she tells with his hand against her own chest.
That is the most important lesson she teaches Percy. He is the single most sure thing in her life. He is an echo of her and Poseidon's love, and so much more. He will have an echo of his own—every time he helps a stranger, every time he makes coffee for Sally, every time he saves a friend's life, every time he takes a stand against the gods of Olympus. Every one of Percy's actions will be fueled by his love and his loyalty, one an echo of the other.
When Sally looks at Percy, the dial comes down, down, down until it rests at a one.
That is what love is: a reprieve from pain.
iii.
This is what love does: heal wounds you don’t know are there.
Percy grows up with a chip on his shoulder and anger in his veins.
He watches his mother work herself to the bone to keep his belly full. He doesn’t miss the way no one helps her out. He watches other kids walk around with their fathers, holding hands the way he never has with his own father. He listens to his mother’s praises for his father. The abandonment simmers under skin, desperate to cut through. He wants to look into his father’s eyes and demand to know why he left them to fend for themselves. Why he burdened his mother with a son who is more trouble than he’s worth. Why he never looked back, why he never came to see Percy, why he never seemed to care at all.
Percy is angry and then he meets Poseidon.
He sees Poseidon and remembers a warm hard caressing his cheek as a baby. He remembers all the years his mother paid for his expensive boarding schools. He remembers his mother saying, “He loved you so much, Percy. Your father would be proud of you.”
He sees that pride in Poseidon’s eyes—the same green as his—and it’s a balm. He hears Poseidon call his mother a queen among women and it’s a balm. He finds the severed head of Medusa on his bed—a token to help his mother—and it’s a balm. He learns Poseidon would build his mother a castle under the sea if only she agreed and it’s a balm
Love, Percy learns, is a corroded knife at times, blade poisoned by the air over time, but it is also an antidote.
Poseidon’s love for Sally is what quells his anger. Poseidon’s love for Percy is what tames his resentment at being abandoned. Poseidon’s love for them both is what reframes Percy’s perspective: Poseidon left because Sally asked him to. Because Sally wanted to protect Percy. Because Sally wanted her life to be human, because she wanted Percy to be as safe as possible. Poseidon’s unfiltered love is what makes Percy realize: Poseidon did not leave Sally; he went away for Sally.
So Percy takes her to him.
The war is over and there is an uncharacteristic lull in New York, one that probably goes unnoticed by the mortals, but Percy feels it in the air around him. Even the water along the beach is calmer than it usually is. Percy quietly sends up a prayer that Poseidon is unoccupied. When the sun starts to set and Sally comes home, he takes her hand and brings her to the edge of the water.
“Ready?” he asks? “I want you to know this part of me.”
Sally Jackson is not a woman who hides from things. She holds her chin a little higher and smiles at her son. The sea parts around them the deeper they go, Sally’s hand in Percy’s, the both of them held in a bubble of air as the water gets darker and darker. He hopes she can see as well as he can.
When Poseidon’s kingdom comes into view, Percy feels the way Sally’s hand tightens, hears the breath that catches in her throat. He looks at her and sees awe etched into his mother’s features. He commits the moment to memory as one of the happiest he has ever seen her. She takes in the palace in front of her: this place created for the sea god, for those who adore him, for those adored by him. She would fit in better than he would, Percy thinks. He knows he’s right when he sees Poseidon waiting to greet her; he has never seen that particular radiance on Poseidon’s face.
A moment later he discards that thought.
Percy knows he is loved—by his mother and his father. He knows that loving one person is not a substitute for another.
When Poseidon takes her hand and brings it to his lips, Percy knows that the gesture, too, is a balm. He no longer bears any resentment towards his father, not when the sight of him brings such joy to his mother’s face. In a little while, Sally will go back to New York with Percy and life will go on. But this moment, the three of them together in the place Poseidon calls home, Percy knows is a balm.
This is love: bridging the distance between gods and mortals.
iv.
This is what love is: an aspiration.
Annabeth grows up an afterthought.
Her father does not forget her, but she is always second to her step-brothers. Her step-mother does not hate her, but she blames Annabeth for things she can’t control. And her mother? Her mother keeps her on the outskirts of her life—so much so that Annabeth may as well have not been a part of it. For as long as she can remember, Annabeth has never been anyone’s first choice. She has never been anyone’s first anything, has never been anyone’s favorite anything.
Until Percy.
Percy comes tumbling into her life and makes her his first choice, his favorite friend.
Annabeth is an afterthought for everyone until Percy makes her his priority.
She swallows a laugh bubbling in her chest as Sally flips to another grainy photograph. It’s of Percy again: swaddled in a dark green knitted blanket, a small crocheted beanie shielding his ears from the winter chill, cradled in a muscular arm that Annabeth instinctively knows to be Poseidon’s. The image sends a pang ringing through her chest. No matter how much time passes, she can’t quite bring herself to forgive her father for neglecting her, for resenting her divinity. He was supposed to care for her and instead he let her become invisible. Annabeth doesn’t know how to forgive that.
“We went out for dinner that night,” Sally tells her. The fondness in her voice would be nauseating if it came from someone else. “Poseidon loved holding Percy. It was his favorite thing. He would rock Percy to sleep all the time, sing him lullabies that I could never learn myself. He was such a good dad while he could be.”
Annabeth smiles. She doesn’t begrudge Percy the love his parents have showered him with. He shares it with her enough.
When Sally gets up to check on the cookies she’s baking for them, Percy strolls into the room. He drops a kiss on Annabeth’s forehead and plops himself down next to her, his head in her lap.
Annabeth nudges him a little. “Um, excuse me, I’m kind of busy,” she jokes, waving the album around.
Percy grins up at her and grabs the album from her. “Oh, yeah, I can see. Super busy. I was a cute baby, wasn’t I?”
“You were like literally every other baby.”
“I have a god for a dad. I was not like every other baby.”
Annabeth laughs and shoves Percy until he sits up, their shoulders pressed together, ankles crossed on the floor. They flip through the album together, Percy narrating the photos he remembers and making up stories for the ones he doesn’t. Annabeth’s fingers linger on another photo of Percy with Poseidon. In this, Percy is asleep on a man’s chest, his tiny baby cheek pressed up against a yellow sweater. Percy notices her preoccupation. He always does.
“What?” he asks.
Annabeth doesn’t hesitate to tell him the truth. After all this time, he has earned her honesty.
“It’s just… your parents have always loved you so much. I remember when you first came to camp and you were so angry about your dad abandoning you and all and, like, I got it. I’d been mad at my mom, too. But she left me. My dad didn’t care about me, not really. My step-mom didn’t care.” Annabeth sniffs. “Your parents always loved you. Both of them. Even when you thought he didn’t love you, he did. He stayed with you for as long as he could. Look at all these photos. He was right there with you. And your mom. He loved you.”
Percy doesn’t interrupt her, but his free hand slides into Annabeth’s and it’s nothing short of an anchor.
“I want that, Percy,” she admits. The words flow out of her like an oil spill. “I want what your parents had, and more. When we have kids, I want us both to be there. I want to be as good a mom as your mom was to you. I wish I could’ve had her, too.”
“You do have her, babe.”
“I know. I just wish growing up I could’ve had a mom who loved me. And a dad who actually cared about what happened to me. The way your parents love you, it inspires me. I aspire to be everything they have been to you, and to each other. I don’t want to end up like my parents, but I wouldn’t mind ending up like yours.”
A smile tugs at Percy’s lips and he pulls Annabeth into his arms.
“We have so much time to practice loving each other. We’ll get it right.”
And this is what love is: commitment. A series of decisions.
And so the story goes, with love steadily trickling in from its edges.