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They say that the sun went black the day Percy Jackson died. The mortals called it an unforeseen solar eclipse, a miracle of epic proportions. Others knew it to be something far darker. They say that the ocean raged when Percy Jackson took his last breath, that the sky unleashed torrents that lasted for weeks and earthquakes wreaked havoc on buildings.
They say that when the demigod champion of Olympus died, blood and ichor and the golden dust of monsters coating his charred and broken armor, he did so in the arms of his lover, watched over by his closest friends. They say that the funeral parades lasted months afterwards. That there were no games, no events, no activities, just clouds and tears and murmured words of grief.
On the morning after those two months were up, they say the gods gathered on Olympus, every last one - from the minor gods of cheese and various fruits, to the Olympians themselves. Rumor has it that even Hades dragged himself away from the shadowy realm that he ruled to join his brethren.
When they tell you about the demigod known as Percy Jackson, they will tell you these things. They’ll also say that he had eyes like the seas themselves, like crashing waves and gentle storms, that his hair was always dusted with sea salt and black as the darkest night - except for the pale streak of gray that had forever marred it. When you ask how, they’ll shrug and tell you it was from lifting up the sky. You’re never sure if you believe them.
They’ll tell you that he could take on entire armies single handed and win, that he’d defeated giants and titans by the strength of his sword alone. That he faced off with the Titan Kronos and lived. They’ll say that he was blessed by the same invulnerability that protected Achilles, and cursed with such terrible power that it could rival a god’s. People will whisper that he had braved the Labyrinth and walked away with his mind intact, had stared Tarturus itself in the face and the primordial had been the first to blink.
They tell you that he could’ve been a god. That immortality was offered to him, a gift for him offered by the Olympian council on the morning of his great victory against the Titans and refused all for the sake of his friends. The friends that he had died for on that lonely battlefield, armed only with his blade, the legendary Anasklusmos.
People will whisper to you that he was the only human to ever be able to ensare Apollo for longer than a night and live. That the god, so well known for his tragic love affairs, had been willing to marry the demigod if it weren’t for his fleeting lifespan. They’ll murmur that the god has given up all other relationships since, and that all of his children are now produced much in the same way as Athena’s, through magic and not sex.
They’ll tell you these things as you first arrive at camp, a bit bruised and bloody, dirt and grime staining your old t-shirt and getting up into your blonde hair. You’ll listen to them around campfires and in between lessons before you fall asleep on the floor of the Hermes cabin, wondering when you’ll be claimed.
You’ll look at the cabin built low to the ground that smells faintly of the sea, and see the sword mounted on the wall and the minotaur horn next to it, the old backpack that needs to be cleaned and the dented shield that was left on the floor. You think of your mother back in a ratty old new york apartment and wonder what Sally Jackson had thought about the mythos her son had become, about the legends that had sprung up around him.
And as you stumble into the stream and discover a trident floating over your head, you’ll wonder how much of what they say about Percy Jackson is true. If those dreams-that-are-not-dreams that you get about laughing with a blonde girl and a satyr while in the back of a truck, and sparring with the ex-preator of new rome, and standing at the prow of a flying ship are really just memories.