Chapter Text
It wasn’t altogether uncommon, at this point, for Percy to wake up and not recognize his surroundings. After Tartarus, sometimes he woke up and expected to still be there - like getting out had been a dream. He’d wake up gasping and, for a moment, the walls of his own cabin would look foreign. Over the years, there had been a few times where he’d passed out due to exhaustion or poison or countless other things and woke up in an unfamiliar place. The infirmary, the beach, the bottom of a river, Ogygia, you name it.
Never before, though, had he woken up to a boy standing over him with no pants. Don’t get him wrong, the boy was clothed. It just so happened to be a little bedsheet thing - Percy was pretty sure Annabeth had called it a chiton - instead of, you know, pants. He looked regal, somehow. Percy was absolutely certain he’d never looked that good in a bedsheet.
The boy seemed to be around the same age as Percy, roughly twenty years old. Percy should probably stop thinking of him as a boy. He had brown hair that brushed the nape of his neck in waves born of sea spray, just barely longer than Percy’s own. He had deep brown eyes and a golden laurel leaf wrapped around his temples. His chiton and himation (fancy word for cloak, Percy was almost certain) were both made of good quality fabric. The himation was a light blue and had embroidery around the edges that shone gold in the sun. If this guy wasn’t royalty, Percy would eat his sword.
It certainly didn’t help that an owl was perched on his shoulder. Percy was very sure that that wasn’t normal. Owls didn’t just chill out on people’s shoulders. Though, if Percy was right, this was no normal owl. Normal owls didn’t squint at him with shining grey eyes.
“Are you alright?” the boy asks, eyebrows furrowed.
Ancient Greek, Percy’s mind supplied. He paused for a moment, trying to force his brain into Greek-mode. This guy wouldn’t recognize English. “Me? I’m fine.”
The boy (prince?) seemed unimpressed with this answer. As did the owl. “You’re bleeding.”
“Huh?” Percy looks down and, for the first time, catches sight of the gash in his thigh. “Oh, look at that, I am. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re not from around here.”
“What gave it away?” Percy asks sheepishly, heat rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t help it, okay? He’d been weak to the ‘you’re a moron’ look when Annabeth wore it and he was weak to it now, on the face of this abnormally pretty greek prince. Or maybe all greek princes were this pretty, how should he know?
The boy kneeled, brushing sand away from Percy’s wound and frowning at it. “Your accent,” he murmurs. “And your odd dressings. Come with me, I’ll get you cleaned up.”
“Oh, uh, thank you. What’s your name?”
The prince stood and extended a hand, the owl adjusting for his movements easily. It was still squinting at him. “I am Prince Telemachus of Ithaca.”
Percy blinked rapidly. Surely there was another Telemachus of Ithaca. A modern one that didn’t die thousands of years ago. “Oh.” He couldn’t summon any other words as he reached out and let Telemachus help him to his feet.
Telemachus smiled a bit, seemingly amused. “And your name?”
“Percy.” That’s what he was supposed to say earlier. “It’s nice to meet you. And you as well, Lady Athena.”
The prince’s eyes widen a bit as he glances at the owl. Percy was too busy freaking out to realize that most people likely couldn’t tell that his owl was a goddess in disguise. “How did you-”
Athena moves from his shoulder, transforming midair and frowning at Percy as soon as she had the lip to do so. Grudges time-traveled as well, apparently. “He has divine blood,” she says, mostly for Telemachus’ sake. “You’ve been awfully displaced, boy.”
“You’re telling me,” Percy mutters, squinting out at his surroundings. The island, Ithaca presumably, was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made post cards, the kind that came before centuries of pollution. Percy hadn’t had much time for sight-seeing when he’d last been to Greece. He wondered if he’d simply missed the sights or if humans had killed what had once been.
“How did you get here?” Athena asks, stepping forward to continue examining him.
Percy frowns, leaning away from her a bit but not taking a step back. “I don’t know. Have you ever heard of personal space?”
Telemachus’ eyes widened. Athena merely raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re awfully mouthy.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” Percy replies, shrugging a bit. “Is that a dog?”
Both Telemachus and Athena turn to look at the dog, like they’d forgotten he was there. “That’s Argos,” Telemachus supplies. “He’s my father’s dog. I told him to stay back there just in case.”
“In case of what?” Percy asks, nose wrinkling. “The unconscious weirdo on the beach tried to kill you?”
Telemachus shrugs. “It would hardly be the first attempt on my life.”
It was oddly sweet that Telemachus had considered the possibility of an assassination attempt and still come to see if Percy was okay. And also kept his dog out of the crossfire.
Athena makes a displeased noise. “This is not another one.”
It didn’t seem like a question but Percy clarified anyway. “No, of course not. Why would I want to kill him?”
“Most people are after the throne.” Telemachus sounded remarkably blase about his own assassination.
Percy scoffs. “No thanks. If I were king, the kingdom would collapse within the week.”
He peels the shredded parts of his jeans away from his wound, frowning. He couldn’t remember where he would have gotten clawed at like this. He liked these jeans. The wound itself was three jagged lines across his thigh and was bleeding sluggishly. Nothing a little water couldn’t heal.
Athena intercepted him before he could take more than one step toward the ocean. She, at least, seemed apologetic as she shook her head. “We’ll have to heal this wound the mortal way,” she told him. “Gaining the attention of your father right now would be…”
“Bad?” Percy offers, remembering the role his dad had played in the Odyssey.
Athena’s lips twitch. “Bad,” she agrees.
“So, we are taking him back to the palace?” Telemachus asks, eyes moving from Percy to the goddess and back. “Who is your father?”
Percy doesn’t say anything. Names were powerful, especially in ancient times. His father was angry, there was no need to call Telemachus to his attention. He looks pointedly at the ocean. Telemachus follows his eyeline, eyebrows still furrowed until his mouth falls into an ‘o’.
“Him?” he asks, pointing to where the waves washed onto the shore. Percy inches away from where they threatened to lap at his heels. Even the smallest point of contact could alert his father. Percy nods. “Oh.”
Percy winces, remembering that the prince in front of him would likely have no love for Poseidon. He wasn’t sure how much he and the queen knew about the Sea God’s involvement but it appeared to be enough to make Telemachus’ lips turn down at the corner.
“Come,” Athena instructs. “Your wound will not heal itself.”
Telemachus nods. “She is right. The walk is not long but let me know if your leg begins to wear on you.”
There wasn’t really a positive way to say that he’s worked through blood loss before, so Percy just nods and follows after the prince. Athena returns to her owl form and settles back on Telemachus’ shoulder. Argos approaches Percy when the prince calls him over. He sniffs at him, whining a bit at the wound on his leg.
“I’m okay,” Percy soothes. He reaches out to scratch the hound behind the ears, earning a short, soft bark. He laughs.
True to Telemachus’ words, the palace wasn’t a far walk from where Percy had passed out on the beach. When they approach the back wall rather than the doors, Percy is confused for all of thirty seconds before he remembered that the palace was currently infested with drunken idiots vying for the throne.
Telemachus has a hand anchored on the stones before he remembers Percy’s wound and turns. “I apologize, I nearly forgot. We should use the front doors.”
“No, it’s fine,” Percy shakes his head. He did wonder how Argos was going to get through but he figured that it was fine. The prince had clearly done this before. Percy looks over the wall for a moment and begins his ascent.
Telemachus huffs out a small laugh and follows, staying behind Percy. Likely so that the injured demigod didn’t fall. Percy tried to avoid thinking about the fact that he was currently face to ass with a really cute prince of an island. And also possibly dripping blood on him.
The sharp sting that ripped through Percy’s thigh when he dropped to the ground on the other side of the wall was as grounding as it was familiar. What did it say about his life that he was very nearly comforted by the ripped flesh and slight exertion.
Telemachus spared a moment to frown down at Percy’s wound before grabbing him by the elbow. Percy must’ve looked worse than he felt. What else was new? “Just a few more minutes,” the prince promises.
Percy doesn’t put up a fight as he’s led through the palace. What he assumed to be Telemachus’ room was a rather open space. Weapons were placed against the walls, accompanied by various drawings. Athena perched herself on the window sill as Telemachus directed Percy to sit at the desk chair. When he was sure Percy wasn’t going to keel over, he locked his door and went to retrieve medical supplies.
“What could have possibly caused this?” he mused, kneeling in front of Percy and peeling back tattered denim. “An animal would’ve finished the job.”
Athena’s form shifted again. She was once again a seven foot tall woman in full armor. Her face was obscured but Percy was pretty sure she was smirking at them. “He’ll need to remove his clothes in order for his wounds to be treated.”
Telemachus’ eyes widened, looking from the wound up to Percy’s own flushed face. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “I’ll, um, just…”
His hands flit through the air for a moment, unsure, before he disappears into the ensuite bathroom. Athena shakes her head, fond. “Remove your…” she trails off, seemingly unsure of what Percy was wearing. “Whatever that is. It’ll need to be burned. The top one as well. We’ll find you something to wear.”
“You want me to get naked?” Percy nearly squeaks.
Athena tilts her head at her. “Are you shy? No matter, you can leave the top part on for now, I suppose. The bottom one will need to go to dress the wound. You have a perizoma on, I assume?”
“What, like underwear?” Percy asks. He was pretty sure this was the worst conversation he’d ever been a part of. He was starting to wish he’d been left to bleed out on the beach. The goddess gave him a blank look. “Cloth that covers your…um, parts.”
He considered praying for his uncle to blast him. Thankfully, Athena didn’t require further explanation. “Oh, yes, those are the same thing. Are you wearing it?”
“Of course, I am!” Spontaneous human combustion seemed imminent.
Athena seemed more amused than anything else at his embarrassment. Which was good because, in his time, he’d have been blasted for taking that tone with her. “Then remove your outer covering so that the prince can dress your wounds.”
“Does he have to?” Percy was not whining. “Can’t you do it?”
Athena laughs. “No, child. You are still bleeding, best to be quick.”
Percy sighed and leaned down to remove his sneakers. Pushing himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the desk, he avoided Athena’s gaze. “Could you…turn around?”
The goddess didn’t seem to understand why he cared but she turned nonetheless, facing out the window. Percy carefully peeled the denim away from his wound, hissing as it brushed his weeping skin. He drops them to the side and reclaims his seat, vision beginning to swim.
“Uhm.” He can’t manage to slur out any other words but the goddess seems to recognize his intent.
“Telemachus!” she calls. “Hurry!”
The prince nearly bursts through the door, eyes wide with panic. He curses when he sees Percy leaning heavily against the desk, even seated. “We shouldn’t have waited this long,” he mutters, hands sweeping through the supplies with a steady confidence. Gone was the fluttering panic filled embarrassment. In its stead was a grim determination that rivaled Will’s in the infirmary.
“This will sting,” he warned, upturning a vial over Percy’s torn skin.
Percy’s breath catches in his throat but he can’t muster a scream. He’d felt pain in Tartarus and everything after had felt numb. He almost wondered if he was broken. If he’d lost to that hell even after he’d gotten out.
Telemachus makes quick work of spreading some kind of paste over his wound and wrapping it. He smoothes the edges of the bandages and uses a cloth to wipe away the blood that he dried against Percy’s knee. “S’ry,” Percy forces out, blinking through the darkness that encroaches on his vision. “I g’t bl’d on y’r fl’r.”
The prince shakes his head. “Don’t worry yourself over it. You need food and water. Stay awake, okay? I’m going to call for someone.”
Percy is pretty sure he manages to make a sound of agreement. Time swims. Between one blink and the next, Telemachus is gone and then back again. This time he holds a tray with fruits and water. Percy distantly wonders how he got it.
“I told you to stay awake,” Telemachus scolds half heartedly, reaching up to brush Percy’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m going to move you to the bed, is that okay?”
Percy frowns. “But th’ blood.”
“It’s all been cleaned,” the prince assures him. “If you do manage to get blood on my sheets, we will deal with that later. Do you feel comfortable standing or should we wait.”
Percy inhales deeply and frowns at his feet. He wasn’t sure he was getting enough air. HIs head felt fuzzy, like someone had stuffed cotton into his ears. “That would be a no,” Athena’s voice says. “Get some water in him and let him rest there. He’s likely very nauseous.”
Telemachus says something but it wasn’t directed at Percy, he’s pretty sure. “Eye open,” he hears. He didn’t remember shutting them. When he opens them again, he’s met with Telemachus holding a cup of water to his lips. “Drink.”
Percy is absolutely certain that there is nothing attractive about the way he clumsily takes in the water. Half of it ended up down his chin, soaking his camp shirt but he couldn’t find it in him to care as the water began to clear his head.
“I’m good, now,” he rasps, gently pushing Telemachus’ hand away.
The prince frowns. “Are you sure?”
Percy nods. “Water helps.”
Athena was standing behind the prince now, Percy couldn’t remember when she had moved. “Fresh water heals you as well?” she sounded surprised.
“Not as fast as salt water,” Percy shrugs. “But it does the job.”
“Interesting,” Athena murmurs. “As you’re not in the ocean, it shouldn’t alert your father. Have some fruit.”
Percy’s eyes fall to the grapes beside him. Telemachus was pulling one from its stem before he had a chance to reach for them. The fruit was placed into his hand by the fretful prince and pushed up toward his lips.
The demigod chuckles and eats it. “You should move to the bed if you’re feeling better,” Telemachus decides, getting to his feet. He extends his hands, clearly intending on helping Percy to his feet.
“Oh, I can do it-”
Telemachus cuts him off. “Don’t be a hero, Percy. Let me help you.”
Percy falls silent, taking his hands. He was pretty sure this was the first time anyone had told him not to be a hero. Telemachus begins to pull him toward the bed, slowly so as not to aggravate his wound, when Percy suddenly stops. “Wait.”
He drops one of the prince’s hands and turns. He crouches down, extending his injured leg out to put as little pressure on it as possible and feels around his bloodied jeans for Riptide. Telemachus releases his other hand, standing behind him with a grasp on his shoulder to keep him from toppling over.
“Got it,” Percy announces, pulling Riptide out of his pocket. He suddenly remembered that he wasn’t wearing pants. After nearly passing out and dying on the prince’s floor, he was marginally less embarrassed by it. Also, he was pretty sure that his boxers covered more than a perizoma would. It sounded like it was airy. All the clothes here were airy.
Athena peers down at his jeans. “All of your clothes will need to be burned.”
“All of them?” Percy pouts as Telemachus gently lowers him to the bed. He was pretty sure this much gentle treatment wasn’t necessary but, then again, he usually had to fight through his recovery. War was a bitch. “My shirt isn’t bloody.”
“It’s foreign,” Telemachus murmurs, moving the blankets around him. He seemed to be fussing just to give his hands something to do. He’d readjusted the way the sheets lay three times. “I’m not sure where you’re from but it is clearly somewhere very different from here. Unfortunately, with the suitors in the palace, blending in is in your best interests. I apologize that your things must be sacrificed.”
Percy shakes his head. Yeah, he would miss his camp shirt and the luxury of pants but he found that in the face of Telemachus’ remorse, they were inconsequential. “It’s alright. Most of my shirts end up burned, anyway.”
“May I ask why?”
“Uh, I spend most of my time at a camp for people like me,” Percy replies, trying to find the vaguest way possible to explain his life. It helped that Telemachus knew of the gods, saved him from trying to explain himself out of that particular hole. He hoped summer camps were a thing in Ancient Greece. “We train there. Lots of fire and the occasional lava accident.”
Telemachus seemed fascinated by the concept of a lava accident but Athena stepped in before he could ask any more questions. “I’ll burn this now along with your footwear,” she says, pointing to the heap of denim. “Your…shirt and the rest will be taken care of after you’ve had some rest. Eat, drink water. Try not to die, it would make Telemachus terribly sad.”
And then she’s gone, taking Percy’s jeans and sneakers with him. Those sneakers had been expensive. Telemachus smiles fondly at where she’d been standing and Percy is struck by the differences between the goddess he knew and the one that had presented herself here.
The Athena he knew didn’t concern herself with mortals. She hardly concerned herself with her own children most of the time. She was cold and distant. The Athena here seemed to be at the very least friendly with the prince of Ithaca. Percy wasn’t all that great at history but he was pretty sure she had been the patron goddess of Odysseus. Perhaps it ran in the family.
“She’s right,” Telemachus says, moving to retrieve the water and grapes. “Have a few more grapes and some water and then you should rest.”
Percy considered protesting but his limbs were beginning to feel heavy and so much had happened in the span of the last hour. He felt like he deserved a nap. So, he allows the prince to hand him a handful of grapes and force some water into him.
Telemachus seemed to have half a mind to tuck Percy into bed but restrained himself. “The maids won’t bother you. If you awake and I’m not here, I have to ask you to remain in this room until we get you some proper clothing. I need to be there for my mother but I’ll check in on you as often as I can.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Percy tells him. “I’ve lived through worse.”
The sentiment didn’t seem all that comforting to him but he nods anyway. “Argos will keep you company. He doesn’t much like the suitors.”
Percy smiles. He hadn’t paid much attention to how the dog had joined them in the palace but there he laid, at Telemachus’ feet. The prince reaches down to pet him before he takes his leave. “Rest,” he says softly, shutting the door behind him.
Percy could handle that.