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Chapter Text

When Percy dreams bad things tend to follow—Luke’s betrayal, Kronos, Gaea—and even when they don’t, his dreams are followed by misfortune and suffering. 

Grover’s kidnapping.

Annabeth’s capture.

His own loss of time and memories, his amnesia brought on by Hera.

Nico’s imprisonment in Rome. 

(He doesn’t dare to think about Daedalus and Icarus.

Icarus and his definition of freedom, how it was synonymous with death.

(Icarus laughed as he fell, so they say. 

But he knows he didn’t, he just cried and cried. 

Icarus wept for his dad. 

Icarus wept for his freedom-death.)

Nor of Daedalus, driven mad by the death of his son, so angry, so full of a festering jealousy, envy, resentment, that he would murder his innocent and brilliant nephew, the boy Perdix. A nephew with a future so bright he could’ve reached discoveries far greater than previously imagined.)

(And when Percy sees Athena brand Daedalus for his murder of Perdix, he can’t help but think about how Annabeth could have ever idolized him. 

Fear and unease stir in his gut the longer his thoughts lay on this particular thought.)

(Percy doesn’t want to think about the murder of Maria di Angelo. A woman—a Mother, Nico’s mother—so callously slain by Zeus in his quest to obliterate his brother’s children. Children sinless of any wrongdoing in their siblings’ war.

If that’s divine justice, Percy thinks, he doesn’t ever want a part in that.)

When Percy dreams he is afraid. He’s afraid to see his vision change, away from the warmth surrounding him. He’s afraid of the dreams changing into darkness, of more suffering brought on by the will of the Fates. 

This is why when Percy’s dreams begin to shift a well of anxiety and dread creates a crater in his gut. 

Fear takes a hold of him and Percy can’t help but think, I wish the Fates would just stay out of my life. 

When his dream shifts Percy wishes for anyone to hear his cries for help.

Steady breathing filled the black abyss. A breath in, 5 seconds, a breath out—rising in crescendo—becoming louder and louder. An almost panting-like pace becoming clearer and clearer as an uncertain amount of time passed.

Percy blinked. Bright light filled his eyes. The sound of breathing giving way to the crashing of waves. He blinked again, beads of light lying over his vision, slightly obscuring the beach laid out before him. Another blink and his sight cleared, waves lapped at his feet as he stood in front of the water. 

(Dread pools in his gut and all Percy feels is afraid.)

“You shouldn’t stand so close.”

Percy startled, he turned his head to the sound of the voice. A girl stood before him, inky black hair resting in waves down her shoulders and back. A golden plate adorned her chest, matching pieces fitted over her knees and her arms, one final piece, a regal helmet, sat upon her head. The sides of her golden helmet and armor were detailed with many sea creatures, the most prominent image being a conch shell in the center. Bright green eyes looked at him, up and down. 

Disoriented by the change in his dreams Percy blinked again. His view changed, he no longer stood in front of the girl, this time to her side. He looked down at her hands, the girl’s left one resting on a sword sheath on her hip. After staring for a moment he realized she wasn’t looking at him, but rather another. Looking up, Percy turned himself to face the other, he was met with the sight of a different girl, her armor the same, yet, its detailing much different than the green eyed girl. This girl’s back was facing them.

“Why?” The girl turned, her grey eyes furrowing into a piercing glare, her forehead wrinkled. 

“My lord grandfather isn’t so fond of you,” the green eyed girl remarked, “Not just you, but all of you kingly spawn.” The girl paused in thought, “Well,” she amended, “accept Sweet Apollonian.” 

“Then dear Pallas, my most favored uncle will be disappointed. I am, unfortunately, not afraid of Lord Poseidon.”  

The green eyed girl, Pallas, sighed, “Not yet at least,” she smirked once before turning away and walking, “We shouldn’t keep our Lordly Fathers waiting.” 

Percy stared at the back of Pallas, watching her as she marched up the sand dunes. 

Pallas, he thought, he swore he had heard that name before. It was important, that enough was clear. It was an important enough name—person— that he’d recognized it, remembered it some, dreamed it, but yet couldn’t recall exactly why. 

Percy turned to face the girl still lingering behind him. He stared at her hard, trying to place her. Maybe, he thought, if I could figure her out, then I’ll remember who Pallas is. 

He took in the girl’s features once more. Her hair and her eyes. Percy’s eyes trailed to her golden armor, a bird, an owl or an eagle, and a thunderbolt. Percy’s eyebrows furrowed in thought, his eyes trailed back up to her face. Her very grey eyes…she looks like…

No way.

“Athena!” 

Annabeth…

The young Athena, who wouldn’t be out of place among her own children back at camp, let out a whooshing breath. Athena brought her hands up to fiddle with her necklace, a pearl necklace, a gesture so Annabeth-like it caused Percy to blink once more to make sure the girl before him truly wasn’t her. She turned back once to the ocean, she squeezed her necklace, then she turned again to look at Pallas’ retreating form. A minute passed before she began her trek up the dunes.

Percy watched Athena’s retreating form.

Why would I be seeing this? This doesn’t…

Percy blinked, the sound of live steel scraping up against another filled the air. A smell of rust flowed along the passing wind. 

Pallas…

(Percy’s hands began to sweat, his fingertips tingling with numbness.)

(“But, why?” Percy, so young, so unknowing of the future, asked, his forehead scrunched up in thought.

Sally sighed, she brought up a hand to scrub at her face. Her other hand continued with the motions of stirring the food.

“Why would she hurt her?”)

Pallas Athena…

The girl’s smirking face replaced with one of agony, blood coating her lips. A rasping breathe over taking the sound of the ocean’s waves.

Pallas, Athena’s Pallas. 

(“I thought you said they were friends?”)

Her golden armor blood splattered, red beading lying upon its engraved conch shell.

“No, no, no, no— ”

Pallas’ throat bobbles, her breath catches and red-tinged saliva sprays out of her mouth with a chest-rattling cough. Her eyes widen as she gasps for breath. Her hands grip Triton’s arm tighter.

The Godling Pallas. 

(Chills spread up Percy’s spine, goosebumps slowly growing over his skin. His heart skipped a beat.)

(“They were friends, Percy, sisters even.”)

Triton tightened his grip on the girl lying in his lap, his head bowed touching hers. His hand caressed her cheek. He howls in grief.

“No, no, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my— ”

Triton’s Pallas.

Percy’s vision cleared, the disorientation causing him to fall to his knees. He hit the sand, ducking his head down and gulped in a large breath. Percy grasped at his chest, it almost felt like he couldn’t breathe. Percy gulped in a second breath, his heart was thundering. 

Pallas, Triton’s daughter. Pallas, who was Athena’s friend and sister-in-arms. Pallas, who Athena killed. 

(“Sometimes, terrible things happen,” Sally explained, sounding weary, “things just happen and we can’t control them.”

“So, she didn’t mean to hurt her then?”)

(Athena stared in horror. Pallas stared back. 

Pallas wheezes and chokes and coughs.Pallas makes a gurgling sound, she spits, blood escapes her lips. Drops of blood coat Athena’s hands. 

Pallas touches her wound, the spear, her hands come away bloody. Athena, eyes wide and glossy, let go of the spear. She stumbles back in terror.)

Time passed, between blinks and shuddering breaths, dreams and memories, Percy could hear the sounds of the ocean. Percy, somehow closer to the shoreline than he had thought before, could feel the waves lapping at his knees, the cold water oddly soothing in the face of his revelation. Footsteps sounded on the beach, getting closer and closer to where Percy kneeled. Percy looked up once the footsteps stopped. Pallas, bloodied and bleeding, a pool of blood forming beneath her, stood before him. She crouched down, kneeling beside him. 

(“Her father made her.”)

“I’ve forgiven her,” she laid her bloody hand on Percy’s arm, “I bare her no ill will. It wasn’t her fault.” 

Percy breathed in shakily, he looked Pallas in the eye, watching her smiling face. 

“It was Zeus. It was his fault. He could not bear to see Athena lose, especially to a sea spawn like myself,” the girl sighed, “Tis simply the way of our forefathers.” 

(“But that’s mean,” Percy looked up at his mom, a puzzled expression crossing his face, “Why would he do that?”)

Percy swallowed hard, a lump in his throat. The harder he stared the more he could see Pallas’ resemblance to his father, to his brothers, to himself. It left him shaken. 

Percy gulped in another breath, “Why,” he began, “then do they think it’s her fault? She—he killed you. Why, if it’s not…”

“True?” 

Percy nodded in reply.

(“Because he could, he wanted Athena to win. He did it because wanted to hurt Pallas and he knew no one would stop him.”)

“A father’s sorrow, my lord grandfather’s wrath, a tragedy for the ages. A sister turning on sister—a cradle sister and sister-in-arms—is a far better story than a bitter, loathsome, scheming King.”

Pallas leaned closer to Percy, her hand turning on him into a firm grip. Pushing her face against his cheek, her mouth to his ear, Pallas continued in a whisper, “The Fates don’t favor children like us. The Gods don’t favor children like us. This, this you must remember, Perseus.”

(“I don’t like this story,” Percy whispered, “it’s sad. Why’d you have to tell me?”

“Because not all stories are happy,” Sally turned towards Percy, a sad look upon her face, she caressed his cheek, giving him a kiss upon his brow, “This is just one of them.”)

Pallas pulled away, her grip turning into a soft hand once more. Nodding at Percy, she stood up and straightened her armor. Glancing at him, Pallas turned towards the sea and began walking. 

“Wait!” Percy stumbled to his feet. He jogged two, three steps forward, halting as the waves crashed against his legs. 

Pallas stopped in her tracks, waist deep in the water, a pink slowly pooling around her. The girl turned her head, tilting it to the side in a questioning way. 

“Why? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“Did you really think the sea’s feud with Athena began with a fountain and a tree? No, no,” Pallas clicked her tongue, “it began with my life. And everything after that…it’s not too hard to understand.”

Pallas turned around once more and continued her walk into the sea.

“But— ,” Percy stammered.

“That’s all you need to know. There’s nothing else you need to understand.” Pallas continued her walk into the sea, then, after a moment she stopped and turned her head towards Percy once more, “you should wake up.”

“What?”

“Wake up, Perseus.”

Percy!

“I—“

“They’re calling you now.” 

Percy!

Percy took another step forward and blinked. 

Percy!

“The Fates don’t favor children like us.”

Percy!

“The Gods don’t favor children like us.” 

Percy Jackson!

“I don’t like this story, it’s sad. Why’d you have to tell me?”

Get up!

Percy startled, shooting up from his bed. Clutching at his chest Percy took in a ragged breath. His hands shook. Sweat fell down his temple and dripped onto his shirt. Percy sucked in another breath.

(“I don’t understand.”

Sally sucked in a breath, “You will one day,” she hugged her son tight, so tight Percy could hear her heart beating in her chest, “when you're older.”

If only he knew what she actually meant.)

“Percy, are you alright?” 

Annabeth. 

Percy pried his hands from his shirt, looking through the fringe of his hair he turned to face her. After wiping his hands on his sheets Percy held his hand out to Annabeth. Once she took a hold of his hand he took in another, much calmer breath. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Percy looked at her with a wild look in his eyes, “Just a dream.”

Annabeth looked at Percy with concern, “A dream?”

“A dream.” 

And when Percy blinked again he didn’t tell Annabeth he was seeing her mother. And he didn’t tell her he could still see Pallas’ bloodied face and armor. And he didn’t tell her the longer he held her hand the more nauseous he grew. 

A father’s sorrow and a grandfather’s wrath, and yet she didn’t mention that sea’s blood recognized the blood and kin of her slayer. 

And yet, he could not hate her.

Chapter Text

Pallas was young, this she knew as fact. She was far younger than her godly uncles, aunts, and cousins. Far too young and in far too mortal shell of a body compared to their divinity. 

Pallas stood on a plane, teetering between immortality and so humanely-mortal. She had enough divine blood to pick her out from the rest of humans, and yet, she was far from one—a nymph, a daughter of one, and a godling, daughter of the sea god, Lord Triton. Pallas understood she was very much singular in this way, half god and half mortal. Exceedingly more fortunate to be acknowledged by her Lordly Father despite the half stain she carried with her—the curse of being half divine. It was thus, from the moment she could understand this, that Pallas had pledged she would do anything in her power to prove her worth, her utmost loyalty and love, to her Lordly Father. 

She knew deep down this was not enough. 

When her kingly Lord Uncle Zeus brought his divinely borne daughter, the newborn Athena, to her father, Pallas knew her place. She knew the duty she had to fulfill in service to her father, in service to her godly king, and to her godly cousin. Pallas knew she was to serve, to do as they bid her, to please them—this, she did so happily and without complaint.

Then she began dreaming. 

(She can’t breathe. She tries to draw in another breath. Why can’t she breathe?

She puts her hands on her chest. 

They feel slippery. 

They come back red. 

Such a mortal color.)

Other children, other people like her. Half-stained godlings—demigods they call them—half of man and half of god. 

She dreams with mad and wicked, good and strong, lead-astray and beaten, warrior men. 

(Thesus slays the Minotauros—Asterios, the starry one—boys each cursed differently by the Gods. 

One cursed to serve and give until his death, his murder. 

The other cursed to be borne and live for another man’s sins, cursed to be forever remembered as a Monster.

Pallas weeps for Asterios and his queenly mother, Pasipahe.) 

She dreams with meek and mild, smart and cunning, fierce and unrelenting, half-divine women. 

(Poor sweet Cassandra and honey-like May. 

Why does Apollonian curse his ladies, so?

Why do the Fates?)

(And maybe, Pallas thinks, that’s why they see her as so fragile—so much more mortal than them—for she cannot begin to comprehend their cruelty to the innocent.

And Pallas finds if her inability to be as callous and sadistic as her godly relatives is part of her being more mortal, she doesn’t mind in the least.) 

She dreams more.

Dreams so far, into a place she could only call a distant world, with other half-godlings, demigods—both boy and girl—standing as equal warriors alongside each other. 

(Luke, she thinks, what have they done to you?

Like a half-remembered thought who Luke is floats away from her. All she can remember is the despair for the young life lost. 

Why must they be so careless with you, poor Luke? Why must they crush you so?)

(A girl, she remembers her. The girl, Hazel,  fights and fights until her last breath. 

A girl cursed by her own lordly father’s gifts and the reckless ambition of her mother. 

The girl forgives her not-once-mother.)

(Pallas knows within her own heart she would be just as forgiving. 

My loyalty will be my undoing.)

Pallas dreamed and dreamed. 

A Perseus from her Lordly Grandfather’s lineage, a boy more divine than mortal, like herself. 

His grey-eyed companion, a girl-warrior in her own right, just like her own godly Athena.

(Annabeth, such a lovely name. 

So lucky.

Destined for a fate far greater than herself.)

Pallas hungered, she wanted, and she dreamed more.

A red-haired beauty, so very mortal, even more than her mortal-nymph mother. An Oracle she becomes. Sweet Apollonian’s gift of prophecy forever tying her to a world she doesn’t belong in. 

(She thinks she’s bleeding. 

Sweet Athena crosses her vision, adorned in her stately armor. 

Her arms reaching out. 

Her face screwed up in a cry.) 

(Perseus kneels and weeps.

Then he stands and chases after her. His face twists up in agony—a face so reminiscent of her Lordly Father’s it hurts her heart so—he looks beyond pained. 

“Why? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

He’s desperate for answers, ones she barely has the answers to half the time, herself.)

(Perseus stands in front of the gods but before she can See the Fates shift once more.)

(Why, Pallas thinks to herself, do the Fates curse me, so?)

Her mother, of an even more mortal flesh than she, had warned her that her mortal fallacy would be her undoing. And yet, despite her mother’s cautions, Pallas had forgotten. 

She knew she wasn’t infallible. She had just forgotten she was so mortal. 

If the Fates allowed time to get away with her like the tides, why didn’t she bleed golden ichor?

She always knew she was more divine than mortal, but she had forgotten in her ambition—in her loyalty, in her service, and her devotion—just how mortal she really was.

(She’s frightened. She remembers she’s afraid and she wants her mother, but even she knows she cannot be saved from the Fates.)

(Pallas let out a hoarse breath. She wheezed. She tried to breathe in. A choking cough escaped her, its force rattling her chest. She tried a second time, a third. Pallas made a gurgling sound, she spat, blood escaped her lips.

She forgot she bled red. So red. Such a mortal color. 

(She’s scared and she wants her mother. And she knows her mother cannot save her. Nobody can.)

Can you still be hurt when you’re already dead?)

Pallas blinked. She stood on the beach watching her dear and sweet Athena. Pallas knew her Fate now. She’d Seen it time and time again. Dreamed it even.

(She’s scared and she wants her mother and her father holds her and she just wants to be held and she doesn’t want him to let go yet.

She can hear her father’s weeping and her mother’s howls.)

(She knows her fate is fixed and she knows what is going to happen and she’s Seen and lived and breathed her death. She’s forgetting and remembering. She slips and slips and slips. She’s scared and she doesn’t want to See anymore. She knows and she’s learned and she’s accepted.

Why can’t that be enough? Why do the Fates curse her so?)

(Perseus wept.

He gasped for breath, almost clawing at his chest. 

Pallas thinks, she knows just like she’s Seen, that Perseus has experienced far worse things than her death. And yet, his empathy for her pain makes a lump grow in her throat.)

She knew she was going to die and make her journey to Charon and Lord Hades. 

(If she listened hard enough she could hear the Fates snipping her golden life thread. The shear snip of the scissors vibrating and echoing inside of her head. The once shimmering color of her thread sucked out into an endless sea of nothingness, simply withering away like fine grey sand.)

(In her dreams of dreams she saw her Lord Grandfather’s Perseus weeping for her. For her mortal shell. For her mortal life lost. He wept on this very sand.

She angered. She forgave. She didn’t forget.)

Cursed to See as her Lord Grandfather once did, as the sweet Apollonian does, and the mad Cassandra will.

(Pallas feels her mind slipping more and more. She’s afraid. Sometimes she feels like she can’t tell what is real anymore.

(It’s barely the beginning of that feeling but she won’t know that yet until she reaches the end of her life-line.))

So, so red. Not a drop of golden ichor in sight. Sweet Athena weeps harder than her Lordly Father. Sweet Athena’s spear lays in her chest and she forgives her.

(The manic, loathsome, scheming king madly smiles. He cackles and has no remorse for the dying woman, girl, child, in front of him. 

(Why would he, Pallas thinks, when he would refuse to weep for his golden-haired, arrow ridden, Jason?

She doesn’t understand who he is, she just knows he lives and dies without any acknowledgment.)

This stirs the anger in her gut.)

Lord Triton knows it’s the King’s fault. Yet he does not forgive. 

Cursed is Pallas Athena forevermore for slaying the beloved daughter of Triton, son of the Sea King, Poseidon.

Sweet Athena, Pallas thinks, my dear Sweet Athena. In her heart of hearts Pallas weeps for her. 

Pallas!

Pallas blinks again. 

Her Lordly Father stands before her. Her Sweet Athena stands beside him. 

Lord Triton smiles, he laughs, “Ready yourself my daughter, won’t you?”

That won’t happen yet, Pallas thinks, not for a long time.

(It’s years yet but as time slinks closer things begin to change.)

“Yes, Father,” Pallas replies, raising her spear and smirking. Winking at her godly cousin in front of her, Pallas prepares herself.

Athena, Sweet Athena, mirrors her stance and smiles at her in turn.  Athena’s smile is almost infectious, Pallas fights hard to not smile back. 

Pallas remembers at that moment where she is. She reconnects to her present. She cannot help it when time flows away with her. 

(And she’s grateful it hasn’t driven her mad like sweet Cassandra. 

(She thinks it’s because she’s more divine than mortal.)

(She finds out much closer to the end of her life-line that’s far from the case. Like all of Apollonian’s ladies after her, she slowly loses her mind.

It’s her fate after all.)

If she thinks hard enough she can feel Cassandra clinging to her legs. 

Red flashes stain the corner of her eyes, she can feel Apollonian’s Red-haired beauty.

Then, Pallas remembers—or thinks or knows, she can’t exactly recall—that Cassandra clings and weeps to the Palladium that Pallas Athena erected for herself.)

“Pallas,” Lord Triton calls, “Pay attention my dear.”

Athena huffs a laugh at Pallas' expense. 

(When Pallas’ vision blurs she can see twin pearls laying in cupped hands.

She smiles knowingly.) 

And when Pallas blinks her vision clears once again. 

Her Lordly Father looks at her with a smile upon his face.

“I’m sorry, forgive me, Father.”

Athena shakes her head, rolling it to the side in exasperation.

“You may begin.”

Athena charges. 

Pallas braces for impact. 

Chapter Text

When Rachel took on the Spirit of Delphi she found she could no longer dream. No more nightmares, no more fanciful imaginings of artistry and grandeur—just plain dark silence. It didn’t bother her as much as she thought it would. She found a certain comfort in knowing all the things she had dreamed beforehand, before becoming the Oracle, to a certain extent, were not real. 

If they were real, Rachel had concluded, then I would keep seeing them. 

Then, after speaking the Great Prophecy, things changed. Flashes of dreams filled her nights, flashes so swift before one could clear they would fall away and crumble like sand. 

Once Jason Grace showed up Rachel began to dream once more.This time, dreams far worse than she had ever seen in the before. 

Pallas, the green-eyed daughter of Triton. So like Percy she could hardly believe they’d lived and breathed centuries apart. 

Her brutal death, dying with agony in her eyes and blood upon her lips.

(“No, no, no, no— ”

She lays on her back and coughs, her insides ooze out of her lips and white spots grow in her vision.

She’s afraid and she wants her mother.And when she hears her skin fizzling and popping and blustering and burning she breathes in agony.

(When did the world start burning?) 

“No, no, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my—”)

(Her solemn face as she looked Athena in the eyes, “I’ve forgiven you.” 

An unknowing and innocent Athena smiling in confusion and reply.)

Pallas cursed in some of the same ways as herself, lived lifetimes. Suffering over her own death time and time again. 

(Rachel still doesn’t understand how she didn’t go completely insane.)

On days where Rachel feels less tethered to reality, her dreams often feature Apollo’s Cassandra. She rambles on and on, her words slurring into incoherent sentences. 

(It’s utterly terrifying, Rachel thinks, how quickly she spiraled into insanity.

She’s often afraid to put it into thought, but sometimes Rachel can’t help but question: Will that be me?)

Cassandra cries on her knees, her arms wrapped around the legs of the statue of the Palladium. 

Cassandra weeps and weeps. 

Rachel stands beside Pallas as they watch the distraught Cassandra.

(Rachel doesn’t dare to speak or touch either woman for fear of them looking her in the eyes. 

She wouldn’t even know what to do if they Saw her while she was in her own dreams.) 

Rachel dreams of the Great Greek heroes—Jason and Perseus, Achilles and Bellerophan, Odysseus and Theseus, Ajax and Heracles. 

(And when Rachel Sees Perseus lob off the head of Medusa she doesn’t know whether she should cry. 

A woman punished for the actions of a man—though godly he may have been. 

A woman whose hate and fear festered until there was nothing left of her from the Before. 

It’s not fair, Rachel thinks, that Perseus got his happily-ever-after and all Medusa received was eternal suffering in return.)

As ‘The Seven’ traveled across the seas on the Argo II, Rachel’s dreams change once more. 

Rachel begins to dream of unnamed sons and daughters lost during the last Great War. A son of Poseidon, so like Percy and his ancient niece, Pallas, it physically hurt when he drowned in the seas he so believed were like home. 

The sea boy’s death was orchestrated by children remarkably like Thalia. It became hard for Rachel to even imagine why they would even be fighting each other, especially when they were so clearly cousins. 

(Maybe, Rachel thinks, it’s because the thought of Percy and Thalia turning on each other is absolutely unimaginable.)

In that same dream Rachel sees Pallas. 

(“The Gods don’t favor children like us,” Pallas whispers into her ear, “They never have and they never will.”) 

Pallas visits Rachel’s dreams. Rachel ignores her in fear for the unknown. Pallas brings Rachel into her dreams. Rachel finds herself resigned for what these dreams may mean. In the end Rachel doesn’t entirely understand it, everything really, she just knows they—the dreams—aren’t her own. 

(Maybe when you dream, Rachel thinks, you don’t entirely exist on a singular plane. In your dreams the Fates probably don’t care if you wash away with the tides.)

(Flashes of live steel glittering in her vision. 

The waft of blood on the ocean breeze.

An amber pearl glows blood red in the sun and never sees light of day again.

A girl takes her last shuttering breath.

Lord Triton blubbers and wails and clutches the lifeless body of his daughter. The girl’s mother howls with the same kind of agony.

Gold burns black, falling and clumping like black sand.)

(When did the world start burning?)

Sometimes they watch other demigods, other young heroes.

(Reyna of the Romans and Hylla of the Amazons. 

Magnus of the Norse and the Kane siblings of the Egyptians)

And, in others, they watch Percy. That’s how Rachel knew he would be paying her a visit soon. 

(Rachel catches a glimpse of Pallas’ own dream, maybe even Percy’s, it’s hard to tell exactly. 

“Did you really think the sea’s feud with Athena began with a fountain and a tree? No, no,” Pallas clicked her tongue, “it began with my life. And everything after that…it’s not too hard to understand.”

Percy looked on in pain.

I would too, Rachel admitted to herself. Sometimes the truth is far more agonizing, far less easier to swallow than the honey-fed lies that are already in front of you.) 

(When Rachel stares at Percy hard enough she sees Pallas staring right back at her.)

When Percy comes up to her cave she isn’t surprised to see him there. In fact, she’s glad. 

Maybe, she thinks, my dreams with Pallas will finally come to a stop. 

(Is it desecration when they both dream the same thing, such a brutal memory, over and over again, even though the one orchestrating—dreaming it, remembering it— is already dead?)

(And as Percy makes his trek up to Rachel’s cave he can’t help but wonder if talking to her is the right decision. 

(Pallas, so much younger than the first time he had seen her, kneels in her golden armor, her head bowed in subservience. 

“It is your will I shall act upon.”)

(“I love you.” Glauce strokes her daughter’s cheeks with a warm touch, a gentle smile spreads across her face.

It’s a happy memory. It’s soft and calm and sweet and light and safe.

Pallas sighs, her eyes glisten with tears, she leans into her mother’s touch, she rasps, “I love you.”)

(And Percy can’t help but be angry when he thinks about how her story ends. 

(She’s scared and she wants her mother. Her father holds her and strokes her hair. She knows Athena watches with a pit in her gut and sticky, sprayed hands and she prays she remembers it wasn’t her fault.)

He can’t help but think about himself, of their shared fatal flaw—loyalty— and how different their fates became.

Maybe, if I had been raised the same, Percy thinks, and lived during those times, our Fates would have aligned.

(“No, no, no, no—”)

The scorned children of the sea.)

(“Hold fast, Perseus,” Sally, Mom, whispered, “Brave the storm that was made to break us, for we are unbreakable as long as we have each other.”)

Between blinks, between memories and dreams, Percy starts to feel that his decision was right.)

Rachel sat just outside of her cave, her art easel up, her paints and canvas out. A second chair pulled up beside her. 

As Percy jogged up Rachel flashed him a smile, “I’ve been expecting you!” Rachel exclaimed, she waved a hand at the chair, “It's been too long!”

Percy flashed her a hesitant smile, “Good morning, Rachel.”

“What can I do for you, Percy Jackson?”

“Straight to business already?”

Rachel raised a brow, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Fair,” Percy nodded with a sigh, he sat in the open chair, his face screwed up in thought, “I have a question I need to ask you.” 

Rachel flicked her hand in the air with a dramatic flare, “Ask away my friend.” 

“I’ve been seeing things in my dreams. Strange things,” his face twisted up in concern, “They’re different from regular demigod-dreams. Like, they aren’t dreams of things of the present, but they aren’t of the past either…” 

“Dreams, but not-dreams?”

“Like—like during the Labyrinth I had dreams of Daedalus, of what he’d done. And after too. But these dreams, they’re different. They change.”

“Change? They change, how?”

“Memories, but also not-memories. Like I can see and talk to who I’m dreaming about.”

Rachel looked at Percy in deep thought, her hand stopped its strokes on the canvas, “Who you dream with, you can have conversations with them?”

“Yes.”

Rachel hummed, she placed her hand on Percy’s arm, “I dream like that all of the time.”

Percy looked up at Rachel in concern. 

“I’m sure mine are still much different from yours,” Rachel tried to placate, “I can see others with Sight too—I can dream with them—we talk. I also dream of other things, much more complicated,” she continued on with a smile, “I’m sure you have nothing you need to worry about.”

“I—,” Percy draws in a breath, he’s afraid, so very afraid, “In my dreams I see this girl. She talks to me, like right at me. The not-memory dreams... it’s different though, they shift. Like the perspective I’m seeing it in, it changes in the middle of the dream. Sometimes I’m myself and sometimes I’m someone else. I don’t understand it.”

Quiet fell over the duo, Rachel dabed another color onto her canvas in thought. And just when Percy had thought she wouldn’t reply Rachel had sighed, “The girl,” she asked, “what does she say?”

(Percy doesn’t know how to say he’s been seeing the demigod, Pallas, in his dreams. He doesn’t know how to say it’s been unsettling him—he doesn’t know when she’ll show up—she just does and it leaves him afraid. He doesn’t know how to ask how to make it stop. 

(Twin pearls lay in cupped hands.

“They’re sisters,” Pallas says with a smile. Her inky black hair whips in the air and her eyes glitter in the sun, “Just like us.”) 

Percy thinks about the warnings she gave him, of all of the things she didn’t exactly say but implied. He understands better than most would think. 

(If I had been any more bitter, Percy thinks, if she had come to me sooner, her warnings would have been enough. I would’ve ended up like Luke.) 

He thinks about Pallas who forgave Athena even though it was her hand and spear that ended her life. Pallas who saw the truth and understood that it was by Zeus’s hands, that she would die. Pallas, who knew this, and yet she still stayed, she still remained loyal and willing, and she still died for it. 

(She’s scared and she wants her mother and she knows she’s going to die, she’s Seen it, but she doesn’t want to go. It hurts and it burns and it feels cold all at the same time but she doesn’t want to go. She just wants her father to keep holding her.) 

(“I don’t like this story,” Percy whispered, “it’s sad. Why’d you have to tell me?”)

It doesn’t matter how loyal you are, Percy thinks, they take and they take until all you have left to give is your life.

It’s with that thought that, with that knowledge, Percy knows that if had less supports in his life, no Grover, no Annabeth, no Mom, he would’ve ended up exactly like Luke.

(“Hold fast, Perseus.”)

(“We’re staying together. You’re not getting away from me. Never again.”

She looked at him with unshakable faith.

“As long as we’re together,” Annabeth breathed out.)

(Annabeth could hardly see Nico and Hazel through the sunlight—probably the last she would ever see—blazing down on Percy and her. And as they fell, hand in hand, all they could hear were the echoes of their screams.

There wasn’t anyone else she’d rather fall into Tartarus with.)

(“I’ve—,” Pallas’ mouth moves but no sound comes out. The rest of the words are cut off, lost to a piercing silence.  

Pallas then looks up, she smiles at Athena. Athena smiles in confusion and grasps at Pallas’ hands.)

He’s afraid of what these dreams mean. He’s even more afraid to mention them to Annabeth. 

(A young Athena fiddles with her necklace, she smiles back at a laughing Pallas. 

The necklace, a pink pearl sitting on a leather cord, so very reminiscent of camp’s beaded necklaces.)

(Pallas raises her spear with a smirk.

Athena smiles back. 

Pallas charges. 

Athena braces for impact.) 

(“You’ll do well my daughter.”

Pallas turns away from the orange and blue painted sky (her last sunset) towards her father. Pallas sighs and nods, “I’ll make you proud.”

She turns back to the setting sun with tears gathering in her eyes. When they fall, soft and burning, she doesn’t dare turn away to wipe them.

She wishes she didn’t have to worry about facing the coming horizon. She wishes she didn’t know what the next day would bring. She wishes she could live, suspended in time, in this moment forever.)

He wishes the Fates would stop messing with his life.)

“I—,” Percy starts, he doesn’t even know where to begin, “I don’t—” 

“Sometimes,” Rachel cuts him off, “I see this girl. She had the Sight. Her name was Pallas, daughter of Triton. We dream together. She shows me things, she’s shown me the both of you on a beach, sitting in the sand.” 

Rachel turns her head up to look at Percy, he looks miserable, “That’s why you’re here, is it not? Because of Pallas?”

“I—,” Percy stammered, “yes, that’s why.”

“Then tell me, what’s your question?”

“How do I get them to stop? The dreams.”

Rachel ponders…maybe…

“Has she shown you anything? Told you anything?”

“I guess she has, she’s shown me—“

“Just think about it, Percy. Really think about it. If she has, maybe she’s trying to get you to do something.”

(In a dream, different from the one Annabeth woke him up from, Percy suddenly remembers with an alarming clarity, Pallas’ final thoughts. 

(Pallas thinks as she takes her last mortal breath—My Lordly Father, my Lordly Grandfather, they’ll paint her the monster. A kinslayer.

And when Pallas blinks for the last time, though it’s her Lordly Father’s face she sees, all she can think about is her Sweet Athena. 

(she’s scared and she wants her mother. she doesn’t want her father to let go yet.)

White spots dance across her vision and her throat bobbles. (It’s hard to breathe. She’s scared.)

And then, when she closes her eyes and gasps her last breath, she thinks no more.)

And Percy begins to realize what needs to be done.)

(And when Percy walks away, leaving Rachel by herself, she hopes he takes Pallas with him. As much as a curse it feels to think such, Rachel can’t help but want reprieve in her own dreams—especially in her own sleep.)

(For the first time since she started painting that morning, Rachel truly looks at her canvas.  

Pallas’ eyes, Percy’s eyes, they stare back at her.)

(And, when she sleeps that night, scared of what may hunt her in her dreams, there is no Pallas in sight, just plain dark silence.)

Chapter Text

Athena remembers the day she was born, far more detailed than most do, the moment she sprung from her Father’s head forever ingrained in her mind. Ready for battle she sprang, and yet, she had no experience in such or in any mortal affairs. The purpose the fates brought her fourth, useless without any personable experience.

Athena remembers the sight of her Father and brother, Hephaestus, being her first view of the worldly plains. Then, her second being of Lord Triton and his beloved daughter, her most loyal friend, her sister, her sweet and dear Pallas. 

Pallas, so loyal, so fierce, so eager, so strong, so devoted, and yet, so entirely mortal. Half of man and half of god—a demigod. Though, unlike her demigod counterparts, she was more. Pallas was more other, really. Pallas was more akin to a godling than truly being a demigod, with her mortal-nymph mother.

(When Athena comes to her, separate from their shared lessons with Lord Triton, Pallas so willingly responds to her request. Pallas walks away with her, into the treeline beyond her mother’s home. 

Though they’ve only known each other for a few weeks, Pallas does not hesitate for even a second before looking her in the eyes and solemnly declaring, “I shall do, what it is that you will, dear cousin.”

So dedicated, so eager, so faithful.)

(How she ever thought Pallas could bleed golden, she thinks, was such a foolish and childish thought. 

Just because Pallas had more divinity in her mortal shell than most, it didn’t mean she was beyond a mortal’s death.

(This she realizes more and more as she begins to have her own, very godly, yet very mortal, children.)

(If she had the tears to spare, she would’ve wept several hundred times over. Though many may believe her to be indifferent to mortal suffering, that could be further from the truth. 

She sends hundreds of her best—most like her—children, to lands without her Godly reach. 

And it is here, in these lands, with prayers for their mother on their lips, that many of her children find their deaths.)

(Athena hates herself every time she remembers she thought them invincible and able to defy the Fates.)

A Woman, Athena had thought of Pallas then, and now, centuries later, a girl she remembers her as. A mortal girl, half of man and half of god, a demigod, the half-blooded daughter of Triton. 

(Pallas looked down on her, a soft smile on her lips. Athena, of the then and before, simply closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into her lap.)

Her most devoted and beloved friend. Her sister. 

Her sister she had slain. 

Her sister, who she watched, choke on her own blood. 

(She had not seen true mortal blood until that very moment.)

Athena’s children think her feud with the sea gods began in Athens, a story she wished were true. The story of Poseidon’s sea-water fountain and her olive tree being a far kinder story than the truth. 

(And when Athena lunged forward she expected Pallas’ spear to deflect back. Just like always.

Pallas startled, she tripped forwards. Athena tried to stop her swing, her lunge, in mid-motion. 

Zeus, her Kingly Father, let out a crazed laugh.

A split second.

Athena stared in horror. Pallas stared back.

Pallas let out a hoarse breath. She wheezed. She tried to breathe in. A choking cough escaped her, its force rattling her chest. She tried a second time, a third. Pallas made a gurgling sound, she spat, blood escaped her lips.

Drops of blood landed on Athena’s hands. Red, mortal red. 

Her spear had landed in Pallas’ chest. 

Pallas, eyes wide, shocked, looked down at her chest. White cloth painted red. She wheezed and choked.

(“I’ve forgiven you.”)

She touched the wound, the spear, her spear, with her shaky hands. Athena finally let go of the handle and stumbled back.

What have I done?

And when Athena looked down at her own hands all she could see was mortal red. A color she knew she would never forget.)

(Athena stares, her vision blurry. Triton kneels in the dirt, he holds Pallas in his grasp.

”Someone, anyone,” his voice desperate and wretched,“please.”

“No, no, no,” Lady Glauce lets out a howl, “no, no, no—,” she sobs in a breath, “My baby.” From the corner of her eyes she can see the woman collapse into a heap on the floor.)

(She’ll never forget Pallas’ gasping breaths in her final moments alive.

The blood coating the girl’s front. Her bloody armor and trembling hands. The grip she held onto her father with.)

(Mortal blood, as she learns that day, is so, so very red.

She is later surprised when she sees the ashes from Pallas’ pyre. For such a deep and staining color, she’s shocked her ashes weren’t tainted blood-red.)

(Pallas mouths something but she cannot make it out.)

The strangled cries of Lord Triton echo in her head—such a humane and mortal act for the loss of his most beloved, most human daughter.

Lord Triton’s sorrow for his slain daughter. 

(“My daughter,” Lord Triton’s voice cracks, his head touches hers, he cradles her cooling body, “my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, my—,” he repeats over and over again. 

It almost sounds like a prayer.)

(After her death Lord Triton does not father any children for centuries. And when he does he can hardly be bothered to spare his daughters any glances.

The curse of bearing, siring, godly children, Athena thinks, is the fact that you run the chance of them looking entirely alike.)

The Kingly Poseidon’s wrath for a lost daughter of the sea.

(“Mine granddaughter! She’s killed her! Your spawn,” Poseidon snarled, the ocean roared in tandem, “her flesh and blood will be mine. For this slight, this insult, we shall never forget.”)

The sea’s call for vengeance.

Her own father’s triumphant laughter haunts her in her dreams.)

(He raised her. 

Why didn’t he forgive her? Didn’t he know she would’ve never betrayed them so? 

Lordly Triton more her father than the Kingly God she sprang from. 

Didn’t he see how much she wept for sweet, dear Pallas? 

Didn’t he see how remorseful she was?)

(“All you need to remember is that I’ve forgiven you.”)

(Some mortals called her a murderer, a kinslayer, a traitor. Some mortals admired her. Thought her a warrior. They epithet her as a warrior in her own right, who killed a tested soldier in battle. 

She killed her own sweet sister—murdered her—her dear Pallas.

All she wants to do is apologize and make it right, but her Kingly Father won’t let her.

Lord Triton does not forgive her. The Lordly King Poseidon wants her head.)

(She gives herself the name Pallas Athena. 

For her friend, for her dear sister, so she may never forget what she had done.) 

(“I’ve forgiven you.”

Youthful Athena’s laughter cuts off, she looks upon Pallas with confusion, “What do you mean?” 

“You won’t understand,” Pallas nods sagely before reaching for Youthful Athena’s hands. Cradling them within her own, Pallas looks up at her with a smile, “You won’t for a while. All you need to remember is that I’ve forgiven you.” 

Youthful Athena grabs the hands cradling her own and smiles in return. 

Strange and solemn, yet sweet, dear Pallas.)

(And when they burnt her shroud, a beautiful shade of a deep blue, embroidered with the conch shell of her father, all Athena could feel was the glare of Pallas’ mortal-nymph mother.)

(And on some level, Athena thinks now, as a mother herself, she can understand her ire.

Her daughter, her one and only, was raised like a warrior. Raised as a weapon. Raised for her father, for the Gods. And the only thing she got in turn for giving herself, for giving her daughter—their loyalty and devotion—was the brutal slaughter of her only child.

(An act that happens far too many times in the centuries that follow.)

It comes as no surprise to Athena when eventually, some of their half-mortal children, scorned and so angry, so hateful, come to collect their own brand of vengeance.)

Sometimes, when she dreams, even though centuries have passed, Athena can’t help but think of Pallas and the little youth they spent together.

(The choppy winds and the sounds of waves crashing against the shore. 

A young, so young and mortal, Pallas standing before her. Her hair whipping around in the wind. A smile stretched across her face and her hand out.

A pearl. A gift.

Herself, Athena of youth, Athena before Pallas Athena, grabs it and smiles back.)

(Athena later fashions the pearl on a leather cord. The last time she wears it is the day she kills her sister.)

If she listened hard enough, especially on days where Pallas is at the forefront of her mind, Athena can recall the sound of her voice.

(“You aren’t nervous?”

Pallas responds in a firm and steady voice,”No. Why would I be?”

When Athena turns her eyes away from the purpling-midnight sky she’s met with Pallas’ solemn gaze. Her eyes heavy, her face tense. She looks sad, Athena can’t help but think.

”I’m ready,” Pallas’ voice waivers, her eyes tear, she turns her gaze back to the blackening horizon, “I’m ready.”)

(And when Athena thinks back on that moment years later, she can’t help but feel like that was Pallas’ final goodbye.)

When Athena looks at her own most favored daughter, her most fierce Annabeth, she can’t help but see a reflection of herself.

Her child, Annabeth, the most like her in a few centuries—like the young Athena who spent her days learning the spear and sword beside a daughter of the sea—she resents. 

She hates her daughter’s own green-eyed sea spawn.

She only tells herself this because she knows if she didn’t then she would be cursing the Fates over and over again. 

(Why does she get to keep her green-eyed sea spawn when they took her own Pallas away?) 

The feelings of resentment grow more and more on the days when she swears she can see Pallas out of the corner of her eyes.

She has spent longer than an eternity remembering her sister, Pallas. 

Some days she believes she remembers the girl wrong. The girl, lost in our own mind, often plagued by bouts of her own spacey-ness. The days where the girl would be crying and mourning and remembering people who didn’t exist while forgetting those in front of her.

(Pallas sputters and sobs, she leans forward, elbows on her knees and buries her face into her hands, “They killed him!”

Athena crouches down to her level, she’s almost afraid to ask, “Who?”

“The boy. They killed him, they killed him,” Pallas’ breath shutters, “I Saw it. Jason, he’s dead.”

”Who is Jason?”

Pallas weeps and blubbers and sobs. And when Athena tries to question her more Pallas can barely choke out something about arrows before she becomes inconsolable. When the next day comes and she asks Pallas about Jason all she gets is a confused furrow and question in reply.

”Jason?”)

When she hears of Apollonian’s—Sweet Apollonian, as Pallas was so fond of saying— Cassandra, and meets her, so many things begin to make sense.

(“I’ve forgiven you.”

Strange and solemn, yet sweet, dear Pallas.)

Cursed she is to be a god. To be cursed with the time, with the knowledge, to always remember. 

(She rolls the pearl between her fingers, smooth but misshapen. 

A treasure to behold.

When she holds it up to the sky its pink color looks almost blood-red.)

(Pallas, in her stately armor, stands before her and settles into position. Her sword tossed to the side, a spear in her hands.

Pallas’ solemn gaze morphs into a smirk (her first one in what feels like forever) and she winks. 

As Lord Triton recites the rules of their bout Pallas mouths some words at her. 

Athena swears she says…

(“I’ve forgiven you.”

Strange and solemn, yet sweet, dear Pallas.)

Athena blinks and shakes her head. Her Lordly Father is watching. She must make him proud.)

(Pallas clenches her spear in a white-knuckle grip, she rolls her arms, forcing the tension out of her shoulders. Her face pinches in the same tension as the night before.

(She’s nervous, Athena can’t help but think.)

When Pallas look up Athena winks in return, Pallas, startled by her boldness in front of the Kingly Lord Zeus, laughs. Athena smiles back.

“You may begin.” 

Athena charges.

Pallas braces for impact.)

Athena holds her pink pearl in her palm—it’s weathered centuries at this point. She peers at it once more before curling it in her fingers. 

(And when Young Athena looks up, Pallas holds a second pearl in the air. 

The second pearl, the same exact shade as the one in her hand, Pallas proudly shows her.

“They’re sisters,” Pallas says with a smile, “Just like us.”

Sweet, dear Pallas.)

Athena squeezes it and she wishes she could forget.