Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The chamber of the gods was quiet. No storms, no thunder, no lightning crackling in Zeus’s hands. Only the hush of threads being woven.

The Moirai stood at the center, three cloaked figures bent over their great loom. Clotho spun, Lachesis measured, Atropos held her shears poised above a strand that gleamed brighter than the rest.

Poseidon loomed nearby, salt and storm clinging to his shoulders. His trident was absent. He didn’t need it—his presence filled the air like the press of a rising tide. His expression, though, was not wrathful. It was weary. It was fatherly.

“You cut his thread?” His voice was low, more a warning than a question.

Atropos tilted her head. The silver scissors hovered but did not close. “Not cut,” she said, voice like stone grinding. “Shifted.”

Clotho’s spindle hummed. “The boy has fulfilled his weaving in this age.”

Lachesis drew the thread out farther, eyes pale and sightless as she measured its length. “But it is not ended. His line pulls toward another time, another place. Where he may live freer. Where the sea is honored, not feared.”

Hera, seated to the side, frowned. “He is young. Barely past childhood. He should not have been burdened with such wars.”

Athena’s gaze was sharp, her voice reluctant but true. “Even I see the sense. He has been… overused. Worn. A mind can only bear so much.”

Zeus scowled, but there was no lightning in it. Only the grudging acceptance of inevitability. “So you would steal him from my age? Send him back where we do not yet rule as we do now?”

The Moirai spoke as one, their voices braiding into a single, inexorable truth:
“Better to free a thread than to snap it. He is fraying. If he remains, he will break. But if he is rewoven—he will endure.”

Poseidon’s hands curled into fists, not in anger but in anguish. He looked every bit the storm, but also a man torn between pride and grief. “He is my son.”

“Yes,” Clotho whispered, her spindle spinning faster. “And for that, he will not be abandoned. You will go with him. He will not walk alone in the past.”

Atropos lowered her shears. The thread gleamed brighter, twisting into a new pattern across the loom. Not cut, not broken—redirected.

The Moirai looked up together, their gazes falling on Poseidon.
“Choose, Lord of the Sea. Let him drown here—or let him live there.”

Poseidon’s answer was immediate. “He will live.”

And the sea itself trembled with relief.

The silence after Tartarus was the worst part.

Percy Jackson had faced monsters, gods, Titans, and an ancient earth goddess who had tried to devour the world. He had fought through hell itself—literally. He had survived. But now, sitting in his room in his mom’s apartment, he couldn’t escape the heavy quiet that pressed on his chest harder than any monster ever had.

He was only fourteen, but he felt older than the gods. His shoulders carried too much for a boy who should have been worrying about algebra and school dances. He’d seen things no mortal, no demigod, no child should have seen—and the memories clung to him like smoke he couldn’t wash away.

The ceiling over his bed had a water stain shaped like a trident. He’d been staring at it so long that the edges shimmered and swam, turning into shifting shadows that reminded him far too much of Tartarus. He blinked hard, but the ghosts didn’t go away.

From the kitchen, the smell of blue pancakes drifted in, and his mother’s voice followed.
“Percy? Breakfast’s ready.”

Her voice was warm, steady—the one anchor he had left. Sally Jackson didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer. She never pressed him when he flinched at sudden noises or stared too long at nothing. She simply reminded him, every day, that he was hers.

He should have felt safe. He was home. The wars were over. Annabeth was alive. The Seven were alive. The gods were still on their thrones. And yet—Percy couldn’t shake the constant, gnawing wrongness inside him.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Fourteen-year-old hands. Too small, too light, too human for everything they’d done.

And the same bitter thought rose up again, unshakable: Why am I still here?

The kitchen smelled like syrup and butter, with that faint trace of sea salt that always followed Percy home. His mom had already set the table: two plates stacked with uneven towers of blue pancakes, steaming mugs of hot chocolate waiting beside them.

Sally sat at the other end, smiling gently when Percy shuffled in. “Morning, Seaweed Brain,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He dropped into his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Morning.”

She didn’t comment on the shadows under his eyes or the way he flinched when a car horn blared outside. She just pushed the syrup toward him. “Eat.”

Percy cut into the stack, more out of obedience than hunger. The pancakes were fluffy, sweet, dyed the impossible shade of blue that had always meant home. They should’ve tasted like comfort. Instead, every bite sat heavy in his stomach.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” Sally said softly after a moment.

Percy froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Pretending what?”

“That you’re okay.”

The words were gentle, but they landed like a blade. He dropped the fork with a clatter and stared at the plate. “Mom—”

“I know.” She reached across the table, brushing her fingers lightly against his wrist. “You’ve been through more than anyone should. Especially you.”

He wanted to tell her it was fine, that he could handle it, that he didn’t need to be babied—but the lump in his throat betrayed him. Fourteen years old, and he felt a hundred.

“I just…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to stop fighting.”

Sally squeezed his wrist once, then let go, giving him space. “Maybe you don’t have to,” she said. “Maybe you just need… a different kind of battle. One that lets you breathe again.”

Percy blinked at her, confused, but before he could ask what she meant, a strange current stirred in the air—like the sea had crept into their little apartment, humming against the windows.

Percy kept pushing the pancakes around his plate, drowning them in syrup just so he didn’t have to look at her. Sally let him stew in silence for a minute, sipping her hot chocolate. She always knew when to wait him out.

Finally, she said, “You know, I’ve been talking with your father.”

Percy’s head snapped up. “Dad?”

Sally nodded, calm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “He’s worried about you. Just like I am.”

Percy let out a short, humorless laugh. “Great. So now both of you can stress over the broken kid.”

“Percy.” Her voice was steady, no nonsense now. “You’re not broken. You’re… tired. And that’s not the same thing.”

He swallowed, throat dry. “What did he say?”

“That maybe what you need isn’t more fighting. Maybe it’s a chance to start over. Somewhere different. Somewhere you can breathe again.”

Percy stared at her, the fork sliding out of his hand with a dull clink. “You—you actually talked about sending me away?”

“I talked about giving you a choice,” Sally corrected softly. She reached across the table again, smoothing his messy hair off his forehead like she had when he was little. “You’ve carried too much, too young. If you decide you want to rest, to step out of all this—your father and I will support you. Whatever you choose.”

Percy’s chest ached. The thought of leaving felt wrong, terrifying. But so did the thought of staying.

Before he could answer, a low hum rolled through the apartment, making the dishes rattle faintly on the table. The air smelled suddenly of brine and storms.

Sally’s eyes softened, not surprised at all. “He’s here.”

The air shimmered, thick with salt and stormlight, and then he was there.

Poseidon didn’t appear in full godly battle form—no trident, no crown of coral. Instead, he looked like the ocean itself had decided to take human shape: broad-shouldered, hair streaked with sea-foam silver, eyes the color of a storm rolling over deep water. He filled the little kitchen as if it had been built for him, yet somehow made the cramped space feel larger instead of smaller.

Sally stood to greet him, her expression soft, steady. She’d known he was coming.

Percy just sat there, frozen with his fork still sticky with syrup. “Dad.”

Poseidon smiled faintly, but it was tired around the edges. “Perseus.” His voice was the low rumble of distant waves, comforting and inevitable. “You’ve grown.”

Percy barked out a laugh that didn’t sound like him. “Yeah. Grown. That’s one word for it.”

Poseidon studied him, gaze sweeping over the slump of Percy’s shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands trembled faintly even as he shoved them under the table to hide it. The god’s jaw tightened. “You remind me too much of myself. Carrying storms you were never meant to.”

Percy shook his head. “I can handle it. I always do.”

“Always?” Poseidon leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. For once, he didn’t look like an untouchable Olympian. He looked like a father worried for his son. “You’re fourteen, Percy. Fourteen. And you’ve already carried the weight of Titans and Giants, of gods and the Pit itself. Do you think I don’t see what it has cost you?”

The words cracked something inside Percy. He stared at the pancakes on his plate, throat tight. He hated crying, hated being seen as weak, but the ache in his chest wouldn’t stop. “I don’t know how to be normal anymore,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t even know if I want to.”

Poseidon’s expression softened. He reached out, resting a massive, calloused hand over Percy’s. “I don’t want you to be normal. I want you to be free.”

Percy blinked at him. “Free?”

“Free of prophecies. Free of burdens that were never yours. Free to live, to laugh, to grow into yourself without the Fates snapping at your heels.” Poseidon’s gaze glimmered like sunlight on waves. “The Moirai agree. Your thread in this age is finished. But there are other places, other times, where you might live not as a weapon, not as a savior—just as a boy who can choose his own path.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. “You mean… send me away. Again.”

“Not away.” Poseidon’s tone was gentle, insistent. “Back. To an age where your blood is not a curse but a blessing. Where the world still honors those born of gods. Where you could walk openly as my son and be celebrated for it.”

Percy stared at him, wide-eyed. “The past.”

Poseidon nodded once. “You would not be bound by their wars. Not unless you chose to be. You would have time to breathe. To heal. To grow strong without the shadow of Tartarus dogging your steps.”

It was impossible. Ridiculous. And yet—Percy’s heart lurched at the thought. To walk in a world where being Poseidon’s son wasn’t a secret shame. To live where the sea was sacred, not something to be hidden behind a high school desk.

He bit his lip. “And… you’d be there?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it, raw and small in a way he hated.

Poseidon’s face broke into something warmer, almost human. “Yes. You would have me. Amphitrite. Your siblings. A family that is yours by right.”

Sally’s hand brushed Percy’s shoulder from behind. She’d been silent the whole time, letting father and son speak, but her voice was steady now. “You don’t have to decide this second. But you deserve to know there’s a choice, Percy. A chance at peace.”

Percy swallowed hard, staring between them. The sea sang faintly in his ears, wild and tempting. For the first time in months, he let himself imagine a life where he wasn’t drowning under the weight of prophecy.

A life where he might actually be happy.

Percy found Grover in Central Park, perched on their usual bench with his reed pipes in hand. The satyr was mid-song, coaxing something soft and hopeful out of the reeds that made the pigeons gather nearby like enchanted listeners.

“Hey, G-Man,” Percy said, trying to sound normal. His voice cracked anyway.

Grover looked up, ears perking, eyes going wide. “Percy!” He bounded to his feet, hugging him so tightly Percy wheezed. “You’re alive! Well, I mean, obviously, but—you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. No offense.”

“None taken,” Percy muttered. “Feel like it, too.”

They sat. Grover fiddled with his pipes, glancing sideways. “Okay. Spill. What’s eating you? And don’t say nothing. You’ve got the look.”

Percy stared at the lake, at the way the wind rippled its surface. He wanted to say he was fine, crack a joke, shove it all down like he always did. But Grover had been there since the beginning. He deserved the truth.

“My dad… Poseidon… offered me something.” Percy’s voice was low, rough. “A way out.”

Grover blinked. “Out?”

“Out of quests. Out of prophecies. Out of…” Percy gestured helplessly at the whole world. “All of this. He said the Fates agreed my thread here is finished. That I could—” he swallowed hard “—start over. Somewhere else. Somewhere safer.”

Grover’s reed pipes slipped out of his hands and clattered to the pavement. “Percy, that’s—” He shut his mouth, eyes shining, ears drooping.

Percy braced for anger, for begging, for disappointment. Instead, Grover said quietly, “You should take it.”

Percy jerked his head toward him. “What?”

“You’ve carried more than anyone,” Grover said fiercely. “You saved Camp Half-Blood. Camp Jupiter. You saved me a thousand times over. If the gods are offering you peace—don’t you dare feel guilty for wanting it.”

Percy’s throat tightened. “But… I’ll leave you. I’ll leave everyone.”

Grover nudged him with his shoulder. “Friends don’t chain each other down, Perce. We set each other free. You gave me the Wild back. Now it’s my turn to give you something.”

Percy blinked hard, tears burning.

Grover gave a watery grin. “Besides, I’ll still be the best satyr musician of the century. And you’ll still owe me enchiladas, no matter what timeline you end up in.”

Percy laughed through the tears. They hugged again, long and crushing, until Percy could breathe again.

Annabeth was waiting on the fire escape of her dorm, legs drawn up, gray eyes fixed on the city below. She didn’t look surprised when Percy climbed up beside her. She didn’t even look at him—just kept her gaze on the skyline.

“You’re leaving,” she said. Not a question.

Percy’s chest ached. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched. The city hummed beneath them, cars honking, sirens wailing, life moving on like none of it mattered.

“Was it his idea?” she asked finally.

“Poseidon’s,” Percy admitted. “The Fates, too. They said… I’m not needed anymore. That I can go somewhere I don’t have to fight every day just to breathe.”

Annabeth’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the railing. For a moment he thought she’d snap, rage, call him a coward. Instead, her shoulders sagged.

“Good,” she said softly.

Percy blinked. “Good?”

“You’ve carried the world more times than anyone should.” Annabeth’s voice trembled, but her gaze was sharp. “You were my partner, my equal, my anchor. But anchors aren’t supposed to drown themselves. If leaving helps you live… then I’d be a fool to stop you.”

Percy’s vision blurred. “Annabeth, I—”

She turned, finally meeting his eyes. The steel in hers melted, leaving only storm-gray grief. She reached out, pressed her hand flat against his chest, right over his heart. “You’ll always be my Seaweed Brain. Even if you’re not mine anymore.”

The words broke something open inside him. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers for one last breath, one last moment.

When she pulled away, her cheeks were wet, but her chin was high. “Go, Percy. Find peace. Build something for yourself. You’ve earned it.”

He couldn’t answer. He just climbed back down the fire escape, leaving part of his heart behind.

They met at the amphitheater in Camp Half-Blood. The stone seats glowed faintly in the twilight, torches crackling in their sconces. All of them were there—Annabeth, Grover, Jason, Piper, Leo, Hazel, Frank. Percy stood in the center, hands trembling, heart pounding.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. His voice echoed too loud.

They watched him, their faces shadowed but intent.

“My dad… offered me a choice. The Fates said I’m not needed here anymore. That I can—start over. Somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

The words hung in the air. Percy braced himself for shouting, for betrayal. Instead—

Jason was the first to speak. “You’ve earned this, Percy. More than anyone.” His blue eyes were steady, without judgment.

Piper nodded, her braid glinting copper in the torchlight. “Sometimes courage isn’t fighting another war. Sometimes it’s letting yourself rest.”

Leo tried to grin, but his voice cracked. “Don’t forget us when you’re eating grapes in togas or whatever, man. And if you meet Archimedes, tell him he owes me blueprints.”

Hazel stood and crossed the space between them, taking Percy’s hand in both of hers. “The Fates don’t give gifts, Percy. If they’re offering you this, take it. Don’t waste it.”

Frank pulled him into a bear hug so tight Percy thought his ribs might crack. “We’ll keep fighting. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

Annabeth’s eyes shone, but she gave the faintest of nods, sealing the chorus of support.

Percy’s knees nearly gave out. He’d been ready to leave in secret, convinced no one would understand. Instead, they were pushing him forward, giving him permission to live.

When the group pulled him into one messy, tangled hug, Percy finally let himself cry. Not from despair—but from the unbearable weight of love.

Home was quiet when Percy walked back in. The smell of laundry soap and lemon cleaner filled the air, warm and steady. His mother had already packed a bag for him. Inside, folded with care: his Yankees cap, a seashell from Montauk, and a Polaroid of the two of them on the beach when he was small.

Sally didn’t cry. Not once. She just checked the bag twice, smoothed his hair, and kissed his forehead.

“You’ve been a hero long enough,” she said softly. “Now you get to be a son.”

The words undid him. Percy clutched her like he was still ten years old, sobbing into her shoulder. She rocked him gently, whispering, “You are my brave boy. Always. No matter where you go.”

When he finally pulled back, eyes red and raw, she smiled through her own tears. “Go with your father, Percy. Go find the place where you can live free.”

Olympus was silent.

Not the silence of peace, but the hush that came when twelve thrones sat full, and every god in his or her seat turned their gaze to a single thread of fate.

At the heart of the chamber stood Poseidon, the sea lapping faintly at his feet, his expression both defiant and raw. Beside him stood the Moirai, their loom casting silver light across the marble floor. In their hands gleamed the strand that was Percy Jackson’s life—bright, fraying, strained near to breaking.

“Let it be clear,” Zeus thundered, breaking the stillness. “We do not make a habit of interfering with mortal threads. Yet here we stand, asked to bend the river of time for one boy.”

“One boy,” Hera said sharply, “who has borne the weight of all our squabbles. Who has twice saved Olympus when we would not save ourselves.”

A murmur rippled through the thrones. No one contradicted her.

Poseidon stepped forward, voice a low tide. “He is not a pawn. He is my son. And I will not see him drowned in battles he no longer needs to fight. If he is to live, he must live where the sea may heal him.”

Athena’s gray eyes gleamed. “And if his presence alters history?”

The Moirai answered, their voices a chorus of inevitability.
“History is already altered. His victories have stretched this age beyond its measure. His thread was never meant to last here. Let it return to the place where it may weave whole.”

Zeus scowled, but said nothing. He knew when he was overruled.

Atropos raised her shears, not to cut, but to mark the thread. “He must not go alone. Memory is a tide—it fades. If we send him back without our knowledge of him, he will be left adrift. Forgotten. Unprotected.”

Clotho’s spindle hummed. “Then send memory with him.”

Lachesis stretched her hand toward the gathered Olympians. “Each of you. Pour your remembrance into this thread, so that when he walks the earth of another age, you will know him still.”

For once, there was no protest.

One by one, the gods rose. Hera stepped down first, her hand brushing the glowing strand. “Let him be known as loyal,” she said. “A son who honors his mother.” Her essence flowed into the thread, a golden light twining with silver.

Athena followed, her fingers steady. “Let him be known as clever. One who plans as well as fights.” A shimmer of steel-gray ran down the thread.

Apollo laid his hand next. “Let him be known as light in the dark.” Golden radiance flared. Artemis echoed softly after him, “Let him be known as hunter of shadows,” silver chasing gold.

Hermes grinned faintly as he touched the strand. “Let him be known as quick. The boy who always runs toward trouble faster than anyone.” The thread brightened with his laughter.

Even Ares pressed his hand to it, a grudging smirk tugging his lips. “Let him be known as warrior. One who does not yield.” A crimson spark burned along the fiber.

One by one, they gave their memories—Hestia with her warmth, Demeter with her quiet endurance, Dionysus with his reluctant fondness. Finally, Poseidon laid his hand upon the thread.

“Let him be known as mine,” the sea god said, voice shaking. “A child of the sea, beloved and protected.” Ocean-blue poured into the weave, wrapping all the other colors in its embrace.

The Moirai’s loom blazed. The thread no longer frayed. It pulsed with life, woven into the fabric of another age.

But the Fates were not finished.

Atropos lifted her shears and sliced not the thread, but the air around it. Silver light cascaded down like a net, wrapping the strand in a shimmering shield.

“By our decree,” she intoned, “no god shall raise hand against this child, nor curse him, nor twist his fate with malice. Only by his own offense shall ill will reach him. This is the Law of the Moirai.”

The spell snapped into place with the sound of distant thunder. Even Zeus did not argue.

Poseidon closed his eyes, exhaling like a storm breaking. When he opened them again, the boy’s future gleamed steady and unbroken across the loom.

“Then it is done,” Lachesis said.

“No,” Clotho murmured, spinning. “It is begun.”

The hall of Olympus glowed like dawn. The ritual had been woven, the thread secured, the protections laid. Now only one thing remained: to send the boy where he belonged.

Poseidon stood at the center, one hand on his son’s shoulder. Percy Jackson looked so small in that moment—fourteen years old, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed with too much sorrow for such a young face. Yet the gods could feel it: the storm inside him, vast as any sea.

“He is afraid,” Athena observed quietly from her throne. She had not meant the words to be kind, but they carried no edge—only truth.

“All heroes are,” Hestia murmured, her hearthfire burning brighter. “Courage is not the absence of fear.”

Percy swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between the gods who had judged him, used him, cursed him, and now—blessed him. “So that’s it?” His voice was hoarse. “I just… go?”

Poseidon squeezed his shoulder. “You go forward, Perseus. To a place where the sea will welcome you. Where you may live without chains.”

Percy’s eyes shone with tears he refused to shed. “Will you be there?”

“Yes,” Poseidon said simply. “Always.”

The boy nodded once, sharply, like a soldier accepting orders. But his knuckles were white around the strap of the small bag his mother had packed for him—blue fabric, a seashell, a photograph. The gods saw it all. They understood.

The Moirai stepped forward, their loom blazing. Clotho spun a new beginning, Lachesis measured its course, and Atropos did not cut but guided the strand into a shining gate that shimmered open in the air: a doorway of woven light and seafoam. Beyond it lay the roar of another ocean, older and wilder.

“The way is made,” the Fates intoned. “He shall walk it by his own will.”

The gods leaned forward as one. Rarely had they seen such a moment: not conquest, not destruction, but mercy. Hera’s eyes softened, Apollo’s golden light flickered with quiet pride, even Ares inclined his head in respect.

Poseidon turned his son to face the gate. “Go, Percy.” His voice was deep as the tide. “Go and live.”

For a heartbeat, Percy hesitated. He glanced back once, searching faces—his mother’s memory, his friends’ blessings, the weight of every goodbye still heavy in his chest. Then he squared his shoulders, drew in a shaking breath, and stepped forward.

Light swallowed him.

The chamber shook as the past itself reached out and claimed him, the thread vanishing into a weave only the Moirai could see. The gate closed, leaving only silence and the faint scent of salt.

Poseidon’s hand remained outstretched long after his son had gone. His jaw was set, his storm-gray eyes bright with something dangerously close to grief.

“He will be remembered,” Hera said softly.

“He will be protected,” Atropos added.

“And he will endure,” Clotho finished, her spindle humming.

The gods sat in silence, each feeling the absence of the boy who had saved them all. For once, not even Zeus spoke.

Only Poseidon broke the quiet, his voice rough as waves on stone. “May the sea be gentler to him than we ever were.”

Chapter Text

The world opened in light and saltwater.

One heartbeat Percy was standing on Olympus, the Fates’ silver gate blazing before him. The next, he stumbled forward and found himself breathing liquid air that shimmered like glass. It clung to his skin like cool mist, gentle instead of heavy. The ground beneath his feet was smooth pearl, glowing faintly, and everywhere around him stretched the impossible: towers carved of coral, domes of crystal, streets paved with seashell mosaics that glittered like starlight.

Atlantis.

The city sang. Not with voices, but with the living thrum of the sea. Whales crooned in the distance, schools of silver fish darted through the open arches, dolphins leapt between spires of stone and glass as if they were part of the city itself. It was wild, it was ancient, it was alive.

And in the center of it all stood Poseidon.

He was taller here, more vast, the sea itself shaped into a man. His hair rippled like waves under moonlight, and his eyes—storm-gray and fathomless—softened when they found Percy. For once, there was no sternness, no distance. Only pride.

“My son,” Poseidon said, voice like the tide rushing home.

Percy barely had time to blink before strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a hug that smelled of brine and deep water. For a moment, Percy froze—his dad had never hugged him like this. Then he let himself sink into it, chest aching, tears stinging his eyes.

“You made it,” Poseidon murmured, his voice low, meant only for Percy. “You chose to live.”

Before Percy could answer, another figure stepped forward. Amphitrite, queen of the sea, was radiant in flowing robes the color of foam, her dark hair crowned with pearls. Percy braced himself—he’d always imagined she hated him, resented his existence.

But her smile was soft, her gaze steady. She reached out, and when her fingers brushed his cheek, it wasn’t cold, but gentle. “Welcome home, Perseus.”

The words struck him harder than any monster ever had.

Behind her, Triton approached, trident strapped across his back, his expression wary but not hostile. A few younger siblings peeked out from behind him—boys with Poseidon’s sharp jaw, girls with hair like rippling waves. They whispered to each other, eyes wide, curious.

Percy felt heat rise in his face. “Uh. Hi.”

Triton studied him, then gave a short nod. “Brother.”

It wasn’t warm, exactly—but it wasn’t rejection either. And in Percy’s world, that was more than enough.

The city itself seemed to react to his arrival. Lights flared brighter, dolphins leapt higher, as if Atlantis itself was welcoming him. And Percy, for the first time in what felt like forever, let the joy soak in.

He wasn’t a pawn here. Not a prophecy. Not a weapon. Just a boy who was wanted.

Percy grinned, the expression strange and wonderful on his tired face. “Okay,” he whispered to himself, eyes wide as he took in the impossible city. “This doesn’t suck.”

Poseidon laughed, deep and booming, echoing across the pearl-paved streets. Amphitrite’s smile widened. And for that moment, happiness radiated through the waters of Atlantis like sunlight breaking through the waves.

Triton led the way out of the throne hall, his trident strapped across his back. He was taller than Percy, older too—his presence radiated command in a way that reminded Percy uncomfortably of some of the older campers back at Camp Half-Blood.

But unlike them, Triton wasn’t glaring at him, or sneering, or looking down his nose. He was just… quiet. Measuring.

Percy hurried to keep up. “So… you’re, uh, my brother?”

Triton’s jaw ticked, then he gave a short nod. “Yes.”

Percy expected more—some bitterness, maybe resentment. Instead, Triton simply added, “It is strange to say aloud.”

Percy laughed under his breath. “Tell me about it. My family tree looks like it went through a wood chipper.”

That startled a small smile out of Triton. “You are blunt.”

“You’re welcome,” Percy said, grinning.

The silence after that felt lighter.

The palace was a marvel. Triton guided Percy through glowing halls of pearl and coral, pointing out landmarks with the tone of someone used to being obeyed.

“This is the Hall of Currents. Councilors gather here to advise Father on the seas.”

They passed a chamber where walls of water rippled with moving maps, currents flowing across them like living diagrams. Percy gawked openly. “And I thought capture the flag was complicated.”

Triton arched a brow. “Capture the…?”

“Never mind.”

They reached Percy’s chambers, and Percy froze in the doorway.

His room gleamed with soft light, everything carved smooth and beautiful. A bed wider than anything he’d ever slept in. A balcony that opened directly to the ocean. Shelves already lined with seashells and polished coral, like it was waiting just for him.

He blinked rapidly. “This… this is mine?”

“Father ordered it so,” Triton said simply. “No one else enters these chambers without your leave.”

Percy swallowed. He wanted to make a joke, say something dumb like ‘I’ve had broom closets bigger than my old room.’ But his throat burned too much for humor. For the first time in years, he looked at a place and thought: Home.

Triton must’ve seen something in his face, because his voice softened. “It suits you.”

Percy gave him a shaky smile. “Thanks. For showing me around. And… for not being a jerk about me showing up out of nowhere.”

Triton tilted his head, expression serious. “Why would I? You are my brother. That is enough.”

The words hit Percy harder than any sword strike. He thought of his mortal life—alone, bullied, shoved into closets, fighting wars because no one else could. He’d never had a brother to stand beside him.

Now, suddenly, he did.

Percy grinned, warmth rising in his chest. “Okay, then. Brothers.”

Triton studied him for a long moment… then clasped his forearm, warrior-style. Percy clasped back, and the water around them seemed to shimmer brighter, as if the sea itself approved.

For the first time in forever, Percy wasn’t just a soldier. He was family.

At first, Percy thought Atlantis was perfect.

Every corner of the city was alive. He swam through streets that glittered with mosaics, passed markets where merfolk bartered with glowing pearls, drifted through gardens where anemones and kelp swayed like chandeliers. No monsters lurked in the shadows, no prophecies whispered in the air. For the first time in years, Percy could breathe without waiting for the next battle.

But breathing soon turned into sighing.

The palace had schedules. Routines. Tutors arrived with scrolls about politics of the rivers and the tides, priests of the sea explained ceremonial duties, and banquets were endless—hours of sitting still while sea-lords bowed and made speeches Percy couldn’t follow. He was dressed in silks, paraded as “Prince Perseus,” and expected to smile while eating foods he couldn’t even pronounce.

After a week, Percy found himself sneaking out of lessons, wandering down side corridors just to escape.

Triton always found him.

Once, Percy was hiding behind a kelp curtain when Triton parted it with a deadpan look. “Skipping diplomacy lessons?”

“Absolutely not,” Percy said, failing to look innocent. “I’m… uh… researching native plant life.”

Triton stared at him. Then, to Percy’s surprise, he chuckled. “You sound like me when I was your age.”

“Really?” Percy asked.

“No,” Triton admitted. His lips twitched. “But I like the excuse.”

Some days were better. At meals, Amphitrite sat across from him, calm and serene, never once making Percy feel unwelcome. She’d ask about his day, about his mother in the mortal world, about what he missed most. It always left Percy flustered—he wasn’t used to gods caring about him.

Poseidon was worse. Or better. He bragged. Loudly. At one feast, he lifted a goblet and declared, “Behold my son, Perseus! Twice savior of Olympus, breaker of titans, bane of giants, and heir of the sea!”

Percy nearly choked on a grape. Triton thumped his back until he stopped coughing, muttering, “Father has never been subtle.”

Later, when Percy groaned, “He’s going to make everyone hate me,” Triton shook his head. “No. They will envy you. But they will not hate you.”

Even when Atlantis felt too much—too grand, too formal—Triton was there to balance it. He trained with Percy in the practice halls, sparring with tridents and swords, teaching him the older fighting forms of the sea.

“You’re reckless,” Triton observed as Percy charged forward in a duel.

“Thanks,” Percy panted.

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Triton swept his legs out from under him.

Flat on the pearl floor, Percy laughed anyway. “Still feels like one.”

Triton offered him a hand up, shaking his head. “You are impossible.” But there was fondness in his tone now, a warmth Percy had never expected from the half-brother he once feared meeting.

Peace, Percy realized, wasn’t easy. Peace could be boring, frustrating, even suffocating. But here in Atlantis, with Triton laughing at his lame excuses and Amphitrite’s calm presence, with Poseidon’s pride ringing in his ears… maybe he could learn what peace meant.

Percy wandered the palace gardens late one evening, trailing his fingers along the glowing fronds of kelp. The water here was warmer, tinged with faint currents of magic. Anemones blossomed open when he passed, crabs scuttled between shells, and tiny fish darted in the wake of his movements like sparks.

It was so peaceful it almost hurt.

Back in his world, nights had been filled with watchfires, monster howls, the weight of swords at his side. Here, the only sound was the soft whisper of the sea. He could almost believe he belonged. Almost.

“You are restless.”

The voice was soft, steady as a tide. Percy turned and found Amphitrite standing nearby, framed by the glow of a coral arch. She was regal even without a crown, her long hair drifting like waves, her robes woven from threads of foam. For a heartbeat, Percy froze. He hadn’t spoken to her much beyond polite greetings. He hadn’t dared.

“Uh—sorry,” Percy muttered. “Am I not supposed to be here?”

Amphitrite shook her head. “This is your home as much as mine. You may walk where you wish.”

That alone nearly floored him. He wasn’t used to gods letting him belong.

She approached slowly, her movements fluid, like water had shaped her body itself. When she reached him, she tilted her head, studying him with eyes the color of deep tidepools. “You are not used to this, are you?”

Percy blinked. “To… gardens?”

Her lips curved faintly. “To peace.”

Percy swallowed. He wanted to deny it, to brush it off with some dumb joke—but under her gaze, he couldn’t. “No,” he admitted. His voice came out smaller than he liked. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

Amphitrite sat gracefully on a bench carved of coral, gesturing for him to join her. Hesitant, Percy sank down beside her. For a moment they sat in silence, listening to the hum of distant whalesong.

Finally, Amphitrite spoke. “I remember everything.”

Percy’s chest tightened. “Everything?”

“Yes.” Her gaze softened. “Your wars. Your sacrifices. How you stood alone, again and again, to save even those who did not deserve you. The Moirai gave us memory. We know what you endured.”

Percy hunched his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of her knowing all of it—the monsters, Tartarus, the parts that still woke him screaming. “So… you hate me, then? For being proof your husband—” He bit his tongue, wishing he hadn’t said it.

But Amphitrite’s expression didn’t harden. It gentled. “No. I do not hate you.”

Percy blinked.

“Do you think me so small?” she asked, almost amused. “I am queen of the seas, Percy. I have known Poseidon’s nature since the first wave kissed the shore. And I have known loss. You are not shame. You are life.”

Her words hit harder than any blade. Percy stared at her, stunned, throat thick.

Amphitrite reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with cool fingers. “Here, you are not a pawn. You are not a hero. You are not a weapon. You are simply our son.”

Percy’s breath caught. “Son,” he echoed, as if testing the word.

She nodded. “Yes. My son. Our son.”

Tears blurred his vision before he could stop them. He ducked his head, embarrassed, but Amphitrite simply pulled him closer, tucking him gently against her side. He stiffened at first—he wasn’t used to this kind of tenderness—but the steady beat of her presence soothed him, and soon he let himself lean in.

“You carry too much grief for one so young,” she murmured into his hair. “Set it down here. The sea will hold it.”

Percy let out a shaky laugh that was half a sob. “You’re… you’re really okay with me being here?”

Amphitrite smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I am more than okay. You are a gift. You are the child who survived when even gods would have broken. And now, you are ours.”

Percy closed his eyes. For the first time in years, the knot in his chest loosened. He wasn’t just Poseidon’s kid. He wasn’t a mistake. He was wanted.

When Amphitrite finally pulled back, she studied his face and brushed the tears from his cheeks. “Do not fear peace, Percy. It does not mean weakness. It means you have lived long enough to deserve it.”

He tried to laugh, but his voice shook. “I think I could get used to this.”

“You will,” she promised.

And as they sat together in the glowing kelp garden, Percy felt something he thought he’d lost forever: happiness, deep and radiant, filling him like sunlight through the waves.

Olympus shimmered with light. The great hall was strung with garlands of fire and starlight, its marble pillars glowing gold under the torch flames. Harps played softly, laughter echoed, and goblets overflowed with ambrosia. Tonight was not war council, not judgment. Tonight was celebration.

And Percy was invited.

He stood a little behind Poseidon’s throne at first, tugging awkwardly at the sea-green chiton someone had stuffed him into. The fabric felt strange, too fine, but the smell of roasted meats and baked honey-bread was enough to distract him. His stomach growled, betraying him, and Triton smirked at his side.

“Don’t worry,” his brother muttered. “Here, food is always first. Politics comes later.”

That, Percy decided, was the best sentence he’d heard in weeks.

The Olympians who remembered him were easy to spot. Hera inclined her head graciously as Percy passed; Athena gave him a calculating nod, approval glinting in her gray eyes; Apollo grinned as if he wanted to clap Percy on the back. Ares even gave a crooked smirk, muttering something like “still standing, huh?”

But the rest of the gods? They barely noticed him.

Minor deities swirled through the hall—river lords, nymphs of mountain springs, daimones of wine and plenty. They laughed and drank, arguing over harvests, toasting Apollo’s latest song, debating which mortal kingdom was rising fastest. Percy wasn’t the center of anything.

And it was glorious.

No one pointed, whispered, That’s the boy from the prophecy. No one asked him to lead, to fight, to save them. He was just Poseidon’s son, an unfamiliar face at the edge of the feast.

Percy found himself grinning into his goblet of watered wine.

A minor goddess with hair like wheat leaned over from her seat and asked politely, “And you are?”

“Percyon,” he said, then added quickly with a grin, “you can call me Percy.” Relief bubbling under his words. Not Perseus, not Hero, not Savior. Just Percy.

She smiled. “Then welcome, Percy.” And just like that, turned back to her conversation about grain.

Triton nudged him with his elbow. “Strange, isn’t it? To be overlooked.”

Percy laughed, shaking his head. “You have no idea how nice it is.”

“I think I do,” Triton said quietly, and for the first time, Percy thought his brother’s shoulders looked a little less burdened too.

As the night wore on, Percy drifted between groups. Dionysus waved him over, shoved a plate of grapes in his hands, then ignored him in favor of boasting about his latest vintage. Artemis gave him a sharp once-over but said nothing, disappearing back into the circle of her Hunters. Even Hermes, normally all teeth and chaos, only winked and asked if Percy wanted extra dessert before vanishing into the crowd.

No speeches. No prophecies. No expectations.

Just a boy at a party.

Later, sitting cross-legged on the marble floor with Triton and a few minor sea-gods, Percy laughed until his sides hurt at some terrible fish pun one of them made. His cheeks ached from smiling. When he glanced toward Poseidon, his father was watching from his throne—eyes soft, pride quiet this time. No booming declarations. No grand speeches. Just a father seeing his son happy.

The days after the feast blurred into a rhythm Percy hadn’t known he craved. Mornings in the training hall with Triton, afternoons slipping away to explore coral gardens, evenings in the banquet hall where he could laugh without someone reminding him of prophecies.

It was peace. Actual peace.

And yet—Percy felt the restlessness creeping in.

It started small: tapping his foot during diplomacy lessons, staring too long at the shimmering gate of water beyond his balcony, sneaking out to swim farther than Triton liked. His blood itched, his heart pulled toward horizons he couldn’t see. The ocean was vast, endless, and Atlantis—beautiful as it was—sat anchored to one spot.

One night, he found himself standing on his balcony, staring into the dark blue beyond. The current tugged faintly at his hair, whispering. The mortal world was out there. He could feel it.

“You hear it too.”

Percy flinched. He turned and saw Poseidon in the doorway, framed by the soft light of coral lamps. His father wore no crown tonight, no armor—just a plain tunic, his feet bare against the pearl floor.

“The sea?” Percy asked.

Poseidon stepped onto the balcony, gaze stretching toward the endless water. “The call of the horizon. It does not leave us, not even here. We are children of tide and current, Perseus. We are not meant to stay still.”

Percy swallowed. “So it’s not just me going stir-crazy?”

His father’s mouth twitched. “Stir-crazy? No. Restless? Always.” He laid a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. “You were not made for courts and scrolls. You were made for waves and storms. That is no shame.”

Percy let out a shaky laugh. “I thought I was failing at all this ‘prince’ stuff.”

“You are succeeding,” Poseidon said simply. “Because you know yourself. Atlantis will always welcome you, but the sea is wide. If you wish to walk among mortals, the choice is yours.”

Percy stared at him. “You’d let me?”

“Let?” Poseidon’s storm-gray eyes softened. “I would want you to. What use is the sea if it cannot touch the shore? Go, my son. Walk the land. Learn its rhythms. Meet its people. Let the world show you who you are when you are not carrying it on your back.”

Something in Percy’s chest cracked open. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear those words. Not an order, not a prophecy. Just… permission.

He blinked back sudden tears. “Thanks, Dad.”

Poseidon’s hand squeezed his shoulder, warm and solid as bedrock. “The tide will always return you to me. Do not fear being lost.”

Percy let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Beyond the balcony, the dark horizon shimmered, waiting.

The surface broke around him with a hiss of foam, and Percy gasped as air filled his lungs.

He floated for a moment in the shallows, letting the salt wind sting his face, the sunlight beat down on his shoulders. The water clung to him reluctantly, as if it hated to let him go, but Percy pushed forward until his feet sank into warm sand.

Land.

It felt… different. Not like the modern world he’d grown up in. The beach stretched untouched, wild and endless. No skyscrapers on the horizon. No boats carving trails through the sea. Just dunes dotted with scrub, cliffs rising in the distance, and a wide-open sky.

Every breath was heavier here, thick with the scent of grass and woodsmoke from far inland. The earth under his toes hummed in a way he’d never noticed before—ancient, stubborn, alive.

He took a cautious step. The sand shifted, gritty and real. Another step, and the tide lapped at his heels like it didn’t want him to leave. Percy smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back.”

The words weren’t for anyone in particular. Maybe for his father. Maybe for the sea.

He walked slowly up the beach, feeling every detail like it was the first time: the scratch of dune grass against his fingers, the warmth of sunlight drying salt from his skin, the sound of gulls crying overhead. He crouched at a tidepool, watching a crab scuttle sideways, and grinned. Some things never changed.

But other things had.

Farther inland, smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Wooden farmhouses dotted the hillsides, their thatched roofs golden under the sun. Men in tunics led goats along dirt paths. Women carried baskets of olives and grain. The smell of fresh bread drifted on the breeze.

Percy’s chest tightened. It was so… simple. So human. No cars, no city buzz, no cell phones. Just life, unhurried and steady.

He wondered if this was what the gods had meant by peace.

A farmer spotted him on the ridge and raised a hand in greeting, as casually as if strange boys walked out of the sea every day. Percy waved back, stunned at the lack of suspicion. No one stared. No one whispered. He was just another traveler.

For once, that was all he wanted to be.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the hills in gold, Percy followed a narrow path inland. His heart raced with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

It was late afternoon when the stranger came.

The men of the village had been mending nets, the women laying out olives and bread for the evening meal, when one of the children shouted from the ridge. A boy was walking down from the shore, the sunlight behind him turning his hair to dark bronze, water dripping from his tunic as if he had risen from the waves themselves.

The villagers stilled.

A woman carrying olives whispered first: “He came from the sea.”

The words spread like fire through dry reeds. Theos. A god.

Some bowed at once, pressing foreheads to the earth. Others only stared, afraid to move. The old priest muttered prayers under his breath, his hands shaking.

The boy blinked at them, startled, as if he had not expected to be seen at all. His eyes were green-gray like stormy water, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, awkward—yet steady. “I… came from the shore.”

That was all, but it was enough.

The villagers crowded closer, marveling at him. The scent of salt clung to him, fresh and wild, as though the tide itself had followed him inland. His skin gleamed faintly, touched with light that was not of the sun. Children clutched at his hands, tugging shyly at his damp sleeve, whispering that he smelled like rain.

Someone said, “He is a blessing.”

The old priest straightened, voice trembling. “He walks under Poseidon’s protection. Perhaps he is one of the sea’s own sons.”

At that, the boy flushed red, shaking his head quickly. “No, not—” He stopped, then gave a crooked smile. “Just Percy. That’s fine.”

Percy. They repeated the name like a prayer, soft and reverent.

They would not let him leave hungry. He was guided to the central square, seated beneath the olive tree, where baskets of bread and cheese and lamb were set before him. The boy hesitated—then laughed, sheepish, and ate with the clumsy eagerness of someone who had not been offered kindness in too long.

The villagers watched him closely, not as they would a lord, but as they would a sign. He listened when the children asked about dolphins, and his grin was so easy, so bright, it startled them. “They sing all the time,” he said, and the crowd laughed as if he’d told the most marvelous tale.

When asked about the ocean’s edge, his gaze went distant, like someone who had seen too far. “It goes farther than the stars can see,” he said softly. And the villagers shivered, not in fear, but in awe.

As dusk fell, they offered him a bed, but he shook his head, smiling that same gentle smile. “The sea calls me back.”

So they gave him what they could carry—bread, olives, blessings whispered into his hands. Children followed him to the grove’s edge, their laughter fading into the night as he walked away.

When the boy vanished into the hills, the village buzzed with whispers.

“Did we see a god?”

“Or only a child of the sea?”

“It matters not,” the priest said, eyes shining. “He was a gift, if only for a night. Remember this: sometimes the gods walk as boys, and sometimes boys walk like gods.”

And in the days that followed, the tale of the sea’s son spread along the coast.

Chapter Text

The sand was warm beneath his feet, the tide hissing as it stretched and withdrew. Percy followed the curve of the beach, letting the wind tug at his hair, until a sound stopped him.

Crying.

It was soft, nearly lost to the crash of the surf, but Percy knew it instantly. He’d heard it in camp, in battlefields, in himself. The sound of someone trying not to be heard.

He turned and saw her.

A girl sat near the water’s edge, skirts pulled tight around her legs, shoulders hunched. She was young—thirteen, maybe—her golden hair a tangled halo in the salt wind. Her face was buried in her arms, and though the sea glittered brilliantly around her, she looked impossibly small, like a seashell left forgotten on the shore.

For a moment, Percy hesitated. He wasn’t sure if she wanted company. He wasn’t even sure what he could say. But his feet moved anyway, drawn by something he couldn’t name.

He crouched a little distance away and spoke gently, “Hey. You okay?”

The girl stiffened, head snapping up. Her eyes were startlingly blue, rimmed with tears, sharp even through her sadness. She scrubbed at her cheeks quickly, lifting her chin with a pride that looked too heavy for someone her age.

“I am fine,” she said, her voice shaking but firm, as if daring him to argue.

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you’re sitting here crying alone.”

For a heartbeat, he thought she’d snap at him. Instead, she let out a startled laugh, half-sob, half-giggle. She swiped at her eyes again, muttering, “You are bold, stranger.”

Percy shrugged, easing down into the sand beside her—not close enough to crowd, but near enough she wouldn’t feel abandoned. “Not bold. Just honest. And maybe a little nosy.”

That earned him another small laugh, less shaky this time.

They sat in silence for a moment, the tide curling up toward their toes. Percy glanced sideways. “So… what’s your name?”

The girl hesitated, as if weighing whether she could trust him. Finally she said, “Helen. My father is Tyndareus, king of Sparta.”

Percy blinked. He knew the name from half-remembered stories in Latin class. But the girl in front of him wasn’t a legend. She was just a kid, red-eyed and sniffling, hugging her knees.

“Well, Helen of Sparta,” Percy said carefully, “I’m Percyon.” Then he grinned. “But you can call me Percy. Everyone does.”

She repeated it slowly, testing the syllables. “Percy. It is… softer. Kinder.”

Percy wrinkled his nose. “Better than ‘Percyon.’ Sounds like I should be eighty years old and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.”

Helen giggled, the sound bright and unguarded. The tension in her shoulders eased a little.

After a while, Percy asked softly, “Do you want to tell me why you were crying?”

Helen’s gaze dropped to the waves, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirt. “My father says I must marry one day. Already the men speak of me as if I am—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “As if I am a prize for the taking.”

Her voice carried more anger than fear. But beneath it, Percy heard the tremor of a girl who just wanted to be seen as herself.

“That’s… messed up,” Percy said honestly. “You’re thirteen. You should be worrying about… I don’t know, playing tag or whatever kids did back then.”

She tilted her head, puzzled by his phrasing, but smiled faintly. “I do not wish to be admired so. Sometimes I dream of being plain. Then no man would want me, and I would be free.”

Percy’s chest ached. He thought of Annabeth, of all the weight her brilliance had put on her shoulders. He thought of himself, carrying a prophecy before he even hit high school. He understood more than he wanted to.

“Plain wouldn’t suit you,” he said quietly. “But I get it. People looking at you and only seeing what they want… not you.”

Helen turned to him, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Yes. You understand.”

Percy dug his fingers into the sand, feeling the grit. “Yeah. People have been telling me who I’m supposed to be my whole life. Hero, leader, savior. Gets old fast.”

Her expression softened, and for the first time she looked less like a girl weighed down by her beauty, and more like… just a girl.

They talked until the tide lapped at their ankles. Helen told him about the palace gardens, how she snuck out to sit on the beach when the walls felt too close. Percy told her about dolphins that wouldn’t shut up, about the way the sea could feel like a lullaby if you listened right. She laughed more and more, her tears drying, her eyes bright.

Finally, Helen sat back, brushing the sand from her hands. “Perhaps… perhaps we can be friends, Percy of the sea.”

Percy grinned, something warm sparking in his chest. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The waves whispered approval as they crashed, retreating into foam. The sun dipped low, painting Helen’s hair in gold, and Percy thought—without knowing why—that this moment would matter for the rest of his life.

Percy came back the next day. And the day after that.

At first, he wasn’t sure Helen would want to see him again. But when he appeared on the beach, she was already waiting, sitting cross-legged in the sand, her hair braided this time, a cautious smile tugging at her lips.

“You came back,” she said, as if surprised.

“Of course I did,” Percy answered, grinning. “Friends don’t just vanish.”

From then on, it became their ritual.

Sometimes, they walked along the shore barefoot, chasing the tide as it fled and laughing when it caught them by surprise. Helen would shriek and splash him with seawater, Percy splashing back twice as much until they both collapsed in the sand, soaked and breathless.

Other days, they sat in the dunes, sharing stories. Helen spoke of the palace gardens, of her brothers Castor and Pollux, of how the servants whispered that one day she would be queen. Percy listened quietly, never interrupting, never calling her “beautiful” the way everyone else did. To him, she was just Helen, who got sand stuck in her braids and laughed too loud when he tripped over driftwood.

In return, Percy told her about dolphins who liked to prank swimmers, about the way storms smelled before they broke, about silly sea creatures who thought pearls were food. He never mentioned his other life—the wars, the monsters, the losses. This was their bubble, untouched by shadows.

They played, too. Helen showed him how to weave flowers into crowns; Percy wore his lopsided one proudly until it fell into the waves. Percy taught her how to skip stones, though she insisted the water cheated in his favor. Once, he carved her a small seashell charm with his knife, and she wore it on a cord around her neck as if it were treasure.

“Now we match,” she said, holding it up proudly beside the beads on Percy’s camp necklace.

Percy didn’t correct her, didn’t tell her those beads were relics of battles and pain. He only smiled and said, “Yeah. We do.”

Weeks turned into months, and their friendship only grew. Percy learned Helen’s laughter by heart, the way her eyes lit when she was excited, the way her voice dropped to a whisper when she shared her fears. Helen learned Percy’s sarcasm, his bad jokes, his soft silences.

She stopped crying on the beach. With Percy at her side, she didn’t have to.

Sometimes, Helen would sigh and say, “I wish the world could stay like this forever. Just us, the sea, and nothing else.”

Percy would smile, watching the waves. “Me too.”

And he meant it.

It was Helen’s idea, of course.

She tugged Percy’s hand excitedly as they slipped through a narrow servant’s gate in the palace wall, her braid bouncing against her back. “Come,” she whispered, eyes bright. “I want to show you the gardens.”

Percy cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. “You’re sure this is a good idea? I’m not exactly blending in here.”

Helen grinned. “You worry too much, Percy. You will love it.”

And she wasn’t wrong. The gardens were beautiful—groves of olive and fig trees, marble paths winding past fountains that sang with falling water. Flowers bloomed everywhere, splashing color across the night. Percy’s breath caught. “Whoa. This is… yeah, this is worth sneaking in for.”

Helen preened at his reaction, twirling in her dress. “See? I knew you would think so.”

They wandered for a while, laughing too loud, feeding crumbs to doves, daring each other to climb statues. Percy relaxed despite himself—until a voice rang sharp through the garden.

“You there! Who goes in the king’s grounds without leave?”

Percy froze. Two guards rounded the path, spears gleaming in the moonlight. Helen’s face went pale.

“Uh,” Percy started, but Helen jumped forward, lifting her chin with all the dignity she could muster. “It is I, Helen, daughter of Tyndareus. The boy is my guest—”

Percy cut her off quickly, stepping between her and the guards. “No. It’s my fault. I snuck in.”

Helen blinked at him, startled. “Percy—”

He gave her a tiny shake of the head. Let me.

The guards scowled, leveling their spears. “You admit it, boy? You trespassed?”

“Yeah,” Percy said, forcing himself to meet their eyes. “I wanted to see the gardens. She only found me after.” He lifted his hands, palms out. “Don’t blame her. She had nothing to do with it.”

The guards muttered to each other. Finally, one barked, “Leave at once. If you are caught again, you will answer to the king himself.”

Percy bowed clumsily—because that seemed like the thing to do—then grabbed Helen’s hand and pulled her toward the gate.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the beach, the sand cool beneath their feet. Helen rounded on him, furious. “Why did you do that? They will think you a thief!”

Percy shrugged, still catching his breath. “Better me than you. You’re the king’s daughter. I’m just some nobody who wandered in.”

Her eyes flashed. “You are not a nobody!”

Percy grinned crookedly. “Compared to a princess? Yeah, I kind of am.”

Helen stared at him, torn between anger and gratitude. At last, she huffed and crossed her arms. “You are impossible.”

“Thanks.”

She tried to glare, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. She laughed despite herself, and Percy laughed with her, relief flooding his chest.

Still, Percy stayed away from the palace for the next few days. He didn’t want Helen to get in trouble again. He kept to the coves and tidepools, watching the gulls, waiting.

When Helen finally appeared again on the shore, running barefoot across the sand, Percy felt the tension melt from his shoulders. She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless.

“They have forgotten it already,” she said quickly. “No one speaks of it now. We are safe.”

Percy’s grin came easy. “Good. I was starting to get bored without you.”

Helen rolled her eyes, but her smile was radiant. She plopped down in the sand beside him, brushing her hair from her face. “Never do that again,” she said softly. “Never take the blame for me.”

Percy leaned back on his elbows, smirking at the waves. “Sorry, can’t promise that. Friends look out for each other. That’s just how it works.”

Helen glanced at him, her expression warm and a little wonderstruck. For the first time, maybe, she believed him.

And from that night on, she never doubted that Percy would always be on her side.

The days blurred into weeks, the weeks into months, and before Percy realized it, nearly two years had slipped past since that first meeting on the beach.

The first spring came alive with flowers along the dunes. Helen braided them into Percy’s hair, laughing when he groaned at how ridiculous he looked. In return, Percy taught her to fish with her hands in the tidepools, though she shrieked and let go every time the fish wriggled free. They spent hours climbing the olive trees near the palace walls, daring each other higher until servants shouted for Helen to come down before she broke her neck.

“Do you always disobey rules this much?” Percy asked one afternoon, breathless as they jumped down from a branch.

Helen smirked. “Only when they are boring.”

Percy decided he liked that answer very much.

Summer brought heat so thick the air shimmered. They spent whole days by the sea, diving and swimming until the sun sank low. Helen was a strong swimmer for a mortal, and Percy found himself slowing down so she wouldn’t feel left behind.

Once, they sprawled in the sand, watching gulls circle overhead. Helen turned her head and said softly, “When I am queen one day, will you still come here? Or will you forget me?”

Percy propped himself on one elbow, startled. “Forget you? No chance. You’re stuck with me, princess.”

Helen smiled, and that smile carried him through the long days when Atlantis felt too heavy.

When the leaves in the palace groves turned bronze and red, Helen dragged Percy into Sparta’s harvest festival. He stuck out like a sore thumb, a strange boy no one could place, but Helen introduced him boldly as “my friend Percy.” They feasted on roasted goat and figs until Percy nearly burst, and Helen laughed so hard she fell off the bench when he tried—and failed—to play one of the shepherds’ reed flutes.

Winter storms rolled in from the sea. Percy often came drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, but Helen always waited by the beach fires. Sometimes they built small shelters from driftwood and sat inside, telling stories to pass the time until the rain cleared. Helen liked when Percy described faraway oceans, places she’d never see. Percy liked when Helen made up wild tales about the constellations, weaving myths on the spot just to make him laugh.

Time marched on. Helen grew taller, her face maturing into the beginnings of the beauty poets would one day sing about. Percy noticed, of course, but never treated her differently. To him, she was still the girl who splashed him in the tide and rolled her eyes at his bad jokes. That, Helen decided, was why she liked him best.

On Percy’s fifteenth birthday—his first since arriving in the past—Helen surprised him with a garland of woven sea-grass and a clay cup painted with waves. “For the son of the sea,” she teased, placing the garland on his head.

Percy flushed, grinning despite himself. “Best birthday present ever. Thanks, Helen.”

She only smiled, but there was a glint in her eyes he didn’t understand.

Nearly two years passed like that: sunlight and storms, laughter and secrets, friendship so natural it felt inevitable.

The sun slanted low through the palace windows, painting the stone floors in bands of gold. Helen stood stiffly before her father’s chair, her hands clasped tight in front of her skirts. Tyndareus, king of Sparta, leaned on his staff, his face lined and grave.

“It is time,” he said simply. “You are no longer a child. Men will come to Sparta seeking your hand, and I must give them answer.”

Helen’s heart hammered. She had known this moment was coming, had dreaded it with every passing season. Still, hearing the words made her throat close. “You mean to marry me off like… like some prize at the games.”

Tyndareus sighed, the sound heavy. “You are a princess. More than that—you are beautiful beyond measure. Do you think kings would not notice? Already they send word. If I do not act, Greece itself will quarrel over you.”

Helen’s eyes stung. She lifted her chin. “Then let me choose. If I must be given, at least let me have that.”

For a long moment, her father studied her. At last, he nodded, slowly, heavily. “One suitor. One of your choosing. The choice of husband will be mine and mine alone.”

Relief surged through Helen, chased quickly by fear. One suitor. One choice. One chance to claim a sliver of freedom.

She bowed her head. “Thank you, Father.”

But as she left the chamber, her hands were trembling. There was only one person she trusted to stand with her in this.

Percy was skipping stones by the shore when he heard it: footsteps pounding the sand, ragged breaths, and then—“Percy!”

He straightened just in time to see Helen running toward him. Her braids were coming undone, her cheeks streaked with tears. She stumbled to a stop, clutching at his arm as if the sea itself were dragging her down.

“Hey, hey.” Percy caught her shoulders, steadying her. “What happened?”

Helen’s words tumbled out, broken by sobs. “My father—he says I must marry. The suitors will come, all of Greece! And he gave me… he gave me only one choice. One suitor I may choose for myself.”

Percy froze, trying to take it in. “Wait. He’s—he’s making you pick a husband? Now?”

Helen buried her face against his shoulder, trembling. “I am only fourteen! And they will all be older—kings, lords, warriors. They will see me as nothing but a prize.”

Percy’s throat tightened. She sounded so small, so young, and he hated it. He pulled her into a firmer embrace, rubbing slow circles across her back. “I’m sorry, Helen. That’s… that’s messed up. You don’t deserve that.”

Her voice came muffled, raw. “I cannot do it alone. Please—please, Percy. Be there with me. Stand among them. If I have you beside me, I will not be afraid.”

Percy’s heart lurched. “Me? Helen, I’m not—look, I’m not even into girls. I can’t—”

Helen’s hands gripped his tunic desperately. “You wont be chosen. I know my father… But still stand there, so I will have at least one friend among the wolves.”

Percy swallowed hard. She was asking him to walk straight into history, into a contest that would shape kingdoms. But when he looked down at her tear-streaked face, all he saw was the girl who braided flowers into his hair and laughed at his terrible jokes.

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll be there. I’ll stand with you.”

Relief crashed through her like a tide. She pulled back, eyes shining with fresh tears—not of fear this time, but of gratitude. “Thank you, Percy. You are the only one I trust.”

Percy smiled faintly, brushing the sand from her hair. “Hey. Friends don’t let friends face scary stuff alone. That’s the rule.”

Helen gave a watery laugh, clinging to his hand as the waves whispered at their feet. And though the weight of fate pressed closer than ever, Percy only thought: whatever comes, she won’t face it without me.

Back in Atlantis, Percy sat slouched at the dining table, pushing around a plate of seaweed bread while Triton stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You’re doing what?” Triton finally said.

Percy groaned. “I didn’t exactly volunteer. Helen asked me. She’s terrified, and—what was I supposed to do? Say no?”

Amphitrite, seated gracefully at Poseidon’s side, set down her goblet. “She is mortal. This is mortal law. Why should you endanger yourself for their games?”

Percy hesitated. “Because she’s my friend. And she trusts me. That’s enough.”

Silence fell, broken only by the distant murmur of currents against the palace walls. Poseidon leaned back in his coral-carved throne, storm-gray eyes narrowing.

“You would stand as one of her suitors,” he said slowly, “among kings and princes who will fight tooth and nail for her hand.”

Percy shifted uneasily. “Not really as a suitor. I promised Helen I’d be there, but I don’t want to win. I just… need to stand with her. She’ll feel less alone that way.”

Triton muttered something about reckless little brothers, but Amphitrite’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “That is loyalty,” she said. “But loyalty alone will not shield you. If you stand among kings, you must appear as one.”

Poseidon nodded firmly. “She is right. You cannot go as ‘Percy, a strange boy from the sea.’ Questions would be endless. You need a name, a bloodline, a throne. Luckily”—a smile tugged at his mouth—“I have just the place.”

Percy blinked. “You’ve… thought about this?”

“Of course I have,” Poseidon rumbled. “Do you think I would let my son walk into a den of wolves without armor? Aegae will be your cover. A small but ancient island-kingdom on the coast, known for its loyalty to the sea. Few know its true rulers. You will be Prince Percyon of Aegae, son of a mortal queen who rules under my protection.”

Triton grinned, half-mocking. “Prince Percyon. Has a nice ring to it. Try not to trip over your own sandals at the banquet.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Prince Percyon. Guess that makes me official.”

Poseidon leaned forward, expression uncharacteristically serious. “Listen well, my son. Your story must be clear: you are young, untested, but favored by the sea. That will earn you respect, but also suspicion. Do not flaunt your power. Do not draw eyes. You are there for Helen, nothing more.”

Percy swallowed hard. “Got it. Don’t screw up. Don’t look too special.”

“Exactly.” Poseidon’s tone softened, and he reached across the table, clasping Percy’s shoulder with a hand strong as stone. “But remember this too: no matter how high the kings roar, you are my son. That truth is stronger than any cover story.”

Amphitrite’s gaze softened further. “And you are not alone. Should trouble come, Atlantis will not abandon you.”

Percy felt the knot of nerves in his stomach loosen, just a little. He smiled, tired but grateful. “Thanks. Really.”

Triton smirked and raised his goblet. “To Prince Percyon of Aegae. May you survive the most dangerous battlefield of all—politics.”

Percy groaned, burying his face in his hands, while Poseidon’s laughter rolled like distant thunder through the hall.

Chapter Text

The courtyard of Sparta rang with the sound of bronze-shod hooves and the clash of spear butts against stone. Kings and princes arrived one by one, banners snapping in the breeze, entourages at their heels.

Odysseus of Ithaca watched them all with practiced calm, though his mind ticked ceaselessly. Agamemnon, broad-shouldered and loud, already trying to dominate the gathering with his booming voice. Menelaus, charming in his shallow way, too polished by far, already preening under the servants’ admiring stares. Ajax the Great—towering, blunt as a battering ram. Ajax the Lesser—smirking, too clever by half, as if mocking even his own presence. Diomedes, sharp-eyed, ambitious, every word calculated to prove Argos’s worth. Idomeneus, proud of Crete, pride bordering on arrogance.

Even Nestor had come, the old wolf of Pylos, leaning on his staff but still fierce of eye.

Odysseus filed them all away, measuring strengths, weaknesses, rivalries. Already he could see how the room would fracture—Agamemnon squaring off with Diomedes, Ajax looming over anyone who dared challenge him. The contest had not yet begun, and already the air smelled of rivalry.

And then the herald cleared his throat, and a final name was called.

“Prince Percyon of Aegae, son of Queen Altheia, under the sea god’s blessing.”

A murmur ran through the gathered men.

Odysseus looked up—and nearly laughed.

The boy standing in the gate was young. Far too young. His cloak was plain, his sandals travel-worn, and he had no entourage save one nervous servant with a single modest chest. He stood awkwardly, as if the weight of so many eyes pressed down on him, and when he bowed, it was clumsy, uncertain.

Agamemnon scoffed aloud. “This is no suitor. This is a child lost in his mother’s halls.”

Menelaus chuckled, tossing his curls. “Perhaps he has come to polish our shields.”

The Ajaxes barked laughter. Even Idomeneus smiled faintly in disdain.

But Odysseus… Odysseus watched more closely.

For as the boy’s gaze swept the courtyard, landing on each name as it was announced—Agamemnon, Menelaus, Ajax, Diomedes, Nestor—something flickered in his eyes. Not awe. Not even recognition. Something stranger.

As though he had heard these names before, long ago, but could not remember when. As though he reached for a half-forgotten dream, already dissolving.

Interesting. Very interesting.

The boy did not bristle under the mockery. He only smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, shrugging off the laughter as if it mattered little.

Harmless. Too harmless.

And yet Odysseus felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Because harmless boys did not smile that way under the laughter of wolves.

Patroclus slipped away from the clamor of the courtyard, ducking beneath the shadow of an olive tree at the edge of the grounds. The laughter of the suitors grated in his ears—boasts of battles, ships, and blood won by men twice his age. He wanted no part of it.

To his mild surprise, the boy from Aegae was already there. He sat on the low stone wall, elbows braced on his knees, flicking pebbles into the dust. Alone.

Patroclus hesitated, then approached.

The boy looked up, wary at first, then softened. His smile was crooked, uncertain. “Let me guess—you’re here to tell me I should go home before the big kids eat me alive?”

Patroclus blinked, then huffed a laugh. “That would be rich, coming from me.”

Percy’s—Percyon’s—grin widened at that, genuine this time. “So you don’t think I’m in the wrong place?”

Patroclus leaned against the tree, crossing his arms. “I think we both are.”

That earned him a startled look. Percy tilted his head. “You don’t want to be here either?”

Patroclus hesitated. It was not the sort of truth one spoke lightly. But the boy’s eyes were open, guileless. Not calculating like Odysseus’s, not hungry like Diomedes’s. Just… searching.

“No,” Patroclus said at last. “I came because my father wished it. Not because I do.”

Something eased in Percy’s shoulders, as if he’d been waiting to hear that. He let out a sigh, dragging a hand through his sea-dark hair. “Same. I wouldn’t be here at all if not for Helen.”

The name startled Patroclus. “The princess herself asked you?”

Percy nodded, sheepish. “She’s my friend. She didn’t want to face all of this alone, so… here I am. Standing in the wrong place, at the wrong time, trying not to get eaten alive by kings twice my size.”

Patroclus found himself smiling despite the weight in his chest. “You don’t look as afraid as you should.”

Percy shrugged. “I just hide it well.”

For the first time in days, Patroclus laughed—not bitterly, not forced, but quietly, like something loosening in his ribs.

The boy from Aegae was strange. Too young, too plain, too harmless. But Patroclus felt an odd relief sitting with him beneath the olive tree, away from the wolves.

“Patroclus,” he said, offering his hand.

“Percy,” the boy answered, clasping it firmly. Then, after a pause: “But you can call me your fellow prisoner.”

Patroclus chuckled again, and for a heartbeat, the dread pressing on him eased.

King Tyndareus of Sparta had seen many men in his time. He knew the proud tilt of a warrior’s chin, the swagger of kings who thought their gold could buy thrones, the sly glitter in eyes trained on ambition.

And now they gathered in his hall: Agamemnon, loud and burning with hunger for more; Menelaus, his handsome brother, smiling too easily; Ajax of Salamis, towering and blunt as a war club; Diomedes of Argos, sharp and restless; Odysseus of Ithaca, quiet but watchful as a fox; Idomeneus of Crete, proud as if Crete itself were Olympus; even old Nestor, still sharp despite the years.

He weighed them all as they entered, as he always did. Allies, rivals, threats. Each man a piece on the board.

And then came the last one.

A boy.

Introduced with thin ceremony—Prince Percyon of Aegae, son of Queen Altheia, under the sea god’s blessing.

The boy’s cloak was plain, his sandals dusty, his bow clumsy. He stood like one unaccustomed to halls of kings, and the others mocked him easily. Tyndareus nearly dismissed him at once. A minor princeling from some half-forgotten shore. Nothing more.

But then he caught sight of Helen.

His daughter sat at the far end of the hall, dutiful, graceful as always. She gave polite smiles to Agamemnon’s boasts, nodded at Diomedes’s polished words. She shone, as she always did, but behind her composure, Tyndareus knew her tells—the faint tightening of her hand against her gown, the stiffness in her posture.

And then she saw the boy.

Her whole face changed. Her shoulders eased, her mouth curved into a smile far too warm for ceremony. Relief softened her, as though his very presence let her breathe again.

Tyndareus’s frown deepened.

Why this one? Why a boy, a stranger of no account, a guest among wolves?

He watched as the youth—Percyon—caught Helen’s glance, and smiled back, sheepish and unthreatening. She laughed under her breath, a sound no other suitor had yet won from her.

Tyndareus’s chest tightened. He had promised her a choice, yes. But he had not meant this.

His gaze lingered on the boy from Aegae. Something about him was… unsettling. He bore himself like a child, but there was a steadiness in his eyes that belied his years.

The gods had been kind to Sparta so far. Tyndareus only hoped they would not play tricks with this one.

The feast hall glowed with torchlight, shadows dancing across polished shields hung on the walls. Servants carried platters of roasted lamb, honeyed figs, bowls of olives and bread, pouring dark wine into waiting cups. The suitors lounged on couches about the long tables, their laughter loud enough to drown the musicians at the corner.

Percy had taken a seat at the very edge, hoping to disappear into the press of nobles. He ate quietly, trying not to draw attention, while the others made a show of every bite.

Agamemnon thundered on about Mycenae’s wealth, claiming he could raise more ships than any man present. Menelaus countered with boasts of Spartan steel, polishing his goblet as though it were a mirror. Ajax the Great laughed too loud at every jest, while his smaller namesake whispered sharp-edged mockeries that drew snickers. Diomedes leaned forward with every word, sharp and hungry, as if he would seize Helen with his gaze alone.

Odysseus watched it all with hooded eyes, drinking little, speaking less. He measured each man, filing away rivalries, alliances, weaknesses. And more than once, his gaze slid to the boy from Aegae.

The boy was quiet. Too quiet. Eating simply, answering no challenges, smiling faintly when the laughter turned on him. He should have faded into the shadows—yet Odysseus noted how often Helen’s eyes strayed his way.

And when she finally entered the hall, crowned in braids and white linen, her gaze went to him first.

Helen moved with practiced grace, offering polite nods to the gathered lords, her beauty a mantle that silenced the hall. Men shifted on their couches, puffed their chests, straightened their cloaks. All of them wanted her eyes.

But her smile, small and real, was reserved for one boy sitting at the edge.

“Percy,” she said warmly, crossing the hall to stand before him.

The suitors blinked in disbelief. Percy? Not Prince Percyon? She called him as if they were old friends, as if there were no gulf between princess and obscure prince.

Percy stood quickly, nearly upsetting his cup. “Uh—hey, Helen.” His grin was crooked, easy, utterly unlike the stiff, polished smiles of the other men.

Helen laughed, clear as chimes. “You always look so uncomfortable indoors.”

“Too much stone,” Percy said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I keep waiting for the ceiling to fall in on me. At least on the beach you can see trouble coming.”

Helen shook her head, smiling. “You are hopeless.”

“And you,” Percy countered with mock solemnity, “owe me a rematch at pebble-skipping. Last time was a fluke.”

Her laugh bubbled up again, brighter this time. “You are still bitter? It has been months!”

The hall murmured uneasily. Menelaus set down his goblet with a sharp clink. Ajax the Lesser narrowed his eyes. Even Agamemnon paused mid-boast, scowling faintly.

Patroclus, watching from a few seats away, felt the tension ripple like a drawn bowstring. The princes of Greece vied with each other for a glance, a word, a smile—and yet this boy, younger than all of them, had Helen’s laughter as if it were nothing at all.

He found himself grinning despite the weight pressing on the room.

The evening wore on. Wine flowed. The suitors competed in boasting now, each tale louder than the last. Ajax bragged of single-handedly holding a wall against ten men. Diomedes recounted his training under Athena’s priests. Idomeneus praised Crete’s fleet, claiming no city could outshine it.

Percy listened, chewing absently on bread. When one of Ajax’s boasts ended with a pointed jab—“Unlike certain boys who think swimming in tidepools makes them princes”—Percy only shrugged.

“Better tidepools than drowning in your own ego,” he said under his breath.

Patroclus snorted wine through his nose. Ajax reddened, half-rising, but Odysseus’s sharp gaze kept him from lunging.

Helen covered her smile with her hand, but her eyes sparkled.

Tyndareus watched it all in silence, his jaw tight. He had seen men fight over less. The rivalry he expected—but not directed at this boy. This Percyon.

Helen leaned too easily toward him, laughed too freely at his jests. She should have been impressed by Diomedes’s cunning, softened by Menelaus’s charms, awed by Agamemnon’s wealth. Instead, she found comfort in the company of a boy who should not have mattered at all.

And worse—the suitors noticed.

Their jealousy simmered like oil on flame.

Later in the night, when musicians struck up a song and servants dimmed the torches, Percy and Helen slipped into a pocket of quiet at the edge of the hall. She teased him about his poor archery (“Even I could have hit closer to the target”), and he countered with stories of her slipping on seaweed. Their voices were low, but their laughter carried.

Patroclus, lingering nearby, felt an odd warmth watching them.

Odysseus, from his corner, only smiled faintly into his wine. The boy from Aegae was more dangerous than he seemed. Not because of power. But because he had already won Helen’s heart as a friend—and friendship was rarer, sharper, than all these hollow gifts.

The banquet closed in a storm of jealousy, though no swords were drawn that night. Helen departed with her maids, radiant as ever. The suitors fumed in silence, each eyeing Percy as though he had already stolen something precious.

And Percy, yawning as he rubbed his eyes, seemed entirely unaware that he had just made enemies of half the princes of Greece.

The feast had ended in laughter that was too sharp, too forced, with more wine spilled than drunk. The suitors filed off to their quarters at last, voices fading into the night.

Patroclus slipped into the courtyard, glad for the cool air. The torches hissed softly, casting long shadows across the flagstones. And there, sitting on the same low wall as before, was Percy.

He was tossing a bit of bread to the stray cats that prowled the kitchens, his cloak bunched around his shoulders. He looked up when Patroclus approached, and his grin was weary but real.

“Survived,” Percy said. “Mostly.”

Patroclus smirked. “Barely. Ajax nearly bit through his tongue when you answered him.”

“Was I that bad?” Percy asked, grimacing.

“No,” Patroclus said. “You were… honest. That’s worse, to men like them.”

Percy barked a laugh, startling one of the cats. “Guess I’ll have to practice my lying if I want to make it through this.”

Patroclus leaned against the wall beside him, folding his arms. “Don’t. Gods know there are enough liars in that hall already. Someone should speak like a human being.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the night air cooler here, thick with the scent of olives and earth. Percy’s shoulders slowly eased.

“You said before,” Percy began, voice quiet, “that you didn’t want to be here either. Still true?”

Patroclus hesitated, then nodded. “My father sent me. A chance to redeem myself, he said. To win a name, a throne, perhaps. But I don’t want thrones. I don’t want Helen, either. She deserves a man who wants her for more than a prize.”

Percy tilted his head. “Yeah. She deserves a lot more than what she’s gonna get.”

Patroclus studied him then, really looked. The boy was young—too young—but there was something in his eyes, some tiredness that didn’t belong to a fifteen-year-old. And yet when he smiled, it was easy, without guile.

“You’re strange,” Patroclus said finally.

Percy laughed again. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

“Strange is not bad,” Patroclus said, surprising himself.

They fell quiet again, listening to the distant clatter of servants clearing the feast. Percy leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the stars above the dark ridges of the mountains.

“You know,” Percy said, softer now, “if I had my way, none of us would be here. No contests, no suitors. Just… people being allowed to live without all this weight on them.”

Patroclus turned to him, startled by the naked truth in the words. It was exactly what he had thought a hundred times, but never dared say.

He didn’t answer, but for the first time that night, he smiled. A small, honest smile.

And Percy smiled back, crooked and warm.

For that moment, under the quiet stars, Patroclus no longer felt like a prisoner.

Chapter Text

The air in the great hall of Sparta was thick with smoke and pride. Torches crackled in their bronze sconces, throwing long shadows across the carved beams, while the suitors lounged on couches, wine cups in hand, voices booming like a storm at sea.

Percy sat on the edge of it all, his cup untouched, wishing more than anything that he were back on the beach with Helen, skipping stones and teasing her about seashells. Here, among kings and princes, he felt like a fish tossed onto dry land—gasping, out of place, waiting for the air to choke him.

Agamemnon was boasting again. Something about Mycenae’s armies, how they could march across half of Greece in a season if he willed it. Ajax the Great interrupted with a laugh, pounding his chest, declaring no army could stand when he held the line. Diomedes sneered, countering with Argos’s wealth and cunning. Even Nestor, gray-haired and bent, offered sharp memories of battles past, as though to remind them that age had not dulled his worth.

Percy kept his head down. Every name struck like a hammer in his skull—Agamemnon, Ajax, Diomedes, Nestor. Familiar, achingly familiar, like words he had once heard in a dream but could not place. The harder he reached for the memory, the faster it slipped away.

And then, through the boasting, a new voice cut in. Quiet. Sharp.

Odysseus.

Percy’s eyes flicked up. The king of Ithaca had been silent most of the night, drinking little, watching much. Now he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming like a fox about to spring.

“King Tyndareus,” he said, his voice steady enough to hush the hall. “You court disaster.”

The boasting faltered. Even Agamemnon frowned, offended.

Odysseus went on. “Helen is the most beautiful woman in Greece. The most desirable. You allow us all to gather here, to compete for her hand. And yet, if you let her choose freely—tell me, what happens when the rest of us are denied?”

The hall shifted uneasily. Percy’s stomach tightened. He didn’t like where this was going.

Odysseus’s smile was thin, humorless. “There will be war. Brothers will rise against brothers, allies against allies. Greece will tear itself apart, not for Helen herself, but for the insult of being passed over. And who will the blame fall upon, King of Sparta? You. You will be the man who destroyed Greece by giving your daughter freedom.”

Tyndareus stiffened on his high seat, but the words landed like stones.

Percy wanted to look at Helen—wanted to see her face—but he didn’t dare.

Odysseus let the silence stretch, then spoke again, each word deliberate. “But there is a solution. Let every man here swear an oath. That he will defend and protect the choice of husband, whomever it may be. That no man will raise hand or ship against the chosen one. That all of Greece will stand united behind Helen’s marriage.”

The words dropped into the hall like a net tightening around them all.

At once, the suitors stirred. Ajax the Great grunted his approval—anything that made battles simpler suited him. Menelaus nodded eagerly, perhaps too eagerly, as though he already believed himself the winner. Diomedes pursed his lips, but even he had to admit the sense in it.

And Tyndareus—Tyndareus looked relieved, as though a boulder had been lifted from his chest. “Wise Odysseus,” he said, rising to his feet. “Yes. This oath will bind you all. For the good of Sparta, for the peace of Greece, for the honor of the gods. You will swear it.”

Percy’s blood went cold.

Oaths. Promises bound before gods. He’d made them before, in his other life, and none of them had ended well. Oaths were chains. Oaths were traps.

Around him, the suitors nodded and muttered, already preparing to swear. Their voices sounded too loud, too heavy. Percy felt the weight pressing on him, heavier than any crown.

He wanted to run.

But when his eyes flicked up, he caught Helen watching him across the hall.

Her face was pale, but her gaze steady. Not asking, not commanding—just pleading. Don’t leave me alone among them.

Percy’s throat closed. He looked down at his empty hands, at the wine he hadn’t drunk, and felt the sea whisper faintly in his ears.

The tide was turning. And he couldn’t stop it.

The suitors moved one by one to the center of the hall. The great hearthfire burned there, casting shadows like bars across the floor. The gods were invoked aloud—Zeus for oaths, Apollo for truth, Poseidon for the seas that would carry their armies if war came.

Percy sat rigid, each vow striking like a hammer in his chest.

Ajax the Great went first, because of course he did. His voice thundered as he placed his meaty hand on the sacred boar’s thigh brought for the ritual. “I, Ajax of Salamis, swear before the gods of Olympus to uphold the choice of Helen’s husband, to defend him with my strength, to bring ruin to any who break this oath.”

The words echoed like stone dropped in a well. Percy shivered.

Next was Diomedes, sharp-eyed and precise: “I, Diomedes of Argos, swear to stand with Helen’s chosen, to avenge any insult to her or him, on land or sea, as the gods witness.” His jaw was tight, as if each word were shackles he was fastening to his own ankles.

Idomeneus of Crete was next, pride thick in his tone. Menelaus followed, his voice smooth, almost smug, as though he already saw the crown in his grasp.

Agamemnon swore with a lion’s roar, his words a performance of power. Nestor’s vow was softer but no less binding, spoken with the weight of decades behind it.

One by one, the voices stacked, until the hall seemed filled not with men, but with chains.

Percy could feel it in his bones. The gods were listening. Each oath was a stone added to a wall that would one day fall on them all.

And then, at last, they called his name.

“Percyon of Aegae.”

He froze.

Every eye turned. Ajax the Lesser smirked, already eager to laugh when he stumbled. Menelaus lounged smugly, certain the boy would trip over his own tongue. Odysseus alone watched with sharp interest, as if curious whether the boy would falter—or refuse.

Percy’s palms were damp. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn’t want this. He had promised Helen he wouldn’t try to win her, had promised himself he wouldn’t get tangled in their games. He wanted to say no.

But when he looked across the hall, Helen’s eyes were waiting.

She wasn’t smiling now. She wasn’t laughing as she had on the beach. Her gaze was heavy, pleading, desperate: Don’t leave me to face them all alone.

Percy swallowed hard. His feet carried him forward before he even realized.

The priest’s voice was steady as he presented the sacred thighbone. Percy placed his hand on it, cold sweat beading on his brow. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

“I…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, forcing the words out. “I, Percyon of Aegae, swear before the gods of Olympus to honor the choice of Helen’s husband. To defend him as I would defend my own kin. To bring no harm to him or her. So I swear, by earth and sky, by sea and storm.”

The last words slipped out unbidden, an instinct—by sea and storm. He felt the air shift, a faint pressure against his ears, as if the ocean itself had leaned closer to listen.

The moment he finished, it hit him. A weight settled on his chest, not physical, but undeniable. His stomach knotted. He felt bound.

The suitors clapped him on the shoulder as he stepped back, some jeering, others mocking his tremor. Percy barely heard them.

He had sworn.

And even as he tried to tell himself it was just words, just ritual, the sea in his blood whispered otherwise.

Words had power. Oaths had teeth.

The hall was loud again. Wine splashed into cups, meat was carved, boasts rang as though nothing had happened.

But Percy felt it.

Every time another man laughed, every time a goblet clinked, he heard instead the echo of their vows. A chorus of promises binding them all together. The weight pressed on him still, heavy as stone at the bottom of the sea.

He slipped away when no one was watching. Past the pillars, past the servants with their trays, out into the courtyard where the air was cooler, sharper. He leaned against the stone wall and let out a breath that shuddered in his chest.

Oaths always come back. They never just vanish. Not when gods are listening.

He pressed his palms against the wall, grounding himself. For a moment he thought he felt water thrumming in the stone, faint and steady, like the pulse of the sea.

The chains were there now. Invisible, but real.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Percy turned. Patroclus stepped out from the shadows, cloak loose around his shoulders, wine cup still in his hand. His expression wasn’t mocking. Just tired. Maybe relieved.

Percy tried for a smile. It came out crooked. “Don’t tell me you came to scold me for almost chickening out.”

Patroclus snorted. “No. I came because you looked like you’d seen Hades himself when you swore.”

Percy dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “Felt like it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the night air cooler here than in the smoky hall. Somewhere nearby, an owl called.

Patroclus leaned against the wall beside him. “It’s only words,” he said at last, voice gentler than Percy expected. “They bind us all, not just you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Percy let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, almost a groan. “Yeah. But words are dangerous. Where I come from… promises like that never end well. They come back around when you least expect it. And people get hurt.”

Patroclus studied him, wine cup forgotten in his hand. Percy didn’t meet his eyes, but he could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and curious.

“You talk like you’ve seen it before,” Patroclus said softly.

Percy shrugged. “Maybe I have.”

For a while, neither spoke. The torches flickered, throwing their shadows long across the courtyard. The noise of the hall drifted faintly, distant now, as though it belonged to another world.

Finally Percy sighed, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “I didn’t even want to swear. But Helen—she looked at me. Like she needed me to. What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t see it?”

Patroclus’s mouth curved, a small, wry smile. “Then you did what mattered. Not for kings. For her.”

Percy glanced at him then, and for a moment the heaviness eased.

“You’re strange,” Percy said, echoing Patroclus’s words from before.

Patroclus chuckled, the sound low and real. “Takes one to know one.”

The hall had dimmed at last. Servants cleared the tables, scraping plates, gathering cups sticky with wine. The suitors had gone to their quarters, their laughter echoing faintly down the corridors.

Percy lingered in the courtyard, too restless to sleep. The weight of the oath pressed on him still, a cold band around his chest. He stared at the torchlight wavering against the walls, trying to imagine the sea instead.

“Percy?”

He turned. Helen stood in the archway, wrapped in a pale shawl, her golden hair unbound for the night. In the flickering light she looked younger, softer — not the poised princess who had walked the hall earlier, but the girl he had met on the beach, crying into the sand.

He straightened. “Hey. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Her smile was faint. “I wanted to find you. To thank you.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For swearing.” She stepped closer, her hands twisting in the fabric of her shawl. “I saw how you hesitated. I know you didn’t want to. But you did it anyway. For me.”

Percy shifted awkwardly. “Yeah, well. You looked like you needed someone to. I couldn’t just sit there.”

Her eyes shimmered, and for a moment he thought she might cry again. Instead she gave a shaky laugh. “You’re the only one here who sees me as more than a prize. The only one who makes me feel like myself.”

Something tugged at his chest, the same way it always did when she smiled at him. Not love — not that kind. But something quieter. Fiercer. The bond of two people who had found each other in places they didn’t belong.

Without thinking, Percy stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She froze for half a heartbeat, then melted into the hug, her forehead pressing against his shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” Percy murmured, meaning it with all the stubbornness he had. “I don’t know how yet, but it will. And if it’s not… then I’ll be there. Always.”

Helen clutched his tunic, whispering, “Thank you.”

They stood like that for a long moment, two friends in the dark, holding each other against the weight of the future.

And when she pulled away at last, her smile was steadier.

“Goodnight, Percy.”

“Goodnight, Helen.”

She slipped back into the palace, and Percy stayed in the courtyard, staring up at the stars. The oath still pressed heavy on his chest, but now another promise lay over it too — his own, spoken not before gods, but before a friend.

And somehow, that one mattered more.

Chapter Text

The palace courtyard stirred with noise long before the sun had lifted over the ridges. Horses stamped and snorted in their harnesses, the iron of their bits flashing in the dawn. Servants rushed about with javelins, shields, and polished helms, while the suitors boasted loud enough to rattle the colonnades.

Patroclus stood near the edge of the gathering, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. He hated mornings like this—the air full of tension, every man desperate to prove himself. Agamemnon strutted like a rooster, barking orders at no one in particular, while his brother Menelaus laughed too easily, as though charm alone might win him the day. Ajax the Great loomed like a tower, his laugh booming across the yard, while the smaller Ajax whispered barbed jokes into his ear. Diomedes sharpened a spear with deliberate strokes, his eyes flicking across the competition with restless hunger.

Patroclus did not belong among them. He was no king. Barely a prince. And though his father had sent him here, pressing him to win back honor, he felt more like a tethered goat among wolves.

He was about to retreat farther into the shadows when movement caught his eye.

The boy from Aegae. Percyon.

Patroclus had noticed him before, of course—the suitors had all mocked him easily enough, the princeling from some half-forgotten coastal city. Too young, too awkward, too plain.

But in the morning light, he looked… different.

Percy tugged at the strap of his tunic, hair still mussed as though he had fought with it instead of combing it. His cloak slipped down one shoulder, his sandals were dusty, and he yawned into his hand like a boy half-asleep. He should have looked laughable.

Yet the sunlight seemed to catch on him oddly, clinging to his hair, gilding the sea-dark strands with a shimmer of blue. His skin held the faintest bronze glow, kissed by waves and salt air, not pale like the other princes. Even the way he stood—loose, relaxed, as though none of this pomp mattered—made him stand out among the stiff-backed kings.

Patroclus’s stomach did something strange.

The boy wasn’t handsome in the polished, sculpted way of Menelaus, or imposing like Ajax. His beauty was quieter. Wilder. Like sunlight breaking on the surface of water—brief, startling, impossible not to look at.

Patroclus realized he was staring and snapped his gaze away, heat rising in his face. Ridiculous. He was here to stand among kings, to restore his father’s honor, not to gawk at some half-grown sea prince.

He’s just a boy, Patroclus told himself firmly. Clumsy, out of place. Nothing more.

But when he dared glance back, Percy was laughing at something one of the servants had said—head tilted, grin crooked—and Patroclus’s chest gave another uncomfortable twist.

Gods.

“Patroclus!”

He nearly flinched. Percy was striding toward him now, grinning as though they were old friends. His stride was uneven, a little careless, but he walked like he had nothing to fear in a courtyard full of wolves.

“You hiding over here?” Percy asked, dropping onto the low wall beside him without waiting for an answer. “Smart. Less chance of being trampled by Ajax’s ego.”

Patroclus choked on a laugh before he could stop himself. “You shouldn’t say that where he can hear you.”

“I don’t care if he hears me,” Percy said cheerfully, swinging his legs like a boy at a riverbank. “He’d flatten me in wrestling anyway. May as well earn it.”

Patroclus shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little.

He risked another glance at Percy—at the light in his eyes, the easy way he carried himself—and felt that strange tightness return. Not unwelcome. Not entirely comfortable, either.

Strange, Patroclus thought, his heart thudding faster than it should. He’s… strange.

And yet, sitting beside him in the cool morning light, Patroclus found he didn’t mind being strange too.

The suitors lined up their gleaming chariots, horses stamping impatiently. Ajax’s stallions were massive, Diomedes’s pair sleek and sharp-eyed, Menelaus’s team decked in polished bronze.

Percy, meanwhile, rested a hand on the neck of his own lead horse. The animal shivered beneath his touch, ears flicking forward. You’re nervous, Percy thought. The horse tossed its head. Don’t be. We’ll take it easy.

The answering whicker was soft, almost grateful. Percy’s chest warmed. Gods, it was almost unfair. Where the other suitors struggled with restive animals, his team leaned toward him, steady and eager.

When the signal came, the horses leapt forward like arrows loosed from a bow. Percy’s stomach lurched as the chariot surged past the others, the wind tearing at his hair.

The crowd roared.

“Too fast,” Percy muttered. “Way too fast. Guys, we can’t win this—”

But the horses were delighted, their hooves eating the ground. They wanted to run for him. He had to fight to slow them, sawing gently at the reins, murmuring apologies.

At the halfway mark, he yanked the reins a little too sharply and deliberately let the wheels grind into the dirt. The chariot wobbled, veered wide, and for a terrifying moment Percy thought he might actually flip it.

He managed to steady it—but not before three other suitors overtook him.

By the time he crossed the line, Percy had let half the field pass. Ajax won, roaring his triumph, while Percy rolled into the finish coughing in dust.

Helen was laughing in the stands, eyes bright, hand pressed to her mouth. She’d seen it—the way he’d held his horses back, the deliberate fumble.

Percy shot her a sheepish grin and shrugged.

The crowd jeered, some mocking his incompetence.

Next came the footrace.

The suitors lined up at the far edge of the courtyard. Percy rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the dust from his hair. Running he could do. Running was easy.

But… too easy.

The signal was given, and they sprinted. Ajax thundered ahead, long legs eating the ground, Diomedes right behind him. Percy found his rhythm quickly, his body aching to surge forward, to leave them all in the dust.

But he couldn’t. Not here.

Halfway through, he let his toe catch on the dirt. He stumbled forward, windmilling his arms, catching himself clumsily. The stumble cost him just enough momentum to fall behind, crossing the line near the middle of the pack.

The suitors laughed again, mocking his clumsiness. Percy forced a grin, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t care.

But when he glanced to the side, he found Patroclus watching him with a sharp look. Not mocking. Not laughing. Just… thoughtful.

Percy looked away quickly, a strange heat prickling in his ears.

And from the other end of the line, he caught Odysseus’s gaze. The king of Ithaca was stroking his beard, lips curved in that fox-like smile, eyes bright with curiosity.

Percy’s stomach sank. He had the uncomfortable sense that Odysseus saw more than he wanted anyone to.

The sun climbed higher as the contests shifted to strength. Spears and discs were laid out on the packed earth, their polished bronze glinting in the light.

Ajax the Great thundered forward first, muscles bulging, and hurled the heavy spear so far it thudded into the wooden barrier with a crack. The crowd cheered, Ajax lifting his arms in triumph. Diomedes went next, his throw straighter, cleaner, landing just shy of Ajax’s. He sneered when the men praised Ajax louder.

Nestor stepped up with a creak of his joints. His spear didn’t fly as far, but it struck true in the center of the target. The older warriors murmured their respect.

Percy’s palms were sweaty as the spear was shoved into his hand. He could throw a spear—Poseidon knew he’d done enough of that in his life—but here, in this crowd, winning was dangerous. He’d sworn he wouldn’t stand out.

He hefted the javelin, inhaled… and deliberately snapped his wrist wrong as he threw.

The spear sailed in a strange arc, not toward the target but straight into the bushes at the edge of the yard. A startled bird erupted into the air, squawking angrily.

The courtyard roared with laughter.

Percy raised both hands in mock surrender. “What? I was aiming for the bird. Nailed it.”

Helen doubled over in the stands, laughter ringing clear as a bell. Even some of the servants covered their mouths, trying not to giggle.

Ajax the Lesser snorted. “Perhaps your tiny island teaches boys to hunt sparrows instead of boars.”

“Exactly,” Percy shot back without missing a beat. “We’re really good at it.”

The laughter redoubled. Even Patroclus, standing near the edge of the field, was grinning openly, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe Percy’s audacity.

Next came the discus.

Ajax’s throw soared far, nearly clearing the field. Menelaus’s landed short, though he boasted as if it hadn’t. Idomeneus put his back into it, grunting with effort, his throw clean but not remarkable.

Percy stepped up, the disc heavy and cool in his hands. He closed his eyes, exhaled, then—whoops.

He deliberately angled too high, sending the disc spinning like a wild comet. It shot over the field entirely, bouncing across the dirt with an awkward clang.

The crowd laughed even louder this time. Percy bowed dramatically, hands spread as though this had been his goal all along. “Told you. Style points.”

Helen clapped, tears of laughter in her eyes. “You’re hopeless!” she shouted, loud enough for the suitors to hear.

“Hopelessly stylish,” Percy corrected with a grin.

Patroclus approached as Percy returned to the line. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmured, low enough only Percy could hear.

Percy feigned innocence. “Me? No way. I’m just naturally terrible.”

But the warmth in Patroclus’s eyes told him the lie hadn’t worked. And for some reason, the quiet understanding in that gaze felt better than the laughter of the entire crowd.

Out of the corner of his eye, Percy caught Odysseus watching him too. Not laughing. Just watching, sharp and calculating, like a fox waiting at the edge of a snare.

Percy’s grin faltered for a moment before he plastered it back on.

Careful, he thought. Too careful. Or he’ll figure you out.

The heat of the day had thickened by the time the suitors stripped down for wrestling. The courtyard was ringed with spectators now—courtiers, servants, even Helen’s younger brothers peeking from the colonnade. Everyone wanted to see the kings lock horns like bulls.

Ajax the Great entered the ring first, towering over the others, muscles like marble. He slammed down one opponent after another, grinning like a child with new toys. The crowd roared.

Patroclus crossed his arms, watching. He knew better than to expect fairness. Ajax was unstoppable when he chose to be. The rest of them were just fodder.

Then Percy stepped forward.

Patroclus groaned aloud. “Don’t do it,” he muttered under his breath.

But Percy was already in the circle, grinning at Ajax like this was a friendly spar.

The two circled, Ajax flexing his arms, already smug. Percy crouched a little, bracing himself. For a moment, Patroclus thought he saw something—an edge, a predator’s readiness in Percy’s stance.

Then Ajax lunged.

Percy yelped dramatically, flailed, and went down in a heap as though Ajax had swatted him like a fly.

The crowd burst into laughter. Even Helen’s bright laugh rang across the courtyard. Percy groaned theatrically, sprawled flat on his back, waving a limp hand as if to say, I surrender to the mighty Ajax.

Ajax thumped his chest, soaking in the cheers. Percy rolled onto his stomach and crawled out of the circle with exaggerated wheezing, hair full of dust, face split in a crooked grin.

Patroclus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t even try,” he said when Percy flopped down on the wall beside him.

“That obvious, huh?” Percy coughed, brushing dirt off his tunic. “Well, Ajax looked like he needed the confidence boost.”

Patroclus snorted, hiding the smile threatening his mouth. Strange boy.

Next came archery. Targets were set up at the far end of the courtyard, the painted rings gleaming in the sun.

Diomedes hit near the center, earning nods of approval. Odysseus’s arrow flew straight and true. Menelaus’s shot was wide, but he boasted as though it had been perfect.

And then Percy was handed a bow.

Patroclus leaned forward despite himself. Percy held it like he’d never touched one before. He squinted at the target, drew the string awkwardly, and loosed.

The arrow flew into the dirt ten paces short.

The crowd laughed. Helen clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes sparkling.

Percy sighed dramatically. “Practice shot.”

The next arrow went wild left, nearly hitting a servant. Percy winced. “Wind caught it.”

The third arrow arced high, vanishing into the sky. Percy shaded his eyes, pretending to follow it. “That one’ll come down somewhere. Eventually.”

By the time he finished his quiver, the entire courtyard was in hysterics. Helen had tears streaming down her cheeks from laughing so hard. Even Patroclus couldn’t hold back a chuckle, shaking his head.

“You’re hopeless,” Helen called from the stands, voice bright with affection.

“Hopelessly stylish,” Percy corrected with a bow so deep it nearly toppled him over.

The laughter redoubled.

Patroclus watched him climb back onto the wall beside him, dusting his hands like he’d just completed some grand feat. The boy was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet… not foolish. Not really. He could see it now, clearer than before. Percy was choosing this. Choosing to be harmless, to be laughed at. There was steel under the play, hidden sharpness beneath the grin.

Patroclus found his chest tightening again. Not just with amusement. With something warmer, something he didn’t want to name.

He glanced toward the colonnade and caught Odysseus watching too, lips curved in that fox’s smile, eyes gleaming with calculation.

Patroclus looked away quickly.

Strange boy. Strange, dangerous boy.

The contests paused for a short break while servants reset the field. The suitors swaggered about, boasting of their victories and conveniently forgetting their losses. Percy slumped against a pillar in the shade, grateful for a moment of quiet.

“Hopeless.”

The voice was teasing. Percy turned his head to see Helen slip down from the stands, her shawl pulled tight against the sun. She was still laughing, her cheeks pink from it.

“Hopelessly stylish,” Percy corrected automatically, and gave her a crooked grin. “Big difference.”

Helen rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. “You couldn’t even hit the target, Percy.”

“I was aiming for style, not accuracy,” he said solemnly. “And I’d say I nailed it.”

She snorted. “Nailed it into the dirt, maybe.”

Percy pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow. I see how it is. I almost get trampled in wrestling for your entertainment, and this is the thanks I get?”

Her laughter bubbled again, soft and bright. She sat beside him on the low wall, close enough their shoulders nearly touched.

For a moment they just sat together, the noise of the courtyard dull in the distance. Percy tilted his head to look at her. “You’ve got a mean streak, you know that?”

Helen smirked. “Only with you.”

He grinned at that, and something warm settled in his chest. Not love—not like that. But a steady, certain fondness, the kind you carried for someone who felt like family, who made the world lighter just by being near.

Helen nudged him with her shoulder. “Besides, you’re making the others furious.”

Percy raised his brows. “Because I’m terrible at everything?”

“No,” she said simply. “Because you make me laugh.”

That startled him enough that he didn’t have a ready reply. He just blinked at her, then looked away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

She laughed again, softer this time. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his mouth.

When Percy’s name was called, he stepped into the ring with a sigh. The spear was light in his hand, almost too light, and the shield felt like a toy compared to what he’d carried before.

His opponent charged. Percy shifted easily aside, instinct tugging at him to finish it in one smooth strike. He could have. He knew it.

Instead, he let his foot “slip,” dropped his shield, and yelped as the other boy’s spear smacked his side. Down he went, sprawling in the dust.

The crowd laughed, and Percy rolled to his feet with a grin, brushing dirt from his tunic. “Told you. Falling’s my specialty.”

The other suitor strutted, soaking in the cheers. Percy bowed out, unbothered. He knew the truth: if he’d wanted to, the fight would have lasted all of three seconds.

Then Patroclus entered the ring.

Percy leaned forward without realizing it.

Patroclus didn’t look like Ajax or Diomedes, all muscle and aggression. He moved differently—calm, precise, almost elegant. His shield flowed with each strike, his feet steady, his blade cutting arcs of light through the dusty air.

He wasn’t just strong. He was… beautiful.

The sun caught on the curve of his shoulders, on the strands of his dark hair as he spun, driving his opponent back. His eyes were focused, steady, a quiet fire burning in them. There was no arrogance in the way he fought—only skill, only honesty.

Percy’s chest tightened. He couldn’t look away.

When Patroclus finally struck his opponent down, ending the bout cleanly, Percy was the first to cheer. “That was brilliant!” he called, grinning wide before he could stop himself.

Patroclus glanced at him, startled. Their eyes met just for a heartbeat. Then color rose in Patroclus’s cheeks, and he looked away quickly, wiping his brow as though nothing had happened.

Percy rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. Gods. He’s… He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

The courtyard had mostly emptied, the suitors strutting off to boast about their victories or sulk about their losses. Percy was lingering by the water basin, splashing dust from his face, when a shadow fell across him.

“Funny thing,” said a smooth voice.

Percy looked up. Odysseus of Ithaca stood there, leaning lightly on his staff, eyes gleaming with the sharpness of a blade half-hidden in cloth.

“Funny how a boy who can barely string a bow,” Odysseus went on, “moves like a seasoned soldier the moment steel is in his hand.”

Percy froze for half a beat, then forced a crooked grin. “I’m just clumsy. Even a fool can trip into the right stance sometimes.”

Odysseus’s smile widened, sly and unreadable. “Mm. Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re cleverer than you let on. The best way to win, after all, is to be underestimated.”

Percy scratched the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “If that’s the plan, I think I nailed it today.”

“Indeed,” Odysseus said softly. He studied Percy for a long moment, eyes glittering, then straightened. “Be careful, boy of Aegae. Masks can slip when you least expect it.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Percy with the uneasy feeling.

The day’s noise had faded into quiet. The courtyard lay empty, the torches guttering low. Patroclus sat on the low wall, cloak drawn around him, gazing up at the first stars appearing in the darkening sky.

Footsteps scuffed behind him. “There you are,” Percy said, dropping down beside him with his usual careless ease. “I thought Ajax had sat on you or something.”

Patroclus snorted. “He nearly did.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the cool night air easing the heat of the day. Percy stretched his legs out, sighing. “So. I think I set a new record for worst archer in Greece.”

Patroclus tried not to smile. “That’s generous. You may be the worst archer in history.”

Percy clutched his chest in mock offense. “History? Harsh. At least I made Helen laugh.”

Patroclus’s mouth twitched. “That you did.”

“Besides,” Percy went on, grinning, “someone had to balance out how perfect you looked out there.”

Patroclus’s head whipped toward him, startled. He caught the teasing glint in Percy’s eyes, but there was warmth behind it, too—genuine admiration. His face heated. He looked away quickly.

Percy leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars. “Not a bad day, all things considered. Dusty, humiliating… but not bad.”

Patroclus found himself smiling despite everything. “Strange day,” he admitted softly. “But not bad.”

Chapter Text

The palace was quieter the morning after the contests, though the echoes of laughter and boasts still clung to the air. Servants carried trays back and forth, the smell of roasted bread and honey thick in the halls. Percy sat cross-legged on a low bench, gnawing on a piece of bread while a servant poured watered wine into his cup.

He was still brushing dust out of his hair. “I think I swallowed half the courtyard yesterday,” he muttered. “If I cough up sand later, don’t be surprised.”

Across from him, Patroclus chuckled into his own cup. His hair was damp, as though he’d already bathed, and he looked far less rumpled than Percy felt. “You certainly gave the crowd a show.”

“That’s one way to say I was terrible at everything.” Percy smirked. “Pretty sure I set a record for the worst archer Sparta’s ever seen.”

Patroclus smiled, and it wasn’t mocking. “Maybe. But at least you weren’t shouting about your own greatness like Ajax.”

“True.” Percy tore off another bite of bread, speaking around it. “I mean, if I’d won, I’d never shut up about it either. ‘Percyon the Great,’ they’d have to carve it on temple walls.”

Patroclus laughed, shaking his head. “You’d be unbearable.”

“I already am.” Percy grinned, licking honey from his fingers.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, warm and easy. Outside, the distant neighing of horses floated in on the breeze.

Patroclus leaned back on the bench, watching him. “Still… you were different from the rest. You didn’t need to prove anything.”

Percy tilted his head. “That’s your nice way of saying I was useless, isn’t it?”

“No.” Patroclus’s voice was quiet, honest. “It’s my way of saying you weren’t like them. I liked that.”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. Then a small smile tugged at his mouth. “Huh. Guess I’ll take that over a laurel crown.”

They fell back into banter after that—light, teasing, easy. Percy found himself thinking, as he bit into another hunk of bread

The palace gardens were quiet that morning, dew still clinging to the petals of roses and the neat rows of herbs. Helen slipped between the hedges with quick steps, glancing back to make sure no nursemaid followed. Her shawl caught briefly on a thorn, but she tugged it free, heart racing.

Percy was already waiting by the fountain, crouched down, poking his hand in the water as though daring the koi to nibble his fingers. He looked up at her approach, grin crooked.

“You’re late,” he teased. “Your royal highness, keeping me waiting.”

Helen rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “I had to sneak out. Do you know how many watch me now? Like I’m already a prisoner.”

Percy splashed water at her lightly. “Prisoners don’t laugh at their jailers.”

She gave a small huff of laughter despite herself and sat on the edge of the fountain beside him. For a moment they were quiet, listening to the trickle of water, the hum of bees in the lavender.

Then Helen leaned her chin into her hands, shoulders drooping. “They all think they own me already. The way they looked at me last night… as if I were a prize goat at market.”

Percy glanced at her, frowning. “You’re not a prize. You’re you.”

She sniffed, trying to smile but failing. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to marry any of them.”

“Gods forbid,” Percy said with mock horror. “Can you imagine me married to Ajax? He’d squash me flat in bed before the first night.”

Helen burst into laughter, hand flying to her mouth. The sound rang bright in the garden, scattering her gloom. Percy grinned, pleased with himself.

When her laughter faded, her eyes shone suspiciously bright. “You always make it better,” she whispered.

Percy shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what friends are for. And if your husband ever forgets that? I’ll steal you away myself.”

The words were said half in jest, half in deadly seriousness. Helen stared at him for a moment, then threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled into his tunic. “But I love you for it.”

He hugged her back, firm and warm, like an anchor against the weight pressing down on her.

From the colonnade, shadows moved. Two of the suitors lingered there, watching. They could hear her laughter, see the way she leaned against him, the way his arm was around her shoulders.

Jealousy simmered, low and hot.

Odysseus of Ithaca had spent the morning in quiet observation. Where others boasted of their victories and sulked over losses, he watched. The boy from Aegae—Percyon—laughed too easily, stumbled too neatly. And when he thought no one was looking, the boy’s stance was balanced, his hands steady as a soldier’s.

A mask, Odysseus thought. And masks could always be tugged loose.

He caught Percy alone that afternoon, leaning on the palace colonnade, staring at the sea with faraway eyes.

“Strange, isn’t it,” Odysseus said, stepping beside him, “how the sea never keeps still? Always moving, always hiding what lies beneath.”

Percy glanced at him, wary but grinning. “Are we talking about the water, or me?”

Odysseus smiled thinly. “Perhaps both.”

For a while they stood together in silence, watching the waves crash white against the rocks. Then Odysseus spoke, voice smooth as oil: “You know, you remind me of someone. A man who once came to Ithaca, young, sharp, pretending to be nothing at all. By the time I’d looked away, he’d stolen half my kingdom’s respect.”

Percy arched a brow. “Sounds impressive. You sure it wasn’t just you being slow?”

Odysseus chuckled, but his eyes gleamed. “Tell me, boy of Aegae—how does one throw a discus so far astray and yet dodge a spear like a seasoned warrior?”

Percy’s stomach tightened, but he shrugged easily. “Natural talent for being terrible, I guess.”

“Mm. Or natural talent for hiding.” Odysseus’s smile sharpened. “Which, by the way, is the cleverest weapon of all.”

Percy forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, if you want to call me the worst fighter in Greece, just say it.”

But Odysseus didn’t laugh. He studied him for a long moment, gaze too sharp, too knowing. Then he patted Percy’s shoulder with mock-friendliness.

“Keep your mask tight, boy. Wolves are always circling.”

He walked away, cloak trailing behind him, leaving Percy staring after him with unease prickling in his chest.

Later, Percy sat on the edge of the fountain, staring into the rippling water. Odysseus’s words nagged at him, echoing Annabeth’s sharpness—the way she’d seen through him even when he thought he was clever.

His chest ached. He missed her.

“Still,” he muttered, forcing a crooked grin at his reflection, “at least he’s not lecturing me about strategy all night.”

The koi flicked their tails, unimpressed.

The colonnade was thick with the smell of wine and sweat as the suitors lounged in the shade, sharpening blades and trading boasts.

Ajax the Lesser leaned back against a pillar, scowling into his cup. “It’s insufferable,” he muttered. “The boy can’t string a bow, can’t throw a spear, can barely stay on his feet—yet she laughs at everything he says.”

Diomedes snorted, running a whetstone down his spearhead. “Helen is young. She laughs at fools. That doesn’t mean she prefers him.”

Ajax’s lip curled. “Doesn’t it? Did you see her in the garden? Her hand on his arm, her laughter ringing for all to hear? She embraces him like they are already bound.”

Diomedes’s eyes flicked up, sharp and calculating. “Perhaps that is the point. A small prince, harmless as a lamb. He makes her feel safe, while the rest of us strut like cocks in a yard.”

Ajax spat into the dust. “Safe? Or is it pity? She sees a boy who doesn’t belong and plays at kindness. Either way, it makes us look like brutes in comparison.”

Across the courtyard, Percy was laughing with a servant boy, tossing him an apple. Helen, passing by, swatted Percy’s shoulder in mock rebuke, and Percy made a great show of staggering backward, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. Helen’s laughter rang out, light and clear.

Diomedes’s jaw tightened. “No girl laughs so freely unless she favors the company.”

Ajax’s scowl deepened, his knuckles white on his cup.

Nearby, Odysseus watched in silence, eyes narrowed, smile faint. He said nothing, but his silence spoke louder than their snarls.

The training ground was quiet in the afternoon, the sun high and hot. Most of the suitors were still in the hall, boasting of yesterday’s contests, their laughter carrying faintly over the stone walls.

Patroclus had slipped away for peace. He hadn’t expected to find Percy there—shirt half-untucked, hair a mess, twirling a wooden practice spear with a balance that was anything but clumsy.

Patroclus stopped short, watching. Percy shifted his weight like a seasoned fighter, feet steady, shoulders loose. For a few breaths, his movements were too clean, too practiced.

Then Percy noticed him.

The spear clattered to the ground, Percy throwing up his hands. “Oh, uh. I was… testing how not to hold it?”

Patroclus crossed his arms, arching a brow. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Percy grinned sheepishly. “Worth a try.” He bent to grab the wooden blades stacked against the wall, tossing one to Patroclus. “Spar with me? Just a bit. I promise not to fall on my face too often.”

Patroclus caught the blade automatically. He hesitated, then nodded.

They circled each other on the dusty ground. Percy swung first, clumsy on purpose—Patroclus could see it. He batted the strike aside easily. “Stop holding back.”

“I’m not!” Percy protested, grin widening.

“You are,” Patroclus said firmly, parrying another obvious miss. “I’ve seen it. You move like you’ve fought before.”

Percy faltered. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his sea-bright eyes—pain, memory. Then he shook it off, lunging forward in another exaggerated stumble. “Maybe I’m just naturally graceful.”

Patroclus laughed despite himself, blocking the strike. They pressed close for a moment, blades locked, Percy’s grin inches from his face. Heat rushed to Patroclus’s cheeks and he shoved harder, breaking the lock.

They traded a few more blows, Percy deliberately sloppy, Patroclus growing more exasperated. At last, Percy “tripped,” tumbling into him and knocking them both to the dirt.

They landed in a heap.

Patroclus groaned, rolling off him. “Hopeless.”

Percy laughed breathlessly, sprawled on his back. “Hopelessly stylish,” he wheezed, throwing Patroclus’s own words back at him.

Patroclus sat up, dusting his tunic furiously, trying to ignore the heat burning in his face. Percy sat up beside him, brushing dirt from his curls.

“You know,” Percy said lightly, “you’re too good-looking to fight seriously against. Throws me off.”

Patroclus froze. His face went scarlet. “W–what?”

Percy blinked innocently. “I said you’re too good at fighting. Obviously.”

But his grin was far too mischievous.

Patroclus shoved him lightly, trying to hide the red creeping all the way to his ears. “Idiot.”

Percy toppled back dramatically, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. “Wounded! By my friend’s cruel words!”

Patroclus tried to stay annoyed, but laughter escaped before he could stop it. Percy’s laughter joined his, bright and infectious, until the training ground rang with it.

When they finally caught their breath, they sat side by side in the dust, shoulders brushing, the silence between them soft and easy.

Patroclus looked away quickly, hoping Percy wouldn’t notice the blush still lingering across his cheeks.

The hall blazed with torchlight that night, smoke curling toward the rafters, the smell of roasted lamb and honeyed wine thick in the air. Long tables groaned with platters of fruit and bread, goblets brimming.

Percy sat halfway down the length of the feast, squeezed between Patroclus and a gray-bearded prince whose name he kept forgetting. He tore at a piece of bread, doing his best not to attract attention.

It didn’t work.

Ajax the Lesser raised his cup, voice booming above the chatter. “To Percyon of Aegae! The greatest archer in Greece—able to strike a servant’s sandal but not a target!”

Laughter rippled down the table.

Percy winced, then raised his cup cheerfully. “What can I say? It takes real talent to miss that badly.”

A few chuckles followed, but most laughed at him, not with him. Percy shrugged and stuffed another bite of bread in his mouth.

“Truly,” Diomedes added with a smirk, “Sparta will sleep soundly knowing our lady’s honor is defended by such skill.”

More laughter.

Before Percy could reply, a clear, sharp voice cut across the hall.

“Enough.”

Helen rose from her seat, goblet in hand, eyes flashing. “You all competed. You all lost at something. Yet none of you bore it with such grace as Percyon did. He laughed at himself while the rest of you sulked like children.”

The hall quieted. Ajax scowled. Menelaus shifted uncomfortably.

Helen turned, her smile warming as her gaze fell on Percy. “And besides—he made me laugh. More than any of you did.”

The silence broke into awkward murmurs. Some laughed nervously, others muttered under their breath.

Percy blinked at her, then grinned crookedly. “Guess that makes me champion of comedy. Better than nothing.”

Helen giggled, shaking her head as she sat down again.

Patroclus leaned close, muttering just loud enough for Percy to hear, “Champion of disasters, more like.”

Percy nudged him with his elbow. “Jealous?”

Patroclus tried—and failed—not to smile. His cheeks warmed in the firelight.

From further up the table, Diomedes watched them, jaw tight. Ajax glared openly.

The feast dragged on into the night, torches flickering low, the air heavy with wine and smoke. Percy slipped out when no one was watching, tugging Patroclus along by the wrist and motioning for Helen to follow. She hesitated at first—half the court still had eyes on her—but her smile betrayed her eagerness as she ducked out the side door after them.

They clambered up the narrow stairs to the palace roof, emerging into cool night air. The stars stretched wide above, clear and sharp, the sea murmuring faintly in the distance.

“Gods,” Helen whispered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I never get to see them like this. Always torches, always people watching.”

“Good thing I’m a terrible chaperone,” Percy said, dropping onto the tiles with a grin. “You’ll be scandalized by morning.”

Patroclus sat beside him, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And stylish,” Percy corrected automatically, making Helen snort.

They lay back on the tiles, side by side, watching the constellations wheel slowly overhead. Percy pointed up. “That one looks like a dolphin.”

“That’s Orion,” Patroclus said patiently.

“Nope. Definitely a dolphin.”

Helen giggled, turning her face toward Percy. “You two argue like an old married couple.”

Patroclus choked. Percy grinned wide. “See, even she notices.”

“Gods,” Patroclus muttered, covering his face with one hand, ears red.

Helen propped herself up on an elbow, studying them both. “You’re good for each other,” she said softly. “I’m glad you’re here, Percy. I’d be lost in this without you.”

Percy’s grin softened into something gentler. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while they said nothing more, just lay shoulder to shoulder under the stars. The weight of the oath, the jealousy of the suitors, the shadow of the future—all of it seemed far away. For tonight, they were only a girl, a prince, and a boy from a tiny island, laughing in the dark like they had all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Sparta rang with voices as the suitors gathered once more, bronze gleaming in the torchlight, their laughter brittle with pride and expectation. Tyndareus sat upon the high seat, his crown heavy with more than gold. His daughter’s future weighed on him like stone.

He scanned the hall. Ajax, Diomedes, Idomeneus—all powerful, all dangerous. Each union would bind Sparta to strength, but also to strife. Too many egos, too much blood. And Helen… Helen was still a child. He could not trust her choice to whim or affection.

His gaze fell upon Menelaus. Broad-shouldered, golden-haired, younger in face than his years, and brother to Agamemnon—the lion of Mycenae. Through Menelaus, Sparta would bind itself to Mycenae’s power, yet not risk the arrogance of a man like Ajax or the cunning of Odysseus. Menelaus was not cruel, not reckless.

It was decided.

He raised his hand, and the hall stilled. “Princes of Greece,” he said, his voice carrying. “You have honored my house with your presence and your valor. But Sparta must choose, and I must choose for her. The hand of Helen, my daughter, shall be given to Menelaus of Mycenae.”

The hall erupted.

Some cheered, raising cups in Menelaus’s name. Others muttered darkly, brows furrowed with resentment. Ajax’s scowl was thunderous. Diomedes’s eyes narrowed, already calculating what this alliance meant.

Menelaus himself stepped forward, bowing low with practiced humility, though his eyes gleamed with triumph. “I am honored, King Tyndareus. And I swear, I shall treat your daughter with the reverence owed to Sparta’s jewel.”

Percy barely heard the words over the pounding in his ears. He had been half-expecting it—Menelaus had always been the obvious choice, with Agamemnon at his back. But when he looked to Helen, his stomach dropped.

She sat stiff in her seat, her knuckles white against the armrest, face pale as marble. She didn’t cry—Helen never cried in public—but Percy saw the shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

He clenched his fists beneath the table. Menelaus was twice her age. Handsome, yes, charming enough, but still—twice her age. A political match dressed in golden words.

The suitors toasted, the hall roared with noise, but Percy’s gaze never left Helen. She sat very still, lips pressed tight, her gaze fixed straight ahead like someone already building walls around her heart.

Percy swallowed hard. He forced a crooked smile, as if to say I’m here. I’ll help you through this.

But inside, something ached.

The moment the hall doors closed behind her, Helen ran.

Her slippers slapped against the polished stone floors, her breath hitching in her throat. She darted past startled servants, past guards who looked away, until she reached the safety of her chambers. She shoved the door closed and pressed her back against it, chest heaving.

Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, skirts pooling around her.

Married. To Menelaus. The words echoed, hollow and heavy. Married to a man twice her age, chosen not because of her heart, but because of politics. She had known, deep down, that her father would never truly let her decide—but hope had lingered. Foolish hope.

Hot tears spilled over, blurring her vision. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

The door creaked open. “Helen?”

Her head snapped up, startled. Percy slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t speak at first—just crossed the room and lowered himself to the floor beside her, folding his long legs awkwardly in the heavy silence.

For a while he said nothing. Only sat there, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him beside her.

Finally, she whispered, voice raw, “He’s so old, Percy. I’ll be trapped forever.”

Percy scratched the back of his neck, eyes full of quiet concern. “He’s older, yeah. But… he’s not like Ajax. He’s not cruel. He’s not reckless. He’s… honestly? He’s not bad to look at, either. Handsome enough. And he doesn’t seem the type to raise his hand against you.”

Helen gave a choked laugh through her tears. “You’re trying to make it sound better.”

“I’m trying to say,” Percy corrected gently, “it could have been worse. But that doesn’t mean it’s fair. You deserved a choice.”

Her throat tightened. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She leaned into him, trembling. “I don’t want to be his wife. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife yet.”

Percy wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her steady. “I know. And I can’t change what your father’s done. But I can promise this—if Menelaus ever hurts you, in any way, I’ll take you away from here myself. I swear it.”

She believed him. She always believed him.

With a broken little sob, Helen clung tighter, pressing her face against his tunic. Percy held her until the storm of tears began to ebb.

Helen’s sobs had quieted into hiccups, her head resting against his shoulder, his tunic damp with tears. Percy rubbed slow circles on her back, murmuring nonsense—anything soft enough to keep her from slipping back into despair.

A knock at the door startled him. He tensed, ready to snap at whoever dared intrude. But when the door opened just a crack, Patroclus stepped in.

He froze on the threshold, eyes wide as he took in Helen clinging to Percy. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Helen sniffled, lifting her head. Percy caught her hand before she could wipe her eyes, squeezing it gently. “It’s okay. Come in.”

Patroclus hesitated, then shut the door behind him. His steps were careful, almost reverent, as he crossed the room and crouched on Helen’s other side.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a quiet voice, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

Helen shook her head, fresh tears welling up. “No. Please stay.”

Patroclus nodded, settling beside them. He didn’t reach for her like Percy had—he simply sat close, solid, a steady presence at her side. And somehow, that steadiness was its own comfort.

Percy glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness in his expression. Patroclus wasn’t mocking, wasn’t stiff like the other suitors had been around her. He just looked… kind.

Between them, Helen drew a shuddering breath. “I feel like I’m drowning. And no one even cares.”

“We care,” Percy said quickly.

Patroclus nodded, voice steady. “You’re not alone, Helen. Not now. Not ever.”

Helen let out a weak laugh. “Two boys against all of Greece?”

“Two boys are a start,” Percy said, managing a crooked smile. “We’re scrappy.”

That earned another little laugh from her, watery but real. She leaned against them both, taking comfort in their warmth.

Percy felt something stir in his chest at the way Patroclus’s hand brushed lightly against Helen’s arm, careful and respectful, steadying her. He thought of Patroclus in the ring, all grace and fire, and now here—gentle, dependable, good.

For a second, Percy’s heart beat too fast. He looked away quickly, tightening his hold on Helen so she wouldn’t see the flush creeping across his face.

The tears had finally ebbed. Helen’s head felt heavy, her chest hollow, but the worst storm had passed. Between Percy’s jokes and Patroclus’s quiet steadiness, the room no longer seemed to press down on her so cruelly.

She sat back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. The two boys stayed on either side of her, like twin pillars holding her upright. She looked between them—Percy’s sea-green eyes still warm with worry, Patroclus’s dark gaze steady and kind—and for the first time that day, she felt safe.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Both of you.”

Percy flashed her his crooked grin. “That’s what friends are for. Though, if you tell anyone I can be serious, I’ll deny it.”

Patroclus chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Helen tilted her head, studying Percy. A thought flickered in her mind, mischievous enough to curl her lips despite the ache in her chest. “You know,” she said slyly, “I think you’d rather marry Patroclus than me.”

The effect was immediate.

Percy’s face went scarlet. “What?!”

Patroclus jerked as though struck, color flooding his cheeks. “Helen—!”

Helen laughed, the sound bubbling out of her before she could stop it. The sight of both boys—Percy stammering, Patroclus flustered and glaring at his own hands—was too much.

“I knew it,” she teased, wiping another tear, this time from laughter. “The way you look at each other—like one of you is going to combust any moment.”

Percy buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

Patroclus sputtered, his blush creeping all the way to his ears. “She’s imagining things.”

Helen only smirked, leaning back against the cushions, the weight in her chest easing at last. “Maybe. But it made you both blush. Which means I win.”

Percy peeked through his fingers, glaring half-heartedly. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible stylish,” Helen shot back, nudging his shoulder with hers.

The palace had long since gone quiet. Torches guttered low in their sconces, the last echoes of laughter and song fading into silence.

Percy sat on the balcony outside his guest chamber, knees drawn up, chin resting on them. The night air was cool, the stars wheeling above like tiny fires. Below, the gardens lay hushed, the fountain’s trickle a soft counterpoint to his thoughts.

His mind wouldn’t still.

He kept seeing Helen’s face—pale, stricken, her hands clenched white when her father had named Menelaus. The way she’d cried, desperate and furious all at once, as though she were being handed to a cage. Percy’s chest tightened. She was still so young. She deserved freedom, choice, laughter—not chains dressed up as wedding garlands.

He clenched his fists on his knees. I promised her. If Menelaus ever hurts her, I’ll take her away myself. He meant it. Whatever the cost.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to stare at the stars. And, unbidden, another image rose: Patroclus, sitting so steady and calm beside Helen, his voice gentle as he told her she wasn’t alone. The way his hand had rested lightly against hers—strong, sure, respectful. The way the torchlight had caught in his dark hair, the faint flush still lingering in his cheeks when Helen teased them both.

Percy groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Gods, she’s right.”

His cheeks burned even in the night air. He wasn’t supposed to think like that—not here, not now, when everything was already too tangled. But his heart hadn’t listened, traitorous thing.

He dropped his hands at last, staring out at the sea beyond the city walls, its surface silvered by moonlight. Somewhere out there, Poseidon’s domain stretched endless, vast, safe. But Percy had chosen this—chosen to stay on land, chosen Helen’s friendship, chosen this fragile, dangerous web of bonds.

And for the first time, despite everything, he didn’t regret it.

“Whatever comes,” he whispered to the waves, “I’ll be there. For her. For him. For both of them.”

The sea breeze stirred, cool and salty, carrying the vow into the night.

Chapter Text

The suitors spilled from the hall in a clamor of bronze and bitterness, their voices sharp as whetted blades. Torches guttered in the evening air, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

Diomedes of Argos walked beside old Nestor, his jaw tight. “So it is settled,” he muttered, spitting into the dust. “Menelaus wins the jewel of Sparta, and the rest of us go home with empty hands.”

“Empty hands, but not empty promises,” Nestor replied, his voice calm though age had roughened it. “You swore the oath. We all did. If ever her marriage is threatened, we stand with him. That was the bargain.”

Diomedes grimaced, his fingers tightening on the haft of his spear. “A bargain made too quickly. Menelaus gains a throne and a goddess of beauty for a wife. The rest of us gain chains to his fortune.”

Nestor chuckled dryly. “You think too narrowly, boy. We gained peace. Without that oath, this hall would already be soaked in blood.”

Ahead of them, Ajax the Lesser stormed away, cloak snapping, cursing under his breath. His broad-shouldered namesake shoved past servants, scowl dark enough to frighten them aside. Odysseus walked alone, quiet and calculating, as though every muttered curse was a string in a web he already saw.

And there—by the steps—sat the boy from Aegae.

Diomedes slowed, sneering faintly. Percy lounged against a column, legs stretched out, tossing an apple idly into the air as though he had no care in the world. Helen’s laughter had rung around him too often these past days, bright as a bell.

Nestor followed his gaze. “The boy troubles you.”

“He shouldn’t even be here,” Diomedes said sharply. “A prince of nothing, barely more than a child. Yet Helen clings to him as if he were her brother—or worse. It makes the rest of us look like fools.”

Nestor’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed mild. “Better a boy who makes her laugh than a man who makes her cry. Remember that.”

Diomedes said nothing, but his scowl deepened.

As the suitors drifted away into the night, Percy leaned back against the column, catching the apple with a grin. He looked every bit the careless youth they thought him—unthreatening, unworthy.

None of them noticed the way his sea-green eyes lingered on the hall doors where Helen had vanished, or the weight in his smile.

The chamber was dimly lit, the air thick with the perfume of crushed flowers. Helen sat at her mirror, staring at her reflection as though the glass might offer some escape. The girl who looked back at her wore gold combs in her hair and a gown fine enough for a queen, but her eyes brimmed with the same dread she had carried since the hall.

The door creaked softly. She didn’t turn.

“Go away,” she whispered.

“Not a chance,” Percy said.

He came to stand behind her, his reflection joining hers in the mirror—rumpled tunic, sea-green eyes, hair still messy from the day. He didn’t look like the others, polished and perfect. He looked like himself. That alone eased her heart.

“I don’t want this,” Helen admitted, voice breaking. “I feel like I’m being pushed off a cliff.”

Percy crouched beside her chair, meeting her eyes through the mirror. “Yeah, it feels like that. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to fall screaming. You can spread your arms and make the whole world think you’re flying.”

Helen blinked at him. Then, despite herself, a tiny laugh slipped out. “That’s nonsense.”

“Maybe,” Percy agreed with a crooked grin. “But you’re not powerless, Helen. You’ll be queen of Sparta. Menelaus is no tyrant, and he’s not cruel. He’s… fine. Boring, maybe. Handsome, even. And people will love you. They already do. You’ll have a kind of power the rest of us can’t touch.”

Her throat tightened, but the sting of tears didn’t come this time. His words weren’t empty comfort—he believed them.

She turned, reaching to squeeze his hand. “You make me sound stronger than I feel.”

“That’s the trick,” Percy said softly. “Feel weak all you want. Just don’t let them see it. You’ve got this, Helen.”

Something in her chest loosened. She nodded slowly, breathing steadier now.

And then her lips curved, mischief breaking through the gloom. “You sound like a husband giving advice.”

Percy snorted, nearly choking. “Gods, no. I’d be terrible at it.”

Her smile grew sly. “Patroclus, then? You’d make a handsome pair.”

Percy went scarlet, sputtering, “You’re unbelievable.”

Helen laughed—clear, bright, and real.

Patroclus lingered in the colonnade, half-hidden among the shadows of the pillars. He hadn’t meant to overhear, but the laughter drifting from Helen’s chambers had pulled him closer before he could think better of it.

Helen’s laughter—clear and bright, despite the weight pressing on her—was a balm in itself. But it wasn’t Helen who held his gaze.

It was Percy.

The boy from Aegae leaned casually against the arm of her chair, speaking in that careless, lopsided way of his, hands moving as if he were telling a story. His hair was a dark, unruly mess, his tunic dust-stained from the training yard. And yet… there was something about him that shone brighter than polished bronze.

Patroclus had watched him stumble through contests, laughed at his deliberate clumsiness. He’d even scolded him for it. But now, watching Percy coax Helen from her tears, seeing him smile as if her joy were his only concern—Patroclus felt his chest tighten.

Helen was supposed to be the jewel of Sparta, the one who drew every eye. But it was Percy who caught his.

Patroclus flushed, shaking his head. Foolish thoughts. The boy was younger, unpolished, not even a true king. And yet—when Percy grinned, when he leaned close to whisper something that made Helen laugh harder—Patroclus found himself smiling too, unbidden.

A warmth spread in his chest that he tried, and failed, to smother.

When Percy finally stepped away from Helen’s chair, catching her hand for a brief squeeze, Patroclus turned quickly, retreating into the shadows before either of them noticed him. His heart pounded like a war drum, face hot.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t sure if he meant Percy—or himself.

The corridors of the Spartan palace were quiet in the late evening, the air heavy with the smoke of dying torches. Odysseus walked them with the ease of a fox prowling a chicken yard, eyes sharp, ears pricked for weakness.

He found it leaning against a pillar.

Percy. Alone, tossing a pebble into the air and catching it again, his sea-green eyes distant, thoughtful. The boy prince from nowhere, always smiling too easily, always laughing too loudly.

“Percyon,” Odysseus said smoothly.

Percy straightened, suspicious but smiling anyway. “Odysseus. Shouldn’t you be polishing your clever tongue for tomorrow’s speeches?”

Odysseus ignored the jab, circling closer, hands clasped behind his back. “You are close to her. Too close.”

Percy blinked. “Helen?”

“You make her laugh. You hold her hand when no one else dares. It is noticed.” His tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “Menelaus may be kind, but he is also proud. And kings do not like to share their wives’ affection—even if it is only friendship.”

Percy’s grin faltered, just a fraction. “I’m not after her. She’s my friend. That’s all.”

“Intentions matter little when others decide what they see,” Odysseus said softly. “Be careful, boy. Or one day, you’ll find yourself crushed between men greater than you, and none will remember you were only trying to be kind.”

He left with that, his steps light, his shadow long.

The morning broke bright and golden, the kind of day poets would remember. The palace buzzed like a hive, courtyards crowded with servants, priests, and visiting nobles. Everywhere Percy looked, garlands of laurel and fresh roses hung from the pillars, the air sweet with their perfume. Bronze braziers smoked with offerings to Hera and Aphrodite, their flames snapping in the summer wind.

Percy had never seen such pageantry. Not even on Olympus.

Helen was the heart of it all.

When he caught sight of her at last—veiled in gold-threaded linen, her hair bound with a circlet of polished amber—Percy nearly forgot to breathe. She looked older than her years, radiant and solemn, every inch the queen she was about to become. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw pride in her eyes beneath the veil. Pride, not fear.

She did not walk alone. Two maidens led her forward, carrying baskets of flowers, and priests intoned blessings in voices that rolled like the tide. Menelaus waited at the altar, clad in white and crimson, a golden brooch fastening his cloak. He smiled—not the smug grin Percy had expected, but something softer. Almost shy.

The ceremony itself was a blur of ritual: libations poured, prayers murmured, wreaths laid upon the altar. Percy stood at the back, shoulder to shoulder with Patroclus, the press of the crowd heavy all around them.

“She looks…” Patroclus started, then trailed off, words failing him.

Percy finished softly, “Like she was born to wear that crown.”

Patroclus glanced at him, then back at Helen, saying nothing more.

When the vows were spoken, Helen’s voice did not falter. Clear and steady, she promised herself to Menelaus. Percy thought his chest might break, but then—through the veil—he caught it. A flicker of a smile, quick as sunlight through clouds.

And it wasn’t feigned.

Later, at the feast, the hall roared with celebration. Musicians plucked at lyres, flutes trilled, dancers spun between the long tables. Platters of roasted lamb and honey cakes filled the air with their rich scent. Percy ate little; his eyes strayed often to Helen, seated beside Menelaus.

To his surprise, she looked… not miserable.

Menelaus leaned toward her often, speaking quietly, and though she blushed and looked away, she laughed once or twice. He didn’t touch her without permission. He didn’t leer. For all his age and pride, he treated her with respect.

When Helen’s gaze found Percy across the hall, she smiled—small, private, genuine.

He raised his cup to her in salute, and she mirrored him.

Beside him, Patroclus murmured, “It isn’t as terrible as she feared.”

Percy exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening. “No,” he admitted. “Not terrible. Different. But she’ll be alright.”

Patroclus studied him a moment longer, and Percy felt the warmth of that gaze even in the clamor of the hall.

As the feast dragged on, Percy and Patroclus slipped out together into the quiet courtyards, the noise of celebration fading behind them. They walked beneath garlands strung between pillars, moonlight gilding the marble.

The palace had long since quieted. The music and laughter of the feast had dwindled to a faint murmur, then to silence, leaving only the hiss of torches and the rustle of night wind through the courtyards.

Percy slipped past the drowsy guards and found himself at Helen’s door. He hesitated for a moment, then knocked softly.

The door opened a crack. Helen herself stood there, veil cast aside, hair unbound, her cheeks flushed not from wine but from the endless attention of the day.

“Percy,” she breathed, relief brightening her tired face. She stepped back, letting him in.

Her chamber was lit by only a single lamp, shadows pooling in the corners. She sank onto a couch, drawing her knees up, looking suddenly more like the girl who used to laugh with him on the beaches than the queen who had dazzled all of Greece that afternoon.

“You were right,” she said quietly, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “It wasn’t as terrible as I feared.”

Percy settled onto the cushions beside her, close but not too close. “He wasn’t awful.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “He was… gentle. Respectful. I thought I would feel like a prize goat, but…” She trailed off, searching for the words. “It could have been worse. Far worse.”

Percy nodded. “That’s what I told you. Doesn’t mean it’s fair. But you held your head high. You looked like you owned the whole hall.”

Helen smiled at that, a small, tired smile. She reached out suddenly and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Don’t leave me, Percy. Not ever. Promise me.”

His throat tightened. He squeezed back, steady. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

She let out a shaky laugh, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. For a moment, they sat like that in silence, the only sound the quiet crackle of the lamp flame.

At last, she released his hand and sat back, eyes shining with both exhaustion and resolve. “Go. Before the whole palace whispers that the queen’s first night was spent with another man.”

Percy rolled his eyes but rose obediently. At the door, he glanced back. Helen looked small and young again on her couch, but there was steel in her spine now, and the faint curve of determination in her smile.

He slipped out into the hall, the night air cool on his face. Somewhere behind him, the newlyweds would begin their life together. And somewhere ahead—he didn’t know yet what waited.

But Helen would be alright. And Percy would keep his promise.

The palace courtyard was quiet in the gray light of dawn, the last of the wedding garlands wilting in the breeze. Servants swept the stones, yawning, the splendor of yesterday already fading.

Percy stood beneath the shade of an olive tree, cloak slung over his shoulder, watching Patroclus tighten the straps on his pack.

“So that’s it?” Percy asked, his voice light, though his chest felt heavy.

Patroclus glanced up, sheepish. “Achilles is expecting me. He’s been training on Skyros, and… well, he doesn’t wait for anyone.”

Percy smirked. “Sounds like a handful.”

“He is,” Patroclus admitted with a laugh, then hesitated. His eyes softened. “But he’s worth it.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the clatter of a horse being led past the gates. Percy swallowed. “You were… good company, you know. Better than half those kings.”

Patroclus flushed faintly, looking away. “You too. Even when you were pretending to trip over your own feet.”

“That was strategy,” Percy shot back, grinning crookedly.

Patroclus shook his head, but his smile lingered. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he reached forward and clasped Percy’s arm. A warrior’s grip—but his fingers lingered longer than necessary.

“Until we meet again,” Patroclus said quietly.

Percy’s grin wavered, then steadied. “Yeah. Until then.”

They parted reluctantly, Patroclus swinging up onto his horse. He rode out with the other retainers, sunlight catching on his dark hair until he disappeared beyond the gates.

And then Percy was alone.

He walked down the long road until the palace was lost to sight, then further still, until he reached the shore. The sea was waiting, bright and endless, waves curling like outstretched hands.

“Home,” Percy murmured.

No one knew—no one would guess—that the prince of Aegae was returning not to a palace on land, but to Atlantis beneath the waves. He slipped into the surf, the salt tang sharp in his nose, the water curling around his ankles, then his waist.

With one last glance back at Sparta, Percy dove.

The sea welcomed him like an embrace, cool and familiar. He vanished into the depths, leaving behind garlands and oaths and weddings, carrying with him only the promises he had made.

Chapter Text

The oath, woven from Odysseus’s words and Tyndareus’s need, was a brilliant but deadly idea. Penelope watched the net knot itself in the center of the hall, each prince offering his wrist to the cord as if he thought he was binding someone else. She knew cloth better than any of them. A net catches what swims into it and what swims too near. When the boy from Aegae touched the boar’s thigh and swore by sea and storm—unlearned words that tasted too much like truth—Penelope felt the weight settle over the room the way a wet cloak settles over shoulders: slowly, then all at once.

She had been weaving when Odysseus found her. It was not the grand loom Helen preferred for tapestries that lasted the age; this was a smaller frame for work that had to forgive being pulled apart. Her hands moved without thought—under, over, tighten, slacken—while lamplight goldened the thread.

“I was lost,” he said.

“You were not,” she said.

He came anyway, and sat where she could see him without turning her neck. He watched her hands for a while. It felt like being listened to.

“A crown,” she said, not looking up, “is only a net made of metal.”

“Then it is heavier,” he said.

“And less forgiving,” she said. “You cannot unweave gold without breaking it.”

He leaned his elbows on his knees. “What would you do with such a net?”

She tightened the weft and felt the cloth answer. “Untangle it. Or weave my own beside it.”

He was quiet. The lamp hummed. In the distance the hall breathed like a sleeping beast.

“Do you envy her?” he asked at last.

“My cousin?” Penelope paused, surprised he had not said “the jewel.” “I do not know her,” she said. “Not truly. I envy no one a story they did not write.”

“That is an uncommon answer.”

“It is the only honest one I have,” she said.

He turned his head until their eyes met, and something passed between them that did not involve a single word: recognition, like two travelers finding the same hidden path on a map and realizing they had been meant to share it.

The women’s gallery smelled of crushed thyme and linen. Penelope sat a little apart—close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten—hands folded on her lap as the men below turned the courtyard into a thunder of boasts and bronze.

They were handsome, most of them. Handsome in the way statues are: impressive and a little useless unless you need to scare birds from a field. Ajax the Great lifted a spear and hurled it like he meant to pin the horizon in place. The crowd roared. Diomedes watched like a hawk that had learned to count. Menelaus smiled as if the world had been made to be kind to him and had simply obeyed. Old Nestor stood like an olive tree that refused to fall.

Penelope studied their faces as she might study a loom: where the threads pulled, where they frayed. Strength is a thread, she thought, but strength without a knot will come loose in the wash.

Her cousin sat two seats away, a star among the candles. Helen did not look at her. Penelope did not take offense. They were kin by blood and strangers by life. Penelope knew how the palace whispered about Helen—the jewel of Sparta, the favor of the gods—but the girl behind the stories was harder to see from here. It would be easier to know a constellation by its name than by the cold light it cast.

On the sand, another name was called: “Percyon of Aegae.”

The boy who stepped forward should have disappeared in that sea of polish. Too young, too plain, sandals dusty, hair like someone had argued with it and lost. He bowed incorrectly and smiled as though he knew it. A few men laughed. It would have been kind to look away.

Penelope didn’t.

The chariot race began with a blur of hooves and dust. Ajax’s horses ate ground like locusts. The boy from Aegae whispered to his team and they shot forward so eagerly Penelope leaned in despite herself—then saw him fight the reins, saw the sloppy correction, the wheel catch a rut that no rider so gentle would have missed. He finished somewhere in the middle. Helen laughed into her hand.

Ah, Penelope thought. Not clumsy. Careful.

When the footrace came, he stumbled just enough. When the spear came, it flew into a shrub and startled a bird. The women beside Penelope tittered, then looked to Helen, and tittered louder when Helen smiled. Penelope should have joined them. Instead she felt something stranger: relief. Someone had given Helen a reason to be a girl for a breath.

“Ajax throws like a god,” said a voice at her shoulder, low and amused, “but thinks like a goat.”

She glanced sideways. The king of Ithaca stood where no king ought to—on the wrong side of the dividing line, half in shadow, as if shadows were the only place his feet trusted. He had clever hands. That was her first thought, absurd and certain. Clever hands that would know the weight of a net.

Penelope kept her eyes on the yard. “A goat that charges the wolf still has its uses,” she murmured back. “Better than a wolf that chases its own tail.”

He turned his head. She felt it more than saw it, the smile that shifted from performance to interest. “Lady?”

“Penelope,” she said. She did not offer more. Names were thread; you gave only as much as you meant a person to keep.

“I am Odysseus.”

“I’ve heard,” she said, as if she had merely heard of the wind. Below, the boy from Aegae accepted a bow like a man accepting a snake, and proceeded to miss everything but the ground. Helen laughed until her shoulders shook. Men frowned. Diomedes sharpened his silence.

“A strange boy,” Odysseus said.

“Strange,” Penelope agreed. “And far more dangerous to pride than a man who never misses.”

He chuckled. It was a good sound, low and private, like a secret shared between conspirators who had not yet agreed to conspire. Then he vanished the way foxes do—without seeming to move at all.

The hall that night was loud with men choking on their own glory. Penelope slipped out when the wine smelled too much like surrender. The garden fountain kept its own counsel; she liked it for that. Moonlight broke itself on its lip and fell in coins.

“You slipped away,” said the fox, as if he had been waiting for her to verify a conclusion he’d already drawn.

“So did you,” Penelope said.

“Spies hide,” he said, stepping nearer. “Observers are ignored.”

She let herself smile. “Welcome to the tribe of the ignored, king of Ithaca.”

His eyes brightened. “You see more than most.”

“I listen,” she said. “The men talk so loudly I can hear their silences.”

He tipped his head toward the dark roofline. Laughter threaded down from it—young and uncareful. Helen’s, bright as a scraped bell. Another, lower and warmer; the boy from Aegae. A third, wry; the Phtian boy whose name she had had to learn twice because no one said it when Achilles was nearby. Patroclus, yes. There they were, just above the rules, for one small hour.

“Her guard dog,” Odysseus murmured, meaning the boy.

“Her friend,” Penelope corrected. “A rarer creature.”

“And what do you make of him?”

She watched the fountain’s skin shiver under a breeze and then smooth itself. “He falls where he means to. That’s enough of a truth for me.”

Odysseus laughed again, quiet. “And me?”

She looked at him full then, as if measuring out a length of thread against his shoulders. “A fox in human skin.”

He bowed as if she’d crowned him. “Then I must pray to Artemis that she does not take offense.”

“Pray to no one,” Penelope said. “The gods are terrible listeners.”

He grinned. “You’re very bold for a woman in a palace that rewards silence.”

“I am very quiet,” she said. “Boldness lives in what you do not say.”

He left on that, pleased by the answer; and she sat with the fountain until the stars burned holes into the water where faces ought to be reflected.

He broke the silence first, with humor. “If I were to choose a wife,” he said lightly, as if he were not placing a line and testing the tension on it, “I would choose one who listens and only speaks truths.”

“If I were to choose a husband,” Penelope said, drawing the thread through, “I would choose one who speaks only when the words are worth hearing.”

He smiled slowly, a man appreciating a knot that would hold.

The wedding was gold and laurel and breath held behind veils. Penelope watched Helen walk as if she had learned, at last, how to make a fall look like flying. Menelaus did not bruise the air around him with victory; he stood like a man who did not know how to break what was precious and feared learning. That would have to be enough for now.

Later, when the hall roared itself hoarse, Penelope found the shade of a colonnade and leaned into it. Torches spat. Musicians tuned choices into noise. The newly made queen laughed at some gentle word Menelaus said, and Penelope’s breath left her in a small, surprised way. Perhaps kindness would do what beauty could not.

“You hide in plain sight,” Odysseus said, arriving as if she had summoned him by the thought.

“Plain sight is the best place to hide,” Penelope said. “No one looks where they are certain they have already seen.”

He stood beside her without touching her. It felt more intimate than any hand. “And what did you hear tonight, watcher?”

“That kings bellow loudest when they are most afraid,” she said. “That oaths sound like freedom until you try to breathe with them on. That Sparta has gained a queen who will learn to make mercy look like law.”

“And Ithaca?” he asked, amused.

“Ithaca,” she said, tasting the shape of the word, “has a king who enjoys being underestimated.”

He tilted his head, fox’s grin brightening. “Enjoys?”

“Requires,” she amended. “Loves, even.”

“I love many things,” he said. “Harbors that hold. Riddles that yield. And minds that meet me where I am before I know where that is.”

She met his eyes. “Then we are both well entertained.”

A silence settled that was not empty. Some silences are traps; this was a table.

“If I were to ask your father for your hand,” he said, very mild, as if discussing the weather, “would he ask me my weight in gold or my weight in ships?”

“He would ask you to race the wind,” Penelope said dryly. “And then try to tether you to his house.”

“Would you untie the knot?” he asked.

“I would learn how it was made,” she said. “And then decide.”

He laughed, delighted, and left her there before anyone could name what had passed between them and ruin it by naming it.

That night, in her chamber, the moon drew nets on the floor with its light. Penelope lay awake and listened to the palace settle. Somewhere beyond the wall the new queen breathed, learning her crown by touch. Somewhere farther, a boy from the sea was saying goodbye to land. Somewhere in the courtyards between, a fox counted doors and exits and promises.

She imagined a loom larger than the one by her bed, a loom big enough for a life. Warp threads: patience, silence, the steadiness of hands that never hurry. Weft threads: humor, listening, a mind that kept its own counsel. The pattern would not be pretty, not at first glance. But it would wear well.

Perhaps Helen had won a kingdom that day. Penelope thought she had found something better, or at least rarer. Not gold, not glory. A man whose cunning matched her own, and who smiled when she showed him the teeth in her quiet.

Let the men throw spears at the sky and call it victory. Let them swear oaths so tight the gods could pluck tunes on them. Penelope would build with thread and time. And if Ithaca’s fox returned to ask, she would have an answer ready—woven so cleanly even a king would not see the seam.

Outside, the fountain kept its promises to the dark. Inside, Penelope closed her eyes and slept as if she had decided something, though she could not yet have said what.