Chapter Text

“Why do we wear orange?” Persis had to ask.

Annabeth wrinkled her nose. Her gaze slid to Persis, disbelieving. “What?”

“I mean—” Persis picked at the bright orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt. “This is really bright. Like, people-on-the-ground-guiding-the-airplane bright. Can monsters not see orange?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Annabeth said.

“It’s an honest question!” Persis said. “Why do we wear orange?”

Annabeth heaved a great sigh. She snapped the greek workbook—because Persis had been learning greek, how weird was that—shut. “Because of the Olympides."

“Who?”

Annabeth gave her a crosseyed stare of disbelief. A stare that read how dumb could you be? Persis resisted the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation. Annabeth was so annoying.

“The Olympides,” Annabeth said slowly, like she was speaking to a kindergartener. “You know. Some of the most popular gods in Greek mythology?”

Persis blinked. The words weren’t clicking in her head. She was pretty sure Mr. Brunner—sorry, Chiron, had never referred to the Olympides.

“How do you not know this?” Annabeth said disbelievingly. “You’re named after one!”

“Me?” Persis pointed at herself. Her brows shot up in confusion. “No, I’m named after the goddess of demigods. Your half-sister. Wait, is she really your half-sister?”

“Yes,” Annabeth replied in a tone more suited for I hate your guts. “She’s one of the Olympides.”

Persis tilted her head.

“The third generation?” Annabeth prompted. “The cursed ones? The founders of camp?”

“Not ringing a bell,” Persis said. Annabeth looked like she wanted to strangle her. Her hands were flexing on her textbook, almost creasing the paper. Persis wondered if children of Athena would be upset about it. She knew her mom, a booklover, would have been enraged if someone tore her books.

“Did you even see the orientation film?” Annabeth asked.

Persis blinked. “Uh—no.”

Annabeth’s hand, thrown up in exasperation, froze. She turned, very slowly, like a marionette doll. She looked creepy, her entire body tilting to face Persis. “Wait. What?”

“I have no idea what orientation film you’re talking about,” Persis added, because she kinda liked how frizzy Annabeth’s hair was becoming. It poofed with her anger.

“Chiron didn’t show it to you?” Annabeth asked incredulously.

“Um… no?” Persis was pretty sure she would remember a film. Instead, all she got was a fat god. And, of course, the knowledge gods were real, and her mom was dead.

“Fuck,” Annabeth breathed.

Persis squawked. “Language!” she cried. Her cheeks flushed. She was a New Yorker second, Sally Jackson’s daughter first. Sally Jackson had… ideas on people who cursed.

Annabeth continued, twisting her ponytail across her finger. “Oh shit—”

“Stop!”

“—I’m sorry. I thought you saw the film. I’ve been treating you like you were dumb for not knowing knowledge you never learned.”

Persis blinked. It sounded… like a compliment? From Annabeth?

“Thank you?” she said.

Annabeth’s finger turned purple from the taunt string of hair. She unwound it, and then did it again. The tip flushed white.

“Okay.” Her fingers smoothed back the pages of her book. Her brows were furrowed, like she had only just seen the little creases. “Okay. The Olympides include Persis, Nikandros, Anthoë—”

“And Leonides, Pythare, and Willeon,” Persis interrupted. Annabeth looked up. “I’ve heard of them. I just never heard them being referred to as the Olympides.”

Annabeth’s face darkened, and for a moment, Persis was worried she said the wrong thing.

“Maybe it’s a camp thing,” Annabeth said through gritted teeth. “Anyway. They all came together and decided orange was going to be the color of camp. And since they’re the founders, what they say goes.”

“Why would they do that?” Persis asked. She leaned back, her head tilted toward the sky. The thought of there being some Peeping Tom up there made her quickly look down. Wait—there was a god of the ground, too.

She looked at Annabeth instead. She refused to let her gaze drift toward the beach. She liked the thought of her father checking on her even less.

Annabeth shrugged. “Why do gods do anything?”

“So… you don’t know.”

Annabeth flushed. “Of course I don’t,” she snapped. “They didn’t exactly write down their thoughts on colors!”

“Why don’t you just ask them?” Persis asked.

Annabeth stilled.

“What?”

“You said you went to Olympus. Didn’t you talk to them?”

For a long, long time, Annabeth was quiet. Long enough for Persis to notice the waves were quiet too. There were no more sounds of splashing. And the sun felt too hot on her skin. And the gentle wind—that was gone.

“No,” Annabeth finally said. Her fingers tapped against her book. “They died a long time ago.”

Persis stood up so fast her head spun.

“Gods die?”

That felt like the atheist of every lesson Chiron gave her. Mortals were weak, gods were strong. That’s how the story went. Mortals got punished, mortals died, the gods were dicks. Powerful, immortal dicks.

“No.” Annabeth snapped. Her gaze darted around furtively. Persis noticed how the wind was back. It hurt, whipping through her skin and clothes so hard they whipped back at her. They felt like nettles, stinging her skin.

Annabeth tilted her head to the sky. Her mouth formed a word—a prayer? Persis squinted her eyes. It looked like Annabeth was apologizing. But what did she have to apologize… for…

Oh.

She remembered now that the giant, powerful dicks were real, and they were watching.

“Gods can’t die,” Annebth said, when the wind finally settled down. Her face was pleasantly flushed, like she had just run a marathon. She was back to glaring, her voice clipped. “But they can fade if their domains do. Take Pan, for example.”

“The cooking spray?”

“The god. He was the god of the wilderness. Thanks to humans destroying his domain, he faded. The satyrs keep searching, but he’s been missing for the past thousand years. They're not going to find him.”

Persis remembered Grover. How Chiron had said he wanted his searcher’s license. “So Grover…”

Annabeth nodded. “Yeah.” She pulled her knees up, tucking her chin in the crack between them. “It’s every satyr's dream to find him. Grover’s too.”

“Oh,” Persis said. She thought of Grover’s drawn face, his eyes cast to the ground. She looked around at the nature around her. The naiads, giggling under clear rivers. The dryads flit in and out of trees. The air felt sharper, surrounded by all these woods. Spicy. It had a distinct bite to it, as if she could taste it. It felt different from New York. Persis didn’t realize it then, but now, she thought the air felt lighter. Better.

“So the six faded?”

“The six?”

“The olympian-idy things. My mom calls them the six.”

Annabeth’s lips pursed. “The Olympides.”

“Yeah. Them,” Persis nodded confidently. She was rewarded with the quick quirk of Annabeth’s smile. “Did they fade?”

The smile dropped. “When the flame of the West moved from England to America, they disappeared. It’s been centuries.”

Annabeth looked small. Her back hunched over her body, like she wanted to hold herself in half. Her chin pressed into her knees, hard enough it would leave a mark.

“Do people search for them?” Persis asked softly.

“Yeah,” Annabeth said, equally as soft. “There’s a quest. It’s called the Mark of Athena. It’s all about searching for the Athenide.”

Persis cast her mind back. “That’s who I was named after,” she said.

Annabeth’s fingers flickered across her page. They pressed in hard, leaving sounds of paper brushing against paper. “Hephaestus gives his mechanical apple. Aphrodite picks her favorites to find them. There’s this whole system—the searching. Once you do more than two quests, you're automatically added. The parents fight for the best to search for their children.”

It was like an ah-ha moment. No wonder Chiron, who gazed at Annabeth with exasperated fondness, wouldn’t let her have a quest. No wonder.

“But we’re their kids too,” she said. She felt angry just thinking about it. What sort of parent sent their nieces, nephews, cousins—children to die for their missing sibling?

“We’re not gods, though,” Annabeth said.

“Not all of them were gods,” Persis said.

“No,” Annabeth replied. “But they become one.”

“That’s not fair,” Persis said. She felt the anger under her skin like a live wire. She kinda wanted to scream. She wanted to kick the water, the sky, the sun. Would her mysterious father send her to find her other siblings, even if it meant she would die?

She didn’t want to be claimed, if that was the case.

Luke said newbies were good about being claimed, and they were, Persis had already seen it—but now, a dark thought lingered. Were the kids claimed so their parents could send them off on a hopeless quest? When her claiming, the claiming she had literally prayed for, happened, would it be a result of the hope for another body to join the search?

It felt dystopian.

“They wouldn’t want this,” she said. “They were the protectors of demigods.”

Annabeth winced. “Don’t ever put words in gods’ mouths. They don’t like that.”

The sky streaked with lightning—just one, just a single flash, to signal it was true. Persis fell silent.

Annabeth looked over, her face softer. She treated her like a wild beast, carefully stepping around her at every turn.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But we have to find them so they can tell the gods themselves.”

—

The sky flashed. It had been thundering since Annabeth’s words. The rest of the campers didn’t seem that worried. According to Annabeth (who explained camp in detail, thanks to residual guilt from the assumption of Persis seeing the orientation film), it never rained unless the campers wanted to, or Zeus forced past the barriers. And there were barriers surrounding the camp. Woven by the Olympides—specifically Nikandros, who had ties with the mist and the underworld. They were enforced by Thalia’s tree. Thalia’s tree, the lifeforce of a dead girl.

That was a surprise to her, too.

The Hermes cabin was packed together, mischievous smirks pressed to her side. There were a few other outliers: children of minor gods. A boy with green hair shuffling tarot cards sat in front of her. Across from her, Annabeth sat with other blonde, grey-eyed kids. It was a little creepy. Like a bunch of smart minions staring into your soul.

Chiron trotted up.

The campfire flared yellow in excitement.

Color-changing fire. Persis had stopped flinching ages ago, but that felt like something to flinch over.

“Campers!” He called.

Yellow, then a pure orange. Flickers of purple too.

“YES?” the campers chorused as one. Persis almost shrieked.

“At the request of Annabeth—” the whole camp, Persis included, turned to look at the Athena child. She acted like she didn’t notice the weight of fifty stares, grinning at Chiron. “We will be having a storytime.”

A person to Persis' left cheered, while a person to her right booed. The fire split—red and purple, shifting to pink. It was all in good fun.

“Bout what?” Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, aka the one girl maybe more annoying then Annabeth (it was close though) asked. Persis was torn between wanting Ares to be her father so it was less likely she would be picked for a searching, and wanting to stay as far away from Clarisse as she could. She was pretty sure the Ares cabin smelled.

“Good question,” Chiron said. “About the significance of our colors. The orange shirt, to be exact.”

A wave washed over the crowd. Older camper’s brows shot up in surprise. Younger campers looked down at the fluorescent fabric, as if just now realizing it's a problem. Given that they were only a couple of steps away from literally glowing in the dark, Persis thought she could have been a child of Athena.

“It starts with Anthoë, goddess of architecture, reason, diplomacy, strategy, foresight, and community. Upon her birth, Hestia dipped a torch in her hearth and gave in to the new goddess, for community went hand in hand with home. From that day on, Anthoë wore orange to represent her most sacred domain and her sacred torch. For centuries on, she guided half-bloods to safety with her torch. She and the Leonides would pluck abused, negletcted chuildren out of unfit homes and guide them to couples longing for a child. It was from her that the famous term was coined: Pánta tà tékna goneîs axioûsi, oudè pántes hoi goneîs tà tékna axioûsin.”

Persis' mind automatically translated. All kids deserve parents, but not all parents deserve kids.

“But that’s not the end of the story,” Chiron said. “Persis—” Persis fidgeted, Annabeth’s eyes flickered over her, “protected her children—because all half-bloods were her children—with orange. She marked half-bloods in orange, and mortals knew to let them pass. She asked her mother to weave an orange band, and if it was ever sacrificed in prayer, it meant the halfblood was in danger. She convinced Apollo to add orange to the sunset and sunrise, so demigods woke up with the orange sunrise and fell asleep surrounded by the orange sunset.

All the Olympides, even though they had their disagreements and preferences, agreed on orange as the camp color. It symbolizes a safe haven for the demigods under its banner. To Anthoë, the color meant guidance. To Leonides, it meant home. To Pythare, it meant protection. To Nikandros, it meant mentoring. To Willeon, it meant safety. To Persis, it meant protection.”

The story ended with silence.

Hundreds of years of history pressed on Persis, blocking her breath. She felt light and dizzy as she looked around the crowd. The world felt like it held its breath. It was a moment meant for songs and stories.

Goosebumps erupted on her arm. Awe caught her voice.

The flames flickered orange.

—

The Olympidēs (Ancient Greek: Ὀλυμπίδης, singular Ὀλυμπίδα Olympidē; in Latin Olympida, - das), also referred to as the Six (Nikandros, Persis, Leonides, Pythare, Willeon, Anthoë) were the notable children of the Olympian gods in Greek mythology, portrayed in a number of ancient epic poems and legends, such as the Theogony, the Labours of Heracles, the Oedipodea, the Argonautica, the Iliad, and the Dionysiaca, to name a few. They were known as the protectors of demigods, praised for their physical agility, strength, and power. Although some iterations cast them as siblings, most agree they are commonly associated by their shared curse and unique parthenogenesist births, rather than genetic links. They have many overlapping myths, suggesting early ancient schoolers may have seen them as one, before they later split. They were known to be hostile toward slavery and rape, which was seen as part of the culture of the time. The primordial Gaea laid a curse on them, never allowing them to touch the bare earth. They got around it in different ways, leading to their domains being incorporated into their statues and paintings. A famous example is the painting Poseide and Athenide, where the goddess Persis steps out of her birthplace with puddles under her feet.

According to most accounts, Persis was the original goddess of demigods. Upon befriending Nikandros, she split her domain into six and gifted them each a part. They created a hidden ‘Haven,’ to protect the half-mortal children of the gods. Courageous and fiercely independent, they regularly undertook extensive quests to find half-blood children to help, reaching as far as Arabia and Egypt. The Olympides are also associated with the foundation of temples and the establishment of numerous ancient cities like Anthonos, Pythareia, Nimye, Anthu’ah, Willenu, Slymigava, Lephesos, Peinope, etc.

The six are the children of the following: Poseidon, Athena, Hades, Apollo, Aphrodite, and Hephaestus. The texts of the original myths show their association across the pantheon, including Persis as the reincarnation of Rhea, the Titaness of motherhood and wife of Kronos. They are believed to originate from ancient Mycenaean gods, repurposed in ancient Greece, although the exact deities are debated by historians. Most of the six lead a life of nomadacy, with some switching between a set of godly or mortal parents, and others moving between the underworld and Olympus. The myth of hurricanes originates from Persis returning to her mother, Athena, for example. So too does the myth of depression, thanks to Nikandros returning to Olympus, and cyclones. The famous cultural dance, Kyklos Tetrarchos, is inspired by the poem The Crossing , of Pershepone and Persis crossing each other as they return to the underworld and Olympus, respectively.

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Chapter Text

Nikandros , often given the epithet Hadeide, or Erebios, is an ancient Greek god associated with ghosts, shadows, passage, outcasts, and the forgotten, who was later syncretized with the Roman god Victorius. He was associated as a protector of homosexuals, falling under his outcast association. The Phasmaton, translated literally to “the structure of the ghost,” is dedicated to him. His major symbols include bone motifs, a black sword, and the hellhound. In art, he is generally depicted with any imagery connected with the gates of the underworld. In his most famous painting, the Ghost King, he is seen within the shadows, wielding a black sword, and wearing orange (a color commonly associated with all of the Olympides). Given Nikandros’ popularity, it was most likely that he was a pre-Hellenic deity later adopted by the Greeks. His association as a protector of homosexuals, while redated throughout history, makes him a popular figure in fiction today.

From her origin as an underworld deity, Nikandros was closely associated with the ferrying of souls, often being depicted working with Charon. He was known as Psychopomp (guide of souls) and Skotios (of the shadows). His shrines were usually located near rivers and caves, a testament to his story of befriending the goddess of River Styx. His most famous title was Philoxenos (friend of outcasts), made popular by his role as the protector of strangers and the rejected.

In Greek mythology, Nikandros was believed to have been born from the shadows of his father, Hades, the King of the Underworld. In almost all versions of the story, Nikandros is born fully grown with no mother; born from Hades by parthenogenesis. In a few others, such as Hesiod's Theogony, Nikandros was born from the pomegranate seeds that Persephone ate; in this version, Persephone planted the seeds and Hades nurtured them while his wife was away. They sprouted to reveal a baby. Most versions of the myth describe Nikandros’ birth witnessed only by Hades, his father. Being the favored companion of Hades and the adopted son of Persephone granted him great power. However, his maternal grandmother, Demeter, despised him. In the Myth of Letheios, it described their quarrel in great detail.

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Hades rose with the rise of the sun.

He boarded his chariot, polished black obsidian, pulled by ghostly wisps. The earth trembled under his power, splitting upon his entrance. His aura of death was immediate and chilling. It infected the area, leaving the green grass to rot. Persephone breathed in the scent of the sun. Her skin glowed, her ichor reacting to her natural domain. Her hair, so dark in the underworld, looked almost pink in the sunlight. Hades wondered if that was how she specifically crafted it.

It had been a good winter.

Try as Demeter might, her machinations had not been as devastating as she intended. Instead, his beautiful wife joined him in governing the influx of mortal souls; a duty made necessary by her mother’s harsh winter. A part of their consciousness was always split, so a version of them could exist together, unhampered.

The spirits yearned closer, pushing themselves into Pershepone’s touch. She had laughed, even though she was no mortal, and held no need to laugh. Asphodel flowers grew from her delight. Her essence had warmed. In her touch, they easily attached themselves to his chariot. At her guidance, they didn’t flee from the sudden sunlight.

Helios drove over, his own chariot heading toward Olympus. His rays touched his face. It lit the world up from the inside out; the first sunlight his wife had seen for months.

“The Sky should let him join,” Persephone said. She did not use her father’s real name. She avoided drawing his attention ever since his eyes gazed at her in lust.

“You know he will not,” Hades said. “He does not trust Titans.”

Persephone barred her teeth. Her essence smothered them, obscuring their words from eavesdroppers. Her hands clenched on the chariot. It cracked under her strength. Despite being a so-called ‘minor goddess,’ she was the child of two Kronsides. She had enough power to sit on her father’s throne.

“The Gigantomachy has only just ended. What does he think he gains, to reject them all?”

“Nothing, I suppose. It is his paranoia. And his pride.”

Persephone took his face in her hands. He pulled together his full essence, his full consciousness, so every him could feel his wife’s hands on his face. Her power thickened until it felt like they were underwater.

“How I wonder what glory you would have brought,” she whispered. “With the sky as your crown.”

She whispered, though she had no need to; an eavesdropping god could hear all. Unless they were specifically blocked.

His hands cradled hers. He pressed into her warmth, his eyes flickering shut. He could still see; he could see all. All gods of significant power could. His domain stretched out before his mind at all angles. He could see every inch of his wife through his all-knowing sight.

Their essences; their selves; pressed together. It was more intimate than any touch could be.

“Do not say that,” he whispered. The only reason he did not hurriedly pluck her words from the tapestry of the world is that he trusted in her power.

Persephone’s smile transformed her face. It brought a hint of her true form. It made flowers bloom. Life to death. “It is true.”

He kissed her forehead. “Daughter or not, our king does not stand for rebellion.”

Persephone pulled her warmth away. He missed her warmth like a missing limb. “That was no rebellion. That was words.”

Their chariot broke through the sky to the edge of the world. Space surrounded them.

He brought her palm to her face and kissed it. Her essence flickered in happiness. A version of her, back in the underworld, kissed the him that always stayed in his domain. The other versions of them, presiding over the court, shared their essences.

“That doesn’t matter,” he whispered into her wrist.

Persephone’s smile was sad. He wanted to capture the smile. Keep it by her by his side forever. He wanted to paint her essence; her scent. He missed her already.

He gave himself hellhound fangs with a thought. He scraped them delicately against her wrist. Where, if she had been truly mortal, her blood vessel would lie. She had no eyes; only a smooth stretch of skin from the bridge of her nose to the peak of her hair. Where her eyes would be was a circlet of thorned branches wrapping around her head. Their color darkened, from black to obsidian. Her essence coiled against him, coy and tempted.

“I likely should wear a chiton,” Hades muttered against her skin.

Gods were not ashamed of nudity. They had sculpted their forms themselves; all except their true one. Every inch of them was designed to godly standards. It was common in Olympus to walk around unclothed or partially clothed. No god would have batted an eye at his naked body.

Persephone nodded.

“You should.” She herself was wearing a peplos, stitched from the fabric of souls. They nestled against her skin, happy to be worn by their queen.

“I will.”

“No, you must.” Persephone leaned forward. Her teeth scraped the shell of his ear. They were sharp. They belonged to the underworld. “Or else I will ravish you in front of all the gods.”

Hades wondered at the perception of mortals. To believe a goddess as powerful as she, she did not know the pomegranate seeds held the soul of the underworld. To believe her, the chaste.

The him of the underworld pulled her close. That he split into another version of himself, to touch her at all angles.

She smirked. He could feel it against the shell of her ear. He could see it, against his lips.

She pulled back. Her parting whisper was, “Put a chiton on.”

He used more power than he dared to follow her request.

The chariot pulled against the mountain of his brother’s home. She exited first, not with limbs, but with a flicker. Her form appeared ahead of him, already walking. He teleported over to her side. Every fall and winter, he was never far from her.

We could transport ourselves to the throne room.

He whispered the words in her mind, as all gods could. She answered, and her thoughts were tinged with memories and promises. They, as much as anything, told how she longed to keep him close. They felt like love itself.

Let Olympus see you. Let them see the eldest of Kronos’ sons.

They walked through golden streets. Nymphs flitted in and out of their trees, curiously watching. Minor gods poked their heads out of their domains. Marble buildings lined the road. They shimmered in the sunlight, sometimes stone, sometimes gold, sometimes trees. Their essences felt like fear. Hades despised it; despised the lies Demeter had been telling. Persephone walked through Olympus proudly, her hand in her husband's. She felt like vicious satisfaction. She did not mind the terror.

I enjoy it, in fact, she thought, once she heard his own. She could feel his musing with their mind and essences so tightly intertwined.

Why?

They demean you. I hear their words. I hear their thoughts. You are their superior. You are so much more powerful than they could ever dream. Let them shake and let them despise.

There was a haughty tilt of her brow. Her voice loudly talked about the plainness of the items hung outside the buildings; gems, dresses, tapestries, wind chimes, compared to the items found in the underworld.

You don’t have to defend me.

Persephone’s essence twanged in rebuke. She read his thoughts, heard his heart, and pivoted focus. He could almost grasp at her immediate refusal, before she pushed the thought back. Her voice rang, vibrating her very essence.

I am your wife.

She saw the first thoughts that flickered through his mind. She saw his sadness, the way he longed for her. She changed tactics.

They whisper about me. Tell me I am stained. Some dare to say it to my face.

For a second, shadows stretched. Mount Olympus plummeted into darkness.

Only for a second.

Persephone pulled him forward.

They think I reek of the underworld. They are jealous of my power as your wife, and yet they dare to question why I did not choose Apollo as my bride.

A god’s love was very different from a mortal’s. He was enraged to think of his dear wife being treated like that in her childhood home. In the home of the gods, the home from which he was rejected. But still, his heart never wavered. A god’s love was a possessive, jealous thing. It was all-consuming, all obsessive. It encapsulated Philia, Pragma, Storge, Eros, Ludus, Mania, Philautia, and Agape. It could die in an instant, but it would never fade. It was an imprint of the soul.

Hades thought about his wife’s happiness whenever she returned to the world of the living. She thought of the healthy flush in her cheeks that disappeared over the winter days. He thought of Apollo and the life she could have lived. He wondered of her happiness. He could pluck those thoughts from his mind—all gods could. He could refuse to think of it. But he never did.

Despite his regret, he loved Pershepone. And he loved her as a god would. Which meant he was never letting her go. Her happiness mattered less than her presence.

Presence he would be doing without for six months.

They reached the ivory steps. High, high above, was a door stretching into the threads of chaos. And behind those doors lay his king.

To most gods, years went by in the blink of an eye. Six months was a flicker of wind. To live in mortal times meant to go insane. They were not built for it. They could not withstand it.

Hades thought he must be insane.

They walked up the steps, hand in hand. They did not get tired. They were gods.

Persephone listened to his thoughts. She hummed, and the sound rang across the steps. She understood. She was the only one who would.

If I could, I would keep you by my side. I would chain your feet and arms for eternity. You would be my pet.

They pushed open the doors.

You would never leave me.

He imagined life by her side. He imagined waiting for her, chasing her, following her. He imagined sitting by her, hand and foot. He imagined being led around in chains. It should be demeaning. Instead, it made something deep within him relax. Something primal, something that belonged to a god far older, preened at the thought.

I would never let you go.

He loved her so much that he believed his essence couldn’t survive it. A god's love, he knew. In mere moments, a god could love even a mortal with the strength of death. But his love for Persephone was different.

Everlasting.

Eternity.

But you are, he thought.

Her thoughts turned sad. He hated it. But he wanted to hurt her more. He wanted proof of her love for him more than he cared about her sorrow.

I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you.

The thoughts were a whisper on the wind.

They took their seats. Hades entered triumphant, with the knowledge that Persephone’s love for him was greater than her love for her mother.

The rest of the gods continued with their conversation, but essences flared. They thickened in fear. Persephone seemed to revel in it. She had no seat, as she had no Olympian throne. She stood by his side, standing next to his throne. By the end of the night, she could cross the room and return to her mother’s side.

His throne was made of polished darkness, darkness he had confessed together until it became a dark black stone Persephone had named obsidian. It looked slick, like it was dripped with wax. With the right amount of sunlight, the darkness gleamed. In a certain light, there were the imprints of faces. It was Persephone’s touch. It was her face in all of its facets, all of its forms. Including some male ones.

Demeter’s essence brightened at her daughter’s arrival. She specifically chose a face lined with mortal wrinkles that deepened whenever she saw him.

Her skin was bark; her hair braided wheat. Petals covered her body like scales. Only a decade ago, she had once looked at him with love. With the protectiveness of a big sister. Those days were long gone.

The floor was made of polished marble. With the strength of the throne that sat upon it, cracks spread upon the ground. The marble could be reinforced with a single thought. Instead, their vaulted king decided to assign his most favored wind spirits to hover under the mountain. Repairing the mountain every time the combined power of the gods broke it.

The Olympians.

The most powerful gods.

The Kronoides, of course. The generals of the Titan War, the rulers of the world. They were the highest power among them. Their combined essence was enough to drown a mortal. For the past centuries, the Olympians had been the generals, consisting of only the Kronoides. That had changed when Hades was exiled to the underworld.

Afterward, meetings of siblings had become assemblies of the solstices of the new seasons. He was only invited for the summer and winter solstice; a change that had begun only after he had taken Pershepone to wife, being allowed to return her.

The new gods were chosen well, as much as it burned to admit. Their power was sheer, their domains powerful.

As newborn gods, their influence was a flicker to the Titans. But no titan would be allowed on the council of the heavens.

Only their king and queen had not arrived.

Poseidon’s eyes met Hades’ own. His essence crashed against Hades’ like waves crashing against the shore.

Poseidon was untamed. Nature at its finest. Unlike the younger gods, he had no want for a beautiful mortal form. His lower half was the tentacles of a kraken, curled around his throne. His hair was seaweed flowing in the water and simultaneously waves frozen mid-crash. Tiny bioluminescent creatures drifted through it, glowing softly like stars underwater. His skin rippled, fluid. It shifted from deep navy to turquoise to emerald green. Patterns like ripples, coral textures, and swirling currents decorated his bare arms, chest, or back. Like jellyfish, some parts of him were translucent, such as the skin around his jaw. Jagged, sharp teeth could be seen even if his mouth was closed.

He split his essence. Hades did too, sensing the unspoken. Gods had a language entirely of their own. It was learned through essence and thought.

The newborn twins, Artemis and Apollo, snipped at each other.

At the base of Mount Olympus, Poseidon stood next to the mountain. The mountain shook under the weight of the earth shaker’s proximity.

Hades’ aura becomes playful. Lightly brushing over Poseidon’s, pulling back when it reacted. It was questioning, sliding underneath his essence like it wanted to separate land and sea.

“I’ve been good,’ Poseidon answered. He used both his words and his thoughts to communicate. His voice was the echo of the waves, the song of a whale. ‘Triton is healing. Refuses to hear mention of her name.”

Ares, the first son of Zeus and Hera. Conceived in the King’s marriage. He seemed intrigued by Hades, his essence coy when their gazes met. If he were a mortal, Hades imagined he would have smirked. It was far from their first meeting; Ares was a newborn god no longer. He had grown into his domain remarkably. But they had never explicitly shared words. Although for gods, sharing words was the minimum you could get.

“Who? Pallas? Or our niece?”

Waves crashed against the shore. The sea screamed. Hades felt sailors' lives snuff out one by one.

Poseidon was partial to his son and heir, Triton. He paid little attention to his daughters, powerful in their own right. Pallas, his granddaughter, had aged as a mortal would. Every year, just the slightest bit over. She was more nymph than goddess, and it entranced the god of the sea.

A god’s death was a very rare thing. It was foreign to think about. Pallas was the first example in eons.

He could understand the sea god’s anger. He could understand why he glared at the wisdom goddess on her throne. After all, Athena had killed Pallas.

Apollo laughed at something Hesita said. His twin had gone back to sharpening her arrows. She was in a child’s form—ten mortal years, at most. She was smart enough to seek out Zeus’s favor while she was still considered a newborn. Only conceived five decades ago, Hades had barely interacted with the twins.

“How is Kymopoleia?”

Poseidon’s domain darkened. Sailors screamed as waves devoured them. Sharks searched for blood.

‘She holds great ire toward me,” he said. “She is unhappy in her marriage.”

Apollo leaned closer to Hestia. He enjoyed his mortal mannerisms: laughing, frowning, blinking. It was so strange to see such imperfect expressions on a god’s perfect face.

Hades could tell Poseidon it was necessary to win the war. Kymopoleia’s hand as a reward for Briares the Hundred-Handed. Hera had personally arranged the marriage, and she was intelligent enough to capitalize on the benefits.

He could say it all, but Poseidon already heard them. Hades’ thoughts had been open since the start of their conversation.

“Violent storms do not often subside,” he said.

Hesita was as still as a living flame. She was the smoke drifting across the room. Her hair brushed against her cheek in all directions. She, too, wore a mortal facade. She told her siblings it was to help the third generation feel more accepted. Her flame hair had been dulled to brown, her golden eyes a soft amber. She was too beautiful to be mortal. Too young, with her chosen appearance. But it was as close as any Kronoide could go.

The hearth flickered. Hades couldn’t parse the emotion associated. But her essence was still just as warm.

“Amphitrite mourns. I believe she wished for a companion, similar to her fifty sisters’ Poseidon said. His essence turned mocking. Hades had to agree, and the way the souls of the underworld wailed showed that.

“How is your wife?”

Poseidon’s rage spiked. Sharp and swift, it left tsunamis and death in its wake. Hades rarely ever got prayers, and yet the rich smell of bread filled his form. It was a plea from a widow that her husband would find her way to the underworld, even in another’s domain. Another version of him split off.

(“Can I take that mortal?”

‘That particular one? Very well.”)

Persephone patted his arms. Demeter’s eyes caught it all. A wave of rage cracked the floor. Farmers screamed as their crops rotted. Souls started falling into his domain like shooting stars.

“She is well,” he said. His voice was carefully calm. His skin shimmered like wet sand.

Hades could feel his brother’s anger. He apologized, for it was easy for him to do.

“I am sorry,” he said. It should be a blow to his pride as a man; a god. It was hardly a thought.

Poseidon cast him a cautious look. “It is not you I am angry about. It is our sovereign brother’

Oceanus, the titan of the sea, was neutral in the war to overthrow his race. The reason was the treaty that all the sons of Kronos signed. A queen from one of his granddaughters. One for each of them. Poseidon had married Amphitrite, Zeus had married Metis, and Hades had tried to take a Nereid called Cymodoce to wife. She had rotted in the underworld, unable to bear it. Finally, seconds away from fading, she had retreated to the ocean, and Hades was exempt from the treaty.

And then Zeus. Metis was his first consort. The titaness of wisdom, daughter of Oceanus. Hades wasn’t sure what possessed his brother to consume his first wife like Kronos did to them, but his perception of Zeus had been forever marred. Either way, the treaty had been violated. It fell to Poseidon to uphold and appease his father-in-law. It led to some bitterness.

Hesita looked up. Her warmth became sweet, like milk.

Poseidon disappeared without another word. His essence rippled in goodbye.

Why didn’t he say goodbye?

Did he not realize it would not be for a couple more months that they were allowed to talk?

Did he not care?

For gods, time moved differently. Hades shouldn’t notice the mere months. That was like counting milliseconds.

He felt like he was a prisoner of war, only allowed to see his family at certain times each day.

Hades disappeared and reformed on his throne, with his wife at his side.

And in front of him, his younger brother. The king of the gods.

Zeus.

The King of the skies’ skin shifted and swirled like rolling clouds, from soft whites and silvers to stormy grays. Lightning flickered under his skin like glowing blue-white veins, pulsing with energy. His hair was rising smoke; his beard wisps of storm clouds. Aurora strands, stolen from the northern lights, were threaded throughout.

His queen, his sister, joined him. They were wearing matching crowns of the heavens. A circlet of storms; a halo of circling stars and sparks, constantly reforming above their head. The galaxy itself compressed into a crown, shaped by their power. The brightest stars hung against Hera’s brow like a circlet.

Zeus banged his master weapon—the lightning bolt with which he banished Hades—on the marble floor. It cracked under the power. Wind spirits repaired it in seconds.

The meeting started with aplomb.

“I propose we continue searching for the giants,” Hades said. Immediately, his words garnered reactions.

Zeus snarled. His facade of an impartial king cracked with the first word of his brother. “The giants have not shown their faces in nearly a century. Why would we waste time searching for what may have died?”

The gigantonomy. Their second great war.

“They are not dead until they are in the Tartarus and dead,” Hades retorted. The name of the primordial entity brought a chill, even to Olympus. Hestia’s flames went cold in warning.

“I agree,” Ares said. “Why leave such enemies free?”

“Why waste resources?” Athena said. She was more bird than woman, with talons, wings, bird legs, and feathers. Her fingers no longer held the webbing of her mother, a nereid. Her appearance shifted every second. Poseidon’s thoughts whispered she wanted to be as close to the sky—to her true father as possible. “We can be focused on the defensive. If they attack, let us respond.”

“Are we such cowards, to leave enemies in our midst? Does your strategy equate to slothfulness?” Ares asked, mocking his half sister.

Athena spoke to Zeus, ignoring Ares entirely. “It is not sloth, nor is it wrath. It is simply conservation of resources. Why should our energy be spent on enemies, when we could increase Olympus’ borders, hurting their plans, whichever path be taken?”

“You think they have plans?” Apollo asked. His voice was curious. Light. The room felt like sunshine and Helios. Hades wondered about the smiling god.

“I think it is very unlikely a group larger than five has ever found each other. But if they do, they possess the intelligence to know how to attack our home.”

“Why leave the possibility open?” Ares snapped.

Zeus raised his hand. When he did, clouds gathered; when they clenched his fists, thunder rolled. Sparks danced across his skin as he moved, grounding into the earth with faint crackles.

“Enough.”

He turned to Hades. The younger brother, and yet a hint of his essence, contains childish glee at looking over him. Hades thought of his visceral disgust and terror upon hearing that Zeus ate Metis and sent it to the king.

His essence recoiled.

“Yes, my king?”

Zeus recovered in seconds. Hades could see every angle where he nestled his back against his chair, pushing as tall as he could. “You truly believe the giants still walk among us?”

Hades dipped his head in a nod. “If they are not in the underworld, then they walk amongst the living. We cannot have your greatest enemies able to commune with their earth mother.”

Gaea.

As one, their essences stretched. The eyes of the Olympians, looking down on the mountain, then on the grass.

The meeting continued.

“My daughter, can you hunt down the remaining giants?”

Hera interrupted before Artemis could speak. The queen of the gods sent a scathing glare toward the patroness of the wild.

“Husband, be reasonable. No newborn god will be able to withstand the might of the older giants.”

A part of him stood apart. Outside of the gates, watching Helios carefully drag his chariot across the sky. He felt every second like a wound.

“I believe we should focus on defense. With the warmer moons ahead, now is the best time to gather mortal heroes.” Athena said.

“You plan on leaving the work to mortals?” Apollo asked incredulously.

Ares interrupted Athena when she went to open her mouth. “It won’t work. Father has forbade us—” here, he shot a baleful look toward the king of the skies “from binding mortals to our complete rule.”

Lightning slashed through the sky like a gaping wound.

“I will not withstand more whispers about the Titanomachy,” Zeus declared. “Use fear, use love, use power. But if you rule in absolutes, prepare to face the whispers of your similarities to the titans."

Hades missed the freshness of the air. He missed the smell of life. He missed the brightness of the sun.

“Speaking of titans, they are growing restless. They are not allowed in this council, and they feel we are not fulfilling our side of their treaties.” Poseidon said.

Hera’s skin rippled an iridescent sheen. Athena went still—a living statue.

The unspoken treaty hung heavy in the air.

Hades looked at the sun and counted out each color in all the languages of the world. He spoke every second. He wanted the day to stretch on forever.

They moved on from that topic. Instead, the question of mortals arose.

“Who safeguards the relics?” Artemis asked, referring to the artifacts and divine weapons of the Gigantomachy.

“No mortal can withstand the use of them,” Athena agreed.

“Apollo,” Zeus said. “Have your new Oracle issue a prophecy. Pick a suitable demigod to lead it.”

The room seemed to chill. Ares, Apollo, Poseidon, and Demeter had living demigod children. Zeus’ current son was too old to be counted. The honor of being the parents of the successful demigod would be… immense.

“Father, mother,” Ares said. “Perhaps you can decide amongst our children. You are the King.”

Apollo grew incensed. “Are you insinuating I won’t be fair—”

Hades once loved his home. He loved the calmness. The subtle beauty of the underworld. The way the walls glowed with their own light, the light of a thousand souls. Since his banishment, the light had lost its luster. His own domain felt like a prison.

“I insist on the death of the King of Crete.” Demeter said.

Apollo rose. Fury lined every inch of his chosen form. His body glowing, his true form shown through in his rage.

“Careful, aunt. Crete is home to my worship.”

“Your priests have been trying to extend their food storage by pickling my vegetation. It is a direct affront to my domain.”

The argument hung in the air, ready for the other gods to fight over. Athena took the first bite. “I agree with Apollo, Aunt. Mortals are more fragile than we can imagine. They need something to nourish themselves during the long months.”

Demeter’s hair grew. It stretched across the floor like living barley. It circled her throne, falling straight against her skin. From her throne, tree branches swept across the floor. “I created winter and fall out of my grief. To circumvent it is to disregard me.”

Persephone stood up. “Mother, she said.”

Helios was looping back, pulling back the curtain of the sun. The sky had been steadily darkening for 54389 seconds. Persephone came. She split herself apart, a her arguing with her mother, a her curled in his arms.

Six months.

That was all the time they had.

Six months and it was never enough.

He pushed his essence onto her almost desperately. Trying to make himself memorize the feel of their beings intertwined. Trying to imprint her on him.

Six months.

They went by so slowly. He always felt so lucky it wasn’t longer. But would it be better, longer? If he could have her with him for an entire century?

Back in the throne room, Demeter’s eyes turned to him in hate. Her glare was not aimed at Pershepone—the daughter she was arguing with, but at he, her husband.

He felt so unbelievably sad when he looked at his sister. He had done everything right. He had asked Zeus for Persephone's hand. He thought his agreement came with Demeter’s, too.

He missed his older sister.

He missed the sister who would braid his hair. That would sing to him. That he would imagine stories of the outside world with. He missed the sister he hugged when they finally saw the sky. He missed the sister he laughed with when they trained. He missed her.

It wasn’t his fault.

Six months.

Why was it always his fault?

Why couldn’t Zeus have asked Demeter? Why couldn't Demeter have understood? Why didn’t she accept them? Why didn’t she love him anymore?

Persephone laid a land on his shoulder. She shortened herself to rest her face in the crook of his neck. He made a heartbeat for her, even if gods didn’t need one. He felt and saw her smirk.

Are you happier on the surface? He wanted to ask.

But he didn’t.

Because if the answer was yes, he still couldn’t let her go.

Selen rose.

Pulling the moon behind her, her chariot nestles itself in the sky. Nyx unfurled her cape, and the world slowly darkened as it drifted down, falling across the land. To immortal eyes, it happened in a blink.

Persephone’s divine strength crushed his fingers. He tore the pain from his body and destroyed it.

They watched as Helios grew smaller and smaller, drifting down to his palace. When he landed on the steps, it felt loud. His footsteps vibrated the world.

Demeter’s hand shot forward in a vice grip.

Her eyes glittered. Persephone walked toward her mother. The second mother and daughter were reunited, Demeter flashed them away. One after the other, the gods did so as well. Until only Hades and Zeus were left.

Hades left first.

He could not bear to be kicked out of his home for a second time.

He boarded his chariot without his wife. The spirits yanked his grip, tossing their hair and pulling their limbs. Without her guidance, they jerked him wildly.

He felt like Zeus. Half-untethered from gravity, drifting as though walking on air.

Her essence ached like a missing limb. He made his chest intangible, just to see the mortal heart he had conjured; the one she laid her head against.

The rotten grass was a beacon. Demeter’s power rejected the underworld. It refused everything grown there. Except, of course, her beloved daughter.

The last waning sunlight cast long shadows as he landed. From the ground view, he could only see the mountain Olympus. Once again, the palace was closed off from him.

His underworld palace was modeled after the place he was rejected.

How pathetic.

He was rejected.

He was unwanted.

Persephone was gone.

He drove his chariot closer. He stepped out. His shadow remained on the ground, unmoving.

The earth opened with a great roar.

Beneath his feet, the world breathed with a quiet fury. Mountains drifted imperceptibly across the planet’s crust, oceans surged with the pull of unseen tides. The Earth spun, a colossal gyroscope, faster than the eye can follow, flinging the days and nights into being, wrapping the skies in the illusion of stillness. Winds were born from this spinning, storms dance upon it, and rivers carve their paths with a patience older than memory. Mortals walk as if standing on solid ground, yet every step is on a moving stage, every breath shared with a planet that bends space and time with its invisible momentum. It is a subtle, relentless power—humbling, beautiful, and vast beyond imagination.

With a great heave, he broke it. Tore it apart.

Made the planes of the plant crack and shift on his command. Where Demeter's power was relentless, his is inevitable. In the end, he would be king. Even if there was a bit of delay, everyone became a subject eventually.

The shadow lay across the ground. It rippled, as if breathing. The wind blew, the dark hairs of the shadow with it.

With every step Hades took, his shadow breathed. With every thought he had, the shadow flinched. And with every trace of his lonely, bitter soul, the shadow came alive.

Hades boarded his chariot, flicked his reins. The spirits pulled from his command, thrashing wildly.

“Dad?”

In that split second before he registered the voice, he pulled forward.

Hades turned in time to watch a godling fall from the underworld.

Chapter Text

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Miscellaneous Myths: The Six Olympides

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TRANSCRIPT:

Ancient Greece, as we generally conceive of it, originated around 2,725 years ago, 700 BCE. Before that, the civilization in the area was Mycenaean Greece, which existed between 1600 and 1100 BCE, 3,600 years ago.

After that came the Late Bronze Age collapse, with the sudden breakdown of Mycenaean Greece and nearby civilizations. Interestingly, it’s one of history’s great puzzles.

There were a few centuries of dark ages, of which we have little historical or archaeological evidence, most likely due to a lack of a formal written language. Greece, as we know it, began as a collection of small city-states with distinct cultures and rules, united by their shared worship of the gods. And even that could vary significantly across regions and specialties. Only starting around 900 BCE, Hellenistic Greece synchronizes with what we know today.

Mycenaean Greece and Ancient Greece had a very interesting dynamic. Although practically speaking, they were different cultures, Ancient Greece really seems to have thought of itself as a successor to Mycenaean Greece.

Classics like The Iliad and The Odyssey were written in the 700s BCE, but explicitly set in the legendary past of Mycenaean Greece, and the majority of the Hellenistic Pantheon originated in Mycenaean Greece. Most of the classic Greek gods we know today are far, far older, with different names and characteristics than their Hellenised counterparts.

Except for the Olympides. Now, the Olympides are extremely interesting because, despite their cultural relevance to the ancient Greek world, they are latecomers to the pantheon. They seemed to have appeared one day, with pretty much the entirety of the Hellenistic world deciding to worship them out of the blue. I cannot overemphasize how bizarre that is. It’s one of the great debates for ancient Greek scholars. Now, there are plenty of theories of their origins, including that Nikandros was actually Poseidon.

See, Poseidon in Mycenaean Greece was actually an underworld god, and the King of all gods. He was seen as more of an earthquake god than a sea god. One theory suggests that he evolved into Nikandros, as the son of Hades, with Persis being his oceanic side that also got demoted. Now, this doesn’t account for the other three. Nor does it account for the Hellenistic Greek Poseidon. Some historians suggested ancient Greeks just made up a new god of the sea that gradually rose to relevance and came to be seen as the brother of Zeus. But that theory was dashed once we discovered linear B.

Linear B is a series of inscriptions in Mycenaean Greek. In that script, they list the names of their gods. Among them is Posedawone, the chief god, and the Mycenaean god of earthquakes and the underworld. So, we know for certain Poseidon rose from Posedawone, and we can see other gods, such as Diwonuso, later Dionysus, that became the Greek gods as we know them today.

But we can't find those same origins for the Six Olympides. So, this video is not going to be so much their history, as much as going through the theories and trying to decide the most plausible.

Nico was not good at talking. But he knew death.

After weeks of waiting, agonizing, and steaming, the Greeks and Romans wanted blood. Trying to stop the battle now would be like trying to push back a flood after the dam broke. He could taste the potential in the air, knew the underworld opened its gaping maw to the inevitable souls.

Ironically, Will Solace saved the day.

He put his fingers in his mouth and did a taxicab whistle so horrible that Nico’s mouth opened in a silent scream. It ripped across the camp, tearing eardrums and sound on its way. Several Greeks dropped their swords. A ripple went through the Roman line like the entire First Cohort was shuddering.

“DON’T BE STUPID!” Will yelled. “LOOK!” He pointed to the north, and Nico grinned from ear to ear. It hurt, and he didn’t even care.

He decided there was something more beautiful than an off-course projectile: the Athena Parthenos gleaming in the sunrise, flying in from the coast, suspended from the tethers of six winged horses. Roman eagles circled but did not attack. A few of them even swooped in, grabbed the cables, and helped carry the statue.

Reyna Ramírez-Arellano rode on Guido’s back. Her sword was held high. Her purple cloak glittered strangely, catching the sunlight. Both armies stared, dumbfounded, as the forty-foot-tall gold and ivory statue came in for a landing.

“GREEK DEMIGODS!” Reyna’s voice boomed as if projected from the statue itself, like the Athena Parthenos had become an idol, or maybe a stack of concert speakers. The words rippled through the air, like the wind itself had said them. “Behold your most sacred statue, the Athena Parthenos, wrongly taken by the Romans. I return it to you now as a gesture of peace!”

The statue settled on the crest of the hill, about twenty feet away from Thalia’s pine tree. Instantly, gold light rippled across the ground, into the valley of Camp Half-Blood, and down the opposite side through the Roman ranks. Rare warmth seeped into Nico’s bones. It should be uncomfortable, as a child of the underworld. Instead, it was a comforting, peaceful sensation he hadn’t had since … he couldn’t even remember. It felt like a hug from the mother he didn’t remember. It felt like Bianca was in front of him, ready to protect him. A voice inside him seemed to whisper: You are not alone. You are part of the Olympian family. The gods have not abandoned you.

"Romans!" Reyna yelled. "I do this for the good of the legion, for the good of Rome. We must stand together with our Greek brethren!"

Nico marched forward. He wasn’t even sure why he did it. His feet just moved, a tether pulling him to Reyna. "Listen to her!" he shouted, and immediately wanted to die. Hundreds of eyes swung toward him. Some glares, some confused, some dismissive. Will’s eyes were warm. Nico could feel them lasered to his spine.

He strode between the battle lines, his black sword in his hand.

Did you ever do something so stupid you think ‘oh god I want to die?’ while you're doing it? Because that was him. He felt like he was marching to a death knell. He was so embarrassed, he wanted to curl into a ball and shadow-travel away. He would gladly die, just to stop marching forward.

Why would either side listen to him? He was the worst speaker, the worst ambassador ever. And yet, Bianca’s warmth guided him and refused to settle. She was gone, dead. Someone else’s sister. But he could almost see her in front of him.

"Reyna risked her life for all of you! We brought this statue halfway across the world, Roman and Greek working together, because we must join forces.” The words spilled out in a frenzy. It was like the climax in a grand movie scene. Bows lowered. “Gaia is rising. If we don’t work together—"

YOU WILL DIE.

The voice shook the earth. Nico’s feeling of peace and safety instantly vanished.

Wind swept across the hillside. The ground itself became fluid and sticky, the grass pulling at Nico’s boots.

A FUTILE GESTURE.

Nico felt as if he was standing on the goddess’s throat—as if the entire length of Long Island resonated with her vocal cords. As if he was speaking. As if the flora and fauna, the grass under his feet, the birds in the air, all said it at once.

BUT, IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY, YOU MAY DIE TOGETHER.

"No…" Octavian scrambled backwards. "No, no …" He broke and ran, pushing through his own troops. Jostling them until some fell. Roman helmets turned, a sharp feeling of betrayal following. Nico wanted to kill him. Now he turned tail?

"CLOSE RANKS!" Reyna yelled. The Greeks and Romans moved together, standing shoulder to shoulder as all around them the earth shook. Because at the end of the day, they were demigods. At the end of the day, their bones were iron, and their bodies belonged to the soil. At the end of the day, they breathed, and Gaia would kill them for it.

On Half-Blood Hill, the Athena Parthenos glowed like a beacon.

Octavian’s auxilia troops surged forward, surrounding the demigods. Both camps stood together, a minuscule dot in a sea of enemies. It wasn’t a thought. It was instinct, and instinct born of generations of demigods united. An instinct that breathed down their spines, Greek and Roman, and said this is where we make our final stand.

But even here, they stood on enemy ground. Because Gaia was the earth, and the earth was awake.

An army of monsters, so vast that Nico could barely see them, spread across the hills. Cynocephali, two-headed men, wild centaurs, ogres, and others he couldn’t even name, surrounding two tiny islands of demigods. The First and Fifth Cohorts rallied around the golden eagle of the legion. The other three Roman cohorts were in a defensive formation several hundred yards away.

For a second, the world seemed to hum.

Adrenaline buzzed in Nico’s veins. Seconds ticked by like hours. He needed the fighting to start. He needed to do something, or he would scream.

The ground trembled.

It wasn’t even a word, like they were too insignificant for that. It was a simple breath. Nico’s instincts screamed.

The world exhaled.

And an army lunged forward and attacked.

Nico fought. He felt like that’s all he could do. His blood sang. His vision sharpened. Something slicked his upper arm. Will’s hand was on his arm before he could blink. It was a vice grip. Something iron, pulling him beyond the bodies.

Will’s fingers rested on his upper arm, his expression absolutely deadly. The second he looked up and nodded, Nico stood. His head spun with blood. He ran back to the front lines, the sword flashing. With every death, his enemies were sent straight to the depths of Tartarus.

Reyna shouted orders above him. At the edge of his vision, he could see the glint of her sword. The Romans obeyed without question, like she’d never been away. Their hearts and loyalty belonged to Rome, and Rome belonged to Reyna. She was their praetor.

It was there, Reyna above him, Nico slashing his way through a crowd of two-headed men, when the sky cracked.

The Argo II slipped from the sky, like it was squeezing between stars. Its groan made the earth vibrate.

Jason rose, Piper in his arms. Golden eagles surrounded him, like a living, giant halo. A grey dragon with twisted silver scales and teeth longer than a leg, flapped wings the width of a bust. Frank the dragon flew next to Jason, a blur of black and tan, and gold and tan, in each of its claws.

Nico looked up and saw wild curls riding atop a dragon. His heart squeezed as he saw his sister riding in their father’s domain. Something lunged forward, and he quickly dodged, slashing up. There was no time to be scared. It was the nature of demigods. Do or die.

But if Hazel died, Nico would chain Thanatos himself.

The earth trembled with a caw. It was like a Superman comic. Jason landed, Piper in his arms, and Romans and Greeks together cheered until their voices filled the very sky.

“About time!” Reyna called. “Glad you could join us!”

Piper’s voice sounded like it was grinning. “We had some giants to kill!”

“Excellent!” Reyna returned the smile. “Help yourself to some barbarians.”

“Why, thank you!”

The two girls launched into battle side by side.

Nico nodded to Jason nonchalantly. He felt like all the pent-up tension relaxed at seeing his… friend, live and well.

“Good timing,” he called, his sword pulsating with the glow of monsters. Heads rolled. The bodies dissolved into golden mist, but the heads stayed as a tripping hazard, spewing blood on the grass. “Where’s the ship?”

Jason pointed at the Argo II. Nico looked up to see the giant ship streaking across the sky in a ball of fire, shedding burning chunks of mast, hull, and armament. Jason speared a monster that Nico didn’t catch.

“Gods,” Nico whispered. “Is everyone okay?”

“Leo…” Jason’s voice broke. “He said he had a plan.”

The comet disappeared behind the western hills in a trail of fire. You couldn’t hear the explosion over the roar of battle. He met Jason’s electric eyes. They looked like Thalia’s. A blue so great it felt piercing.

“He’ll be fine,” Nico had the urge to say, even though nothing was a guarantee.

Jason nodded. “Sure.” It was a whisper, almost unheard over the screams.

“But just in case… for Leo.”

“For Leo,” Jason agreed.

They charged into the fight. Nico’s worry was a living thing, writhing in his veins. It made his sword slower than usual, which was something he couldn’t have. Jason covered his weakness, slicing the monsters at his back. The Greeks and Romans slowly pushed back the enemies. Wild centaurs toppled.

Wolf-headed men howled as they were cut to ashes. More monsters kept appearing—karpoi grain spirits swirling out of the grass, gryphons diving from the sky, lumpy clay humanoids charging at demigods. Gaia kept monsters in reserve. Nico recognized them instantly. The son of the underworld knew death. Like recognizes like.

“They’re ghosts with earthen shells!” Nico warned. “Don’t let them hit you!”

I AM AWAKE.

“I knew that,” Jason snarked. Nico shared a smirk.

“Noooo, really?”

It turns out, Gaia had meant a different type of awake. Under Nico’s feet, the earth rippled like water. The grass turned into mud, then turned into quicksand, which dragged you forward.

Nico didn’t fall, because he knew the earth. He held himself up with shadows and bones of fallen demigods. His vision sparked. Other demigods fell, one after another. Ogres slipped. Centaurs charged face-first into the grass.

YOU SHALL DIE NOW

The voice boomed all around them.

A hundred yards away, at the crest of the next hill, the grass and soil swirled upward like the point of a massive drill. The column of earth thickened into the twenty-foot-tall figure of a woman – her dress woven from blades of grass, her skin as white as quartz, her hair brown and tangled like tree roots. Nico was a child of the underworld. He had been raised in a Labyrinth carved into the earth. He had been dipped into the Lethe. He had seen Kronos.

And never had he known such power. It was an earthly power. It was the power of life and death. It was a power so strong the sky reeked of dirt. A power so strong for a moment, he was back in the Labyrinth, Minos by his side.

Little fools.

Gaia the Earth Mother opened her pure green eyes. Her voice was a coo.

The paltry magic of your statue cannot contain me.

With a start, Nico realized why Gaia hadn’t appeared until now. The warm feeling he attributed to Bianca sliding across his skin. But it was broken. It felt like Bianca had died. But it had never been Bianca. It was the Athena Parthenos, protecting the demigods, holding back the wrath of the earth.

But even Athena’s might could only last so long against a primordial goddess.

Fear as palpable as a cold front washed over the demigod army.

“Stand fast!” Piper shouted, her charmspeak woven through her words. It lifted Nico’s spine by itself. It was too loud among the screams. “Greeks and Romans, we can fight her together!”

Gaia laughed.

It was the sound of bedrock clashing against itself. Of hurricanes and earthquakes. Gaia was not just the dirt under your feet. She was a natural disaster. The volcanoes that killed millions. The earthquakes that tore apart lives. She was a tsunami that drowned life. She was a cyclone that shredded her own skin. She was a drought and a wildfire and a flood all at once.

Gaia spread her arms and the earth bent towards her – trees tilting, bedrock groaning, soil rippling in waves.

Jason rose on the wind, and Nico stood on top of the earth, but all around him, monsters and demigods alike started to sink into the ground. One of Octavian’s onagers capsized and disappeared into the side of the hill.

A flash of bronze caught Nico’s eye. He looked up to see a dragon, a long twisting thing of metal and bronze. It was at least fifty tons. It was metal and grand, oil fire flickering from its maw. Gleaming wings of iron rose.

The whole earth is my body, the mountains boomed. How would you fight the goddess of life itself?

Her lips curled in a terrible smile.

The dragon roared. From a distance, Nico could see an unmistakable grin. Curly hair peeked over the bronze.

Mother Life raised her arms. It was the sound of earthquakes shaking.

Nico felt drowsy. He stumbled, nearly tripping over familiar mud and bodies. Jason’s arm shot out, quick as a knife. His grip was tight, his brows furrowed.

“Nico? What—”

His voice trailed off too, a yawn he couldn’t stop slipping from his mouth. Nico blinked up at him. His eyelids felt heavy.

Gaia swatted the giant bronze dragon. He could see it out of blurred eyes. She was oddly fast for such a large being of Earth. Any remaining power flickered from his grasp, pulled from his hands. His ankles grew wet with mud.

He could see as the giant dragon began to drop. Leo’s terrified screams rang out through the battlefield. In the strange silence, it felt too loud.

It was silent, because everyone was tired.

It took all of Nico’s strength to turn his head. At the edge of his vision, he could see a monster bring a club down on a sleeping Jason’s legs. He couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

Blood drenched down in rivers.

A monster pounced on a Roman demigod Nico didn’t know. Sharp teeth grasped flesh and pulled.

It felt like he was the only one awake. The only one that could hear Gaia’s horrible, horrible laughter. It echoed through the world.

Nico Di Angelo closed his eyes. He sank into the earth.

—

It was awkward.

Not at first, of course. At first, it was a rush of adrenaline. The moment of realization. His realm stretches, its open maw ready to devour its own prince. His chariot urged forward without thought, and finally, father and son reunited in a grasp that transcended life and death.

Hades's hands clutched the little godling’s torso. Spinny hands wrapped around his neck. The underworld seemed to beat in time with their matched breaths. It was a moment to tell Clio, the Muse of History.

But after that, it was awkward.

After that, it was just hovering in the air, the faces of spirits and souls tilted up to witness their king holding a god, a child. Floating above them all, a great cloak of darkness and night stretched out behind him.

“Dad,” the godling said. The word was unfamiliar to Hades. It sounded odd. “You can let me down now.”

Hades decided that was absolutely reasonable. He opened his arms and let the godling drop.

“NOWAIT—SHIT—DAD, no, no! Dad, DAD, DAD!”

Hades flashed over, catching the godling again. His little hands were shaking as they clasped around his neck. They were veiny and looked like misshapen clay. They tilted slightly, like they were broken. The grip was tight, tight enough that if he were mortal, it would have started to bruise long ago.

“Can you let me down on the ground?” The godling said, his voice remarkably shaky. It lilted in dulcet tones: up, down, pitchy, breathless.

Hades let his essence say what he couldn't be bothered to. A wordless acknowledgment, a coo, an assurance. He wasn't sure why the godling had not simply teleported, but who was he to know about babies? He never had one himself. The closest he got was the newborn Poseidon being swallowed, landing in the dark flesh of their father's stomach—and he had been a very annoying baby.

This baby didn't seem like that. He was very quiet, in fact. He had dark hair that fringed at the edges, as if it had been burnt off. And Dark eyes that Hades knew matched his preferred form. They were as dark as coal, cool as night. They were the color of rich soil. And they were so wide and round, you could hardly see his little white sclera. Hades thought he was adorable. He had little pink lips and a little nose and little fingers, and he looked so mortal. He looked veiny and soft and spindly. He was adorable.

Hades placed him down. His essence slithered across the floor. His realm quakes with his happiness. It beats in time with his heart.

“So, Dad,” the godling said, twirling something a shiny white–grey ring around his finger. “Not that I don't really appreciate the rescuing, but why did you take me to the underworld?”

Hades didn't blink because he was a god. “Pardon,” he said, confused, even though every sentence this boy made was burned into his memory.

“Did Gaia kill us all?” The boy asked. The ring spun around his finger. He was looking around, as if the words didn’t make the underworld cool with Hades’ fear, like the words didn’t make the god of the dead stiffen in panic. The boy seemed remarkably blasé about the thought of their grandmother murdering ‘them all.’ He spun around, his eyes devouring the underworld in its entirety. “Where's Will?” he asked, little mortal lips flickering up at the name.

Hades isn’t sure who exactly Will was, but he can’t say he likes the name coming out of his son’s mouth. He is a god; he is devouring and possessive, belonging to the underworld and the dead. His son was his. He wanted to claw the name from the air.

“Or am I the only one who died?” his son asks. His lips tilt up, his essence drenched in relief.

Hades hadn't been around mortals a lot—really, the only mortals he had been around were spirits, and when they were happy, they began to glow. But he thought he remembered that mortals had some strange rituals with their faces. He imagined this was one where the bottom half of the face just lifted up. It was weird, but it was so very cute. It made his cheeks very pronounced. They were a soft, whitish gray. They looked ashen, like he was dead. Hades wanted to pinch them.

“You are not dead,” Hades said gravely. It was the voice reserved for mortals of his court, the ones who screamed and begged for another chance, the ones who would bleed if he used his true voice. It was a voice of kings for mortals; a voice of ants to gods.

The godling looked up. His essence sparked with his nerves as Hades stared; just stared, with force that only God was able to achieve. Hades wanted to incinerate the godling. A tiny bit. Smother him in his essence so heavy his bones melt, his form cracks, and ichor spills across the underworld. Was that normal?

“Additionally, I have no knowledge of any soul named… Will.”

He pronounces it like Weee-illl. The godling mouths over the word, his tongue traces the syllables. And then he melts. His shoulders unwind like a sunset. His face softened, drooping, like it was made of candle wax, and he was melting.

“Oh, thank gods,” he breathed. Hades wanted to tear at the prayer to other gods, leaving his son's mouth. It should be his prayer. Every word out of the godling’s mouth should fuel him. Should belong to him. “That means some of them survived.” The words escape him in a breath, like they are piling up in his throat. That can’t be true, though. Gods have no need to breathe.

He flicked some hair out of the way. He spun his strange ring. It caught the light of souls and seemed to glow. “What about Hazel? And Percy? And Annabeth?” His fingers ran against each other.

Percy, Hades thought. It did not sound like a name. It sounded like something that belonged to the wild. It sounded like a purr and a snarl, all at once. He wondered if his son was aware of the strange sound that escaped his lips. He wondered if the godling knew it wasn’t a sound at all.

“They are not here,” he said, and watched as the boy melted yet again, spindly arms, shaking legs. “Now tell me, child, what is your name?”

The Godling blinked up at him. An emotion crossed his face, but Hades wasn't accustomed enough to mortals to know. His eyes went wide. There were golden veins on the edge of his sclera. His mouth dropped open, a perfect O, like an eyeball. His cheek slackened. He didn't look like darkness any longer. He looked like a skeleton, like his bones were the only thing holding up his skin, draped over him like cloth.

“I'm Nico,” he said. “You don’t remember me?”

Hades first thought was that it sounded like a chirp. Or perhaps a sneeze.

“Nanco?”

“What? No. It’s Nico. NEE-KO.”

“Neecoo?”

“No Dad. Nico.”

“That sounds foreign,” Hades remarked, not expecting his son to actually nod, his essence baffled.

“Yeah, it’s Italian."

Oh.

Oh, that poor child.

The underworld trembled. The word above darkened. Souls screamed. The godling looked baffled.

Hades wrapped his essence around him. It was constricting. It was a grip tight enough to kill even a soul. “I am so sorry,” he told his son.

“Ummm… it’s okay?”

The poor child. So unaware of the disrespect, even his emotions were confused. He would find the fates, find the name, find the thing that dared to dub his son as a foreigner, as a barbarian , and drag it to his realm. He would ensure it was torn from the tapestry of fate, even if he had to unravel the past to do so.

Hades brushed back a piece of his son’s hair. It felt slightly wet, slick, and smooth against his mortal fingers. “You shall be named Nikandros,” he intoned.

Nikandros’ mouth dropped open. “What?”

Hades nodded solemnly. “It means Victory of Men because you are my victory, and you will stand victorious even before the gods.”

He imagined showing off to the other Olympians, pushing his child, his victory in the air. Nike would be wroth with jealousy.

“No?” Nikandros said in confusion. “Uh, no. Nikandros is beautiful, but my name is Nico.”

The earth rumbled. It made little flakes of earth and dirt drop from the ground above, the underworld’s version of rain. A soothing gesture to a child who didn’t understand the disrespect his father spared him from. He was a godling, after all. He didn't know all. Yet.

“Tell me, son,” Hades said, wishing Nikandros’ eyes would drop their mortal guise and reveal their withering true form. “What are your domains?”

Newly dubbed Nikandros was really starting to freak out. His essence was sparked with energy. His eyes darted back and forth, like little jackrabbits. “Dad, you're really freaking out. What is going on?”

Hades had never heard the word "dad" before. Usually it was patḗr, or if one wanted to be much more polite, it would be ho gennḗtōr, beggetor, or ho kýrios patḗr, lord father. ‘Dad’ rolled off the tongue in a peculiar way. It was short and sufficient. It had a little clicking sound, like the sharp tartness of a pomegranate.

“Dad,” Hades pronounced, trying to taste the word for himself. "Dad," he repeated, letting the word roll around, seeing it vibrate in his essence.

Nikandros was starting to become freaked out. He looked more skeleton than person. His eyes were veiny again. His essence trashed with growing panic and concern. "No, you’re my dad. I’m not yours. Are you feeling okay? Can gods get sick? Is this Gaia?” His words came out in a panicked tumble.

Hades stiffened.

Some godlings knew much when they were born. Apollo and Athena, for example, wisdom and knowledge, respectively. Some godlings knew only in their domain. Was this Nico's domain? Something related to his cousin's knowledge?

Is that why his precious son knew about his grandmother’s wrath?

He didn't look like an ouranic deity. He shared nothing in common with the ones above the sky. He looked like Hades, and it made something vicious inside him curl.

"Do not fret," the king of the underworld said, wrapping his essence around Nikandros’ shoulder.

Nico flinched back, looking around as if searching for the heavy weight wrapped around his shoulder. His essence felt panicked.

“I will never allow Gaia to l̷̡̧̢̨̨̛̦̜͔̱̗̝̻̘̀̀͌̃̿͒̾̂̍̂̔͘a̸̤̭̮̱̦̬͗͒́͂ỳ̶̛͖̦͕̖͙̬̣̲̝̱̮̙̱̇͗͋̇̓͛̽͘̕͠ ̵̨̦̏̈́̓̚͝a̶̡̧̝̳͙̞̫̳̰̰̮̠̰̭̫̽͌̊̉̅̍̋́̿̎́̚̚͠ ̶̡̹̟͈̤͍̩̤̑̄̈́̎̒͊͂̋̈͝h̸̝̩͓̄͑̋̊̈́͐̈́̈́̒̅͒̚ͅą̵̧̖̥̪̹̫̦͖̱͕̞̘̥̽̈́̃͘͝͝ͅn̷̲͇̣̲̞̼̈̇̾͝ͅd̸̨̹̞͔̤̳͔̫̰̺̘̝̖̼̊ ̶̨̞̒̇ớ̶̡̢̼̩̻̣̝̹͈̻̓̐̓̉̂̌ͅͅn̴̡͔̖̲̳̹̯̱̠̪̎͋̈́͒̅́͑̒̑̌̐̍͐̇̎ͅ ̷̧̢̫̪̻̫͖͗̈̇̽̓̽̀̎̕̚͠y̴̧͎͕͙̯͙̝̼͚̙̹͐̊̐̄̅̕ǫ̶̨̡̛̜̜̳̺͆̅̄̔͑͋͗̈́̑̕͜͠ͅu̴̢̢͉͈̣͉̞͙̓̏̀̉̀̔̐͐͊͑̀̿͜͝.̴̣̞̀̌̈́̃.”

The underworld  s c r e a m e d  with the force of his vow. Souls shredded with the force of his power. Of his rage. He would never allow his son, his companion, his making, his, to know of the true danger his grandmother wrought.

“Alright,” Nico said, wide-eyed. He started to back away into the darkness, letting it drift across his toes, his fingers. “You're really starting to freak me out.”

“You will be safe in the underworld,” Hades continued. “Protected by my queen and me from all who dare to imagine harm upon you.”

“What? No.” Nikandros’ brow furrowed, like an angry caterpillar. It was so cute. “No, Persephone doesn't like me.”

Hades blinked. “Why would she not like you?” he asked. “She likes me, and you were born from my loins.” And that was a fact Hades is quite proud of.

Nikandros’ nose wrinkled like cloth at the word. He felt disgusted.

“She turned me into a dandelion,” Nico said slowly, "Remember?” His voice was starting to tilt up, higher and squeakier. His form was so… mortal. It was oddly amusing.

“What is a dandelion?” he asked, grandiose.

“Uh—a flower?”

Nikandros’ aura was very, very concerned. Hades wanted to coo. This poor, sweet child was concerned about him. He wanted to wrap his essence around the child. He wanted to pull him closer until he was settled into his own skin. He wanted them to be one.

He forced himself to stop. He forced himself not to use his essence to tug them further together. This godling was born from his loneliness, born from the earth meeting the underworld, born from his desire for Persephone and her companionship. It would defeat the purpose if he consumed him, grasping all of his little idiocies and emotions at once while combining them together. He would miss the chance to figure it out for himself. It would be nothing like his days with Persephone; how he watched her fall in love, how he figured out her love of fruits and flowers, how her head tilted back when she smiled, her essence smelled too sweet and too rotten. How it smothered anyone who dared cross her.

That was the best part about kidnapping his bride. Gods couldn't change, but Persephone was both spring and the underworld. Like the seasons, like the earth, she was fluid, trapped under her mortal skin. It was the most beautiful thing about her. It was what he had originally fallen in love with when he was gazing up at the world, trapped beneath the surface, looking at the goddess who plucked her own flowers. She had felt like the darkness. Never quite the same, depending on the light. Sweet and soothing, but also terrifying. And also sad. She had gone to that meadow every single day, even though for gods, time droned on tediously. And yet, she did something new in that meadow every single day. Like she was determined to wrench her way into this world. Like she was determined to squeeze Gaia out of all she had to offer.

Hades wanted to see if this little godling was the same. He wanted to know the little changes, little tilts and expressions, the notes in his essence.

And if he ever got bored—well. Then he could become part of Hades himself. His loneliness abated by another soul sewn into his skin.

“Nonsense. Persephone would be delighted to meet you,” was what he said. And then he mulled it over. Maybe she would not. His wife was remarkably possessive, after all. When she went in the winter, he was hers. Body and soul. She kept him confined completely. One part of him is always at her beck and call, always, always together with her. Even when ruling the kingdom, she insisted on joining. She insisted on spending every waking moment together.

Would she be willing to accept this godling who is now going to be his during the summer and winter as an entirety ran on?

“Well,” Hades reasoned, his mind stretching, plucking solutions from the air. “You can always change yourself back.” Over time, he was sure they would come to some sort of agreement.

"Change myself back?” Nikandros blinked incredulously. A human quirk, Hades noted. To moisturize their dry eyes. “From being a dandelion?”

Hades’ essence did something akin to a mortal nod, a vague sense of agreement. “Of course,” he said. “You are a god.”

Nikandros jerked back. His surprise was sharp in the air. It prickled on Hades’ skin. “A god?” A panicked laugh jerked from his throat. “What?”

“Yes?” Hades said slowly. “If your domain involves plant life, it will be much easier.”

A powerful enough god could simply tear through the spell of another. The powers of another. A less powerful god would need to carefully unravel it piece by piece, tugging at the threads and following each piece until it could unravel. It's what made Hecate a minor goddess, even as the goddess of magic. It was her talents for finding knots and weaves that gained her domain. She was less powerful than the Olympians, and yet she was a weaver, able to weave her magic so tightly that it could stretch; never breaking, only bending.

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” Nikandros repeated. Hades was not sure what ‘seriously’ meant, but he could taste how his son’s voice sounded annoyed. Something black behind him—something Hades had originally mistaken for mere darkness- rippled in annoyance. It was something black underneath him, an imprint of sorts, pressed to the ground. It followed his motions.

Hades nudged him with his essence, sharing his vision of the imprint on the ground. A shriek tore from Nikandros’ lips. He looked down frantically.

“Does it belong to you?” Hades asked, a vague curiosity prickling at him.

Nico looked down. “What, my shadow?" he asked.

"SHA-duh-oh.” Hades let the word roll around in his mouth. “Is that your domain?” The underworld held its breath with him, sharing his tempered exhilaration.

“No,” Nikandros said. “Everyone has a shadow.” His voice sounded slightly freaked out. Hades looked to the ground beside him. He didn't have a shadow. Nothing he had seen had this weird, odd black imprint.

Was it another life? Another soul, something else for death to collect. Was it a way for his son to become his own psychopomp, guiding shadows into the underworld? Guiding the shadows while tugging their owners along.

Nikandros looked at the ground behind Hades. His face changed from ashen to white. Color leeched from his skin. Literally. His skin paled from white to translucent, until Hades could see the muscles and veins underneath.

"Dad," he said, "Where's Gaia?”

"The Earth mother is locked away," he told his son. “Her giants still roam, but assure yourself. The council is hunting them down.

“No,” Nico said, his knuckles trembling. “No, that's wrong. Where is everyone? Where's Hazel?”

“Who?” Hades asked. Nico felt like he was going to throw up.

“My sister.”

Nico wanted to scream, but the words came out in a whisper. His eyes were trapped on Hades’ face. His inhuman, godly face showed not a flicker of his emotions. Instead, he could somehow feel his father's emotions, roiling, slipping around him, pulling and tugging, like serpents. He could see it like a shadow, even though his father didn't have a shadow.

“Daughter of Pluto," he said, and waited for the moments where his father's face would splinter in discomfort. For the second when his features would flicker, and the underworld would shake and his power would wrench, but nothing came. Hades stayed. There was no flicker of pain. No sign of the Roman God.

Hades had no brow to tilt in his confusion. The shades under his skin screamed, trying to claw their way out. But Nico felt the confusion. He thought he could practically pluck the emotion from the god, practically taste it in the air. He heard it in every single way, even though he didn't hear it through his ears.

Something heavy shifted on his arm, flickering from confusion to amusement. He batted it off quickly, throwing it away.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice tinged with panic.

“What was what?”

Hades’ voice was not confused. It was not mortal. But the thing was the thing crawling against his arms, dripping down his legs, curling his neck—that was confused. He tried to claw it off, pointing to his bare arm.

“That,” he said, trying to wrench away from the vice grip.

“You mean my essence?” Hades said slowly. The thing felt patronizing, with a touch of fondness. Nico could read his father’s face even though it was completely still. Or maybe he could read the thing that matched with the souls pushing against Hades’ eye sockets.

The god thought he was an idiot.

“Your essence?” Nico repeated. The thing twitched against his bare skin. Nico pushed down a shriek. It felt like a shadow, cool and sweet. It felt consuming. It felt like water dripping past his fingers, which reminded him of Percy, which reminded him of Bianca—

He needed it off. Now.

“What is an essence?" Nico asked, trying to grasp it in his hands. It was intangible, some sort of godly power. He could hear his father’s thoughts. Hades’ lips didn’t move, but the thing whispered all he wanted to say.

I suppose it is my emotions.

My power.

Like his emotions were entirely separate, a different being from him himself.

Every god has one.

Haven't you noticed yours?

Nico was growing annoyed. Was his father mocking him, or did he truly have some type of godly brain damage?

“What do you mean?” Nico asked, still clawing at his arm. His voice was remarkably composed. Too composed. His mind was screaming, his emotions were a torrential downpour, and yet he wished his voice were emotionless, so it was.

“I'm not a god,” he said in his dead voice, no inflection.

But now that he was thinking about it, he could feel it. He could feel his own emotions, yes, but they were something terrible. They were great and vast, and so powerful, he felt like he was almost drowning in them. He felt like he was trying to claw his way up from his confusion. His mild confusion turned into panic, a pure, raw thing. His mild annoyance turned into seething hatred. His seething hatred flickered out in an instant, like a candle being snuffed.

He didn’t know where he ended and his shadow began. It felt like him. He could see through it; he just stretched his mind a little bit… if he just flexed his powers.

The shadow leapt to his aid. He could almost see through it. He could feel the world through his shadow. See the world from below, looking up at the thousands of screaming faces that made up his Dad.

“Dad.” He was confused. He was scared. He couldn't help the way his voice broke. He tried to find the words to explain his confusion. He tried to speak with no emotions.

But instead, his shadow screamed.

whathat'swhat’sgoingonhelpmedadpleasewaitno

He wanted Bianca. He wanted the Lotus Hotel. He wanted more, memories he didn’t realize he had, memories he thought long gone. He wanted his mom in Italy. He wanted his Mom, Maria. He wanted the Dad who went to Sunday Mass with them, and danced with their mother, and gave them jeweled stuffed animals.

He wanted the war to be over. He wanted so, so much, and he couldn't describe any of it. He couldn’t describe how much he wanted. He had no name for emotions roiling around him. They felt too strong to be emotions. Too strong to be instincts. They felt like him, but also not. He felt like them.

Hades' face softened. He reached out, and with horror, Nico realized he was shorter. He backed away with a panicked gasp, pressing his hands to his face. His cheeks felt softer. He wanted a mirror, he wanted one, he needed one, get him one.

He didn't get one.

Instead, his eyes peered through his shadow.

Instead, he could see the world, the way a 3D model might perceive it.

He could see it like he was in a video game. Like, he was like a god himself, watching from the ground, from the sky, from the shadows of himself. He looked up and, with horror, he realized his face looked younger. His cheeks were squishy, round. His eyes were too wide to belong to a teenager.

He didn't want that.

His horror turned to absolute terror, to seething hatred.

He. Didn't. Want. That.

And with a flicker, his features changed. They matured and grew, and his limbs grew spiny, and then he was back to his own age, and then he kept growing. His hair grew longer, and his face grew sharper until he didn't look like a teenager. He looked like an adult, and he kept growing. He kept growing until he was gray and old and—

He wrenched himself to his stop. He rooted himself inside his shadow, pulled at his body, and pressed his feet into the earth. The underworld shook with tremors. He looked down at liver-spotted skin. He looked up at grey hair.

He was terrified. He was screaming, but inside his own shadow. He wanted his body back. And with a flicker; with the mere thought, it was.

Hades was staring down at him contemplatively. “Perhaps your domain is appearances," he said lightly. "I should introduce you to Geras. He is the god of aging. Although—” here, Hades stopped. His eyes didn’t look. In fact, his eyes stared blankly in front of him, like he was blind. Nonetheless, Nico could feel the stare devouring him. He had a wild thought that his father had been acting every second he was with him. “I suspect your domain has something to do with death.”

Nico looked down at himself. "I'm not a god," he said.

But he felt like one. He didn't feel human at all.

Hades blinked. It was the first mortal motion he had made.

“Well, yes, you are.”

—

Persephone looked up as the earth under her feet trembled. Her husband's domain lay beneath her, and it was rumbling.

“Mother,” she said.

Demeter interrupted anything else. “My brother is simply dramatic. Do not concern yourself, my dear.”

“This has never happened before,” Persephone said.

Demeter looked at her daughter. Her face was like bark. Her essence was amused and so very loving, to the point it was painful.

“I know my brother best. He is simply moping. I won you, after all.”

Persephone looked at the flowers beneath her, pressed her hands to the earth, and pushed.