Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once, the sky spoke.

It flashed when the gods quarreled and wept when they were kind. Storms meant arguments, sunlight meant forgiveness, and every wind carried a little divine laughter. Now the sky is a sheet of pale gray. It glows but never warms. The storms come by schedule, crafted by hands that do not care.

The Titans call this order. Mortals call it survival.

Time itself ticks to Kronos’s rhythm. No seasons, no true sunrise, just measured light and darkness, twelve hours apiece, exact and empty. Crops grow because they are told to. Forests stand in perfect rows, each tree the same height, each leaf the same shade of green. The sea obeys, flat as glass from horizon to horizon. Waves rise only when commanded.

Oceanus governs the waters from a palace of mirrors. Hyperion keeps the heavens burning but never bright. Atlas has turned his burden into a throne. The rest watch, patient, certain that rebellion is only a memory.

Deep beneath the earth, the Olympians sleep, or are kept asleep. The old stories say their chains hum when mortals pray, though few dare to try. To speak their names is treason. To hope is dangerous.

Still, somewhere among the ruins, people whisper. They speak of the Children of the Lost, half-bloods who remember sunlight and refuse to bow. They hide in the cracks of the world, lighting small fires no Titan has yet managed to stamp out. Their names are not recorded. Their victories are tiny and fragile. But the whispers travel, soft as wind through broken temples.

And after years of the Titans’ reign, something stirs.

It begins as a pulse beneath the western sea, a heartbeat too regular to be a current. Faint, steady, patient. The still waters tremble once, just enough to ripple their perfect reflection.

The Titans feel it and ignore it.

The minor gods feel it and pause, wondering if they have imagined warmth.

And far away, in a camp hidden under forest and shadow, the Children of the Lost look up from their fire and listen to the sea.

Chapter Text

Morning never truly comes anymore.

Light seeps through the gray clouds in a dull shimmer, neither sunrise nor daybreak, just the dim awareness of time moving forward. Sally Jackson keeps her curtains half-closed to pretend that it’s ordinary morning light. The kettle hums on the stove, the sound steady enough to make her believe that this apartment, this small patch of warmth, still belongs to her.

Percy hums from the bathroom, a melody without words. It’s the same tune he always hums, one that reminds her faintly of waves brushing the sand. She doesn’t know where he learned it; she’s never taught him any songs. Maybe the sea taught him before he could speak.

When she peeks in, he’s sitting in the tub with his toy boat, a crooked thing he built himself from driftwood and twine. The tub is half full, and when he moves his hand through the water, ripples follow his fingertips as though answering a command.

“Don’t splash too much,” she says.

“I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “The water’s moving by itself.”

He always says that. Sally smiles and pretends it’s imagination. She can’t risk letting him see the fear that rises whenever he touches water. She’s lived in hiding too long, always listening for the sound of boots in the hallway, for a knock that isn’t a neighbor. Every rumor says the Titans hunt the divine remnants, minor gods, their children, anyone who can remember what the world used to be.

She has learned to live quietly. To be a shadow.

But Percy is sunlight, loud and bright and alive. He fills every corner of the apartment with laughter. When he hugs her, he smells like salt and soap and warmth, and she almost forgets that the sea outside is too still to breathe.

They eat breakfast together. Oatmeal, a few dried berries saved from rations, milk so thin it barely counts. Percy talks the whole time: about the birds that nested on the roof, about the stray cat that visits the alley, about how the sky looked a little less gray today. She listens and nods, her heart aching with the strange mix of pride and dread that motherhood has become.

When he’s finished, he runs back to the bathroom to play. Sally washes the dishes by hand, humming softly. The tune is the same one Percy hums. Maybe the sea taught her, too.

But then, the air changes.

It’s subtle at first, the sound of the kettle slowing, the clock pausing between ticks. The apartment seems to hold its breath. The hum of the city outside fades into a silence so deep she can hear her own heartbeat.

“Mommy?” Percy calls. His voice trembles.

“I’m here.” She wipes her hands and moves toward him, the air growing colder with every step. When she reaches the doorway, she stops.

The water in the tub is perfectly still. Not a single ripple disturbs its glassy surface. Percy sits very straight, staring at the window. A faint gold light seeps through the frosted glass, soft at first, then brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The clocks have stopped.

Sally’s throat tightens. “Percy, come here, sweetheart.”

He slides out of the tub and into her arms, dripping and confused. 

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” she lies. “It’s just… a storm.”

But there hasn’t been a storm in years. The Titans control the weather. They allow only the kind of light that never flickers, only wind that blows in measured breaths. Whatever this is, it isn’t something they’ve allowed.

The light deepens to molten gold. The windowpane vibrates, then shatters inward without a sound. A single figure steps through, tall and blurred, its edges shimmering as if made from sunlight reflecting off metal. Its face is hidden, its outline human only by suggestion.

Sally clutches Percy tighter. The air smells of ozone and salt. Her voice breaks: “Please. Don’t.”

The figure speaks without moving its mouth. The sound is everywhere, like waves crashing inside her head. “The child of the sea does not belong to you.”

“He’s my son.” The words tear from her throat. “You can’t take him.”

The gold light pulses again, filling the room. Percy whimpers and hides his face against her shoulder. She presses her lips to his hair. “Close your eyes, baby. Don’t look.”

The light softens. For a moment she thinks it might fade away, that maybe her love is enough to hold it back. Then she feels the pull, a tide stronger than any mortal can resist. Percy stiffens in her arms, his small fingers tightening around hers.

“Mommy-"

“I’ve got you,” she says, though her voice shakes. “I’ve got you.”

He reaches toward the light as if it’s calling his name, and she feels his hand slip away. The world flares white. The air collapses inward, silent and absolute.

When she can see again, she’s alone.

The towel lies on the floor where she dropped it. Water drips from the edge of the tub, slow and rhythmic. The light has vanished. Outside, the city hums back to life, clocks ticking, machines whirring, as if nothing has happened.

Sally sinks to her knees. The sound that leaves her isn’t quite a sob; it’s the gasp of someone whose world has been pulled out to sea.

She stays there until the kettle hisses dry. Only when she looks up does she notice that the water in the tub is moving again. Small, restless waves lapping at the porcelain. They shimmer faintly, glowing from within, before stilling once more.

Far beyond the harbor, the ocean stirs. A single wave rises and breaks against the shore, scattering foam like tears. For the first time since the Olympians disappeared, the sea remembers loss, and promises, silently, that it will not forget.

Chapter Text

Dawn in the hidden camp never quite looked like dawn. The sky above the forest is the color of cold iron, and the sunlight that filters through the mist feels borrowed, like something smuggled out of another world. Still, the camp stirs when that thin light reaches the treetops. Someone stokes the communal fire. Someone else coaxes water through a tangle of copper pipes until it sputters into life. The sound of waking, boots, murmurs and a half-tuned guitar, fills the hollow between the trees.

They call themselves the Children of the Lost. It isn’t a name of pride but of survival: the children of gods who are gone, of prayers that go unanswered.

Their refuge lies in what was once a valley and is now half-swallowed by forest. Ruins of stone buildings crouch under roots and vines. At night, the wards Hecate wove shimmer faintly, a translucent dome of protection that blurs the camp from any watching eyes. Inside, the air smells of ash, pine, and faint ozone, the signature of divine magic reused too many times.

Annabeth Chase kneels beside the fire, rolling a map open across a flat rock. Her fingers are stained with ink and charcoal; she’s redrawn the same borders a dozen times. Thalia stands over her, arms crossed, the silver clasp of her hunter’s cloak catching what little light there is.

“We’ll have to move the supply caches again,” Thalia says. “Atlas’s patrols have started sweeping east.”

Annabeth presses a hand to her temple. “That’s the third relocation this month. We’ll run out of safe ground.”

Jason crouches beside them, his blond hair tangled from a night of restless watch. “We always say that,” he reminds her. “And somehow we’re still here.”

Thalia snorts. “That’s optimism or denial.”

Jason grins faintly. “A little of both.”

Their conversation is part strategy, part ritual. Planning keeps them sane. Around them, the camp hums with motion. Hazel and Nico return from scouting the tunnels, boots coated in gray dust. Grover tends to the small patch of green coaxed from the soil by Demeter’s daughters; Katie, Miranda, and Meg, who work with quiet determination. The Apollo kids; Will, Kayla, and Austi, unpack a crate of bandages and jars that smell sharply of herbs. Connor and Travis from the Hermes cabin string new tripwires, joking under their breath. Somewhere nearby, Leo tests a machine that puffs steam and optimism in equal measure. They are a strange, half-alive family, held together by necessity and affection.

Near midday, the air ripples with color. A sliver of rainbow light arcs across the clearing, and Iris steps through it. She looks tired, her wings dimmed, but her smile is genuine.

“Delivery from Olympus’s forgotten pantry,” she says, setting a basket on the ground. Inside are sealed jars of honey, fruit that glows faintly gold, and scrolls wrapped in waterproof silk. “Compliments of Persephone and a few others who still remember how to share.”

Connor whistles. “Never thought I’d say this, but I might cry over jam.”

“Don’t waste it on jokes,” Annabeth warns, though her tone softens as she thanks Iris. “How dangerous was it this time?”

“Less than usual. Hyperion’s patrols don’t look down; they’ve forgotten there’s ground beneath the sky.” The goddess glances around. “You’re holding on.”

“We’re trying,” Jason says.

“Good.” Iris touches his shoulder in an almost maternal way and steps back into the arc of color. The rainbow fades, leaving only the faint scent of rain.

Later that evening, as dusk presses against the wards, Hypnos drifts through the camp. He looks like a shadow stitched from moonlight. He never speaks. He moves from tent to tent, brushing each sleeping demigod’s brow with fingers cool as mist. For a few hours each night, their dreams are quiet. It is the closest thing to peace they have.

Life here runs on small rituals. Meals shared from dented pots. Laughing contests to see who can find a new use for scavenged Titan tech. The Hephaestus kids trade metal scraps for seeds. The Dionysus twins brew weak, sweet wine from fermented berries, just enough for everyone to taste memory. When they sing, even the forest seems to lean closer. They are weary, but they are not broken.

When someone is sick, Will calls softly for Asclepius. The god appears like light refracted through glass, never staying long, leaving the scent of clean water and rosemary behind.

When their barrier falters, Hecate arrives at dusk, her eyes glinting like twin lanterns. She says little; she repairs the wards with elegant motions, then disappears into the trees. The demigods thank her anyway. Gratitude, here, is prayer.

That night, Annabeth writes by lantern-light, updating maps no one may ever use. Thalia patrols the edge of camp. Nico keeps watch beside the tunnel mouth that opens toward the coast. It’s quiet, too quiet.

Then the ground hums, just once, soft as a heartbeat.

“Earthquake?” Hazel asks.

Nico shakes his head. “No. The Titans don’t make sounds like that.”

The air carries a faint tremor, not of danger but of movement, something vast turning in sleep. 

Grover, far below by the water channels, looks up sharply.

“Did anyone else hear that?”

Annabeth sets down her pen. The lantern flame shivers. For the first time in years, a breeze slips through the camp that smells unmistakably of salt.

Thalia frowns. “The sea doesn’t move.”

“It just did,” Jason says quietly.

They all listen. Far away, beyond the dead forest and the still harbors, comes the low roll of a wave collapsing against the shore.

It's soft, barely a sound at all, but every demigod feels it. The minor gods feel it too; Iris, miles away, pauses mid-flight, eyes wide. In his distant temple, Asclepius drops a vial. Hypnos opens his eyes.

In the valley, the Children of the Lost stand very still, hearts beating to the rhythm of that single, impossible wave.

Annabeth exhales. “Something’s waking up.”

No one disagrees.

Chapter Text

The sea hadn’t moved in years. That’s what made the tremor so terrifying.

For hours after the first pulse, the Children of the Lost stayed alert. Scouts checked the perimeter, Hecate reinforced the wards, and everyone listened to the wind that now smelled faintly of salt. No Titan patrols appeared; the world above stayed silent. But the sea kept breathing, slow and rhythmic, as though waking from a long, uneasy sleep.

By morning, the mist over the valley shimmered with faint blue light.

Annabeth was bent over her maps again when the water in the nearby basin began to swirl. Grover yelped and stepped back, his hooves splashing. The surface flashed silver, then cleared to reveal shapes moving beneath it, too fluid and too graceful to be human.

A voice rolled through the camp, low and resonant. “Children of the Lost,” it said, “hear the sea’s messengers.”

The water surged upward, rising into forms: first a tall man with hair like black coral; Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea, then a smaller figure whose skin shimmered with mother-of-pearl, Nerites. Beside them appeared cheerful-eyed Delphin, Triton armored in coral and bronze, and the queen of the sea; Amphitrite, regal as always, her gown made of foam and moonlight.

The camp fell silent. Even the flames seemed to bow.

Annabeth stood slowly. “My lords… my lady.”

Amphitrite’s eyes softened. “You are not ours to command, daughter of Athena. We came because the ocean has spoken.”

The gods’ voices wove together, more felt than heard.

A pulse in the deep.

Something bright, something living.

Hidden in the western fortress of the Titans, where Oceanus built his prisons.

We cannot reach it. The waters there are chained. But it calls to us. It is of the sea… and it suffers.

Nico stepped forward, dark eyes narrowing. “You think it’s a god?”

Nereus shook his head. “Too young. Too small. But divine, yes, and new.” His gaze lingered on the demigods. “The Titans will not guard an empty room. Whatever they hold there, it is important.”

Annabeth exchanged a glance with Thalia. “Could it be a weapon?”

“Or a warning,” Thalia muttered.

Amphitrite’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Whatever it is, it’s in pain. We can feel it through every current that still dares to move. The ocean remembers its children, even when they are taken.”

Her words struck something deep in everyone listening. They all knew what it meant to lose family.

When the sea gods withdrew, dissolving back into mist, Annabeth and Thalia called a council.

They gathered in the central ruin, an old amphitheater lit by phosphorescent moss. The minor gods’ magic still shimmered faintly on the stones. 

Annabeth spread her maps across a broken pedestal; Thalia leaned on her spear, scanning the faces around them.

“We can’t ignore this,” Annabeth said. “If the Titans are holding something alive, something divine, it could be the key to freeing the gods. Or…” She hesitated. “Or the next thing they mean to destroy.”

“Either way, we have to know,” Thalia agreed. “But it’s a fortress. We can’t send everyone.”

They began choosing names. Each pick had a reason. Nico di Angelo to walk through shadows. Bianca di Angelo, steady, skilled, and a Hunter used to stealth. Chris Rodriguez, clever and quiet, good with locks. Castor, one of the Dionysus twins, for illusions and empathy. Silena Beauregard, for diplomacy if they met minor spirits. Beckendorf, to dismantle Titan tech. Grover Underwood, to sense corruption in nature. And Kayla Knowles, healer and archer, for light and calm.

Eight in all, balanced between strength and subtlety.

Annabeth rolled up her map and handed it to Nico. “This leads to the western coastline. There’s an old tunnel that should surface near the fortress. The sea gods will keep the waters calm as long as they can.”

Jason frowned. “You’re not going?”

“I will,” Annabeth said. “Thalia’s leading. I’ll navigate.” Her eyes moved across the group, meeting each gaze. “We find out what’s inside. We don’t fight unless we have to. And if it’s alive, we bring it home.”

The camp moved quietly. Leo checked weapons, the Hermes brothers slipped charms into pockets, the Apollo kids pressed small vials of golden liquid into belts. Iris reappeared long enough to bless the group with light that would not attract Titan eyes. Even Hypnos lingered, touching their shoulders with his cool fingers.

When they gathered at the tunnel entrance, the air smelled sharply of the sea. The faint pulse they’d all heard yesterday seemed stronger now, like a distant heartbeat beneath the cliffs.

Thalia glanced back at the camp,, at Jason, at Annabeth’s maps still spread across the rock, at the demigods watching from the shadows.

“Let’s find out what’s calling us,” she said.

The team stepped into the tunnel. The stone walls shimmered with faint blue veins of light, as if the sea itself guided them forward.

Behind them, the Children of the Lost listened until the echoes faded. The camp felt emptier for their absence, but also heavier with hope.

Far away, beneath the chained ocean, something stirred again, stronger this time, brighter. It had heard the gods speak. It had heard the word home.