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Chapter Text

Percy had never wanted to be a half-blood. It's true that, like many children, he'd stare at the ceiling while hiding beneath the covers, a toothy smile on his face as he imagined what his life would become if he woke up with superpowers the next morning. He'd picture himself flying high above the New York City skyline, rushing down through crowds and danger to save people, and the looks on the faces of his classmates when they realize that he isn't just some lousy kid who can't quite read properly.  

Sometimes, he'd imagine what would happen if he got hurt, too. Percy would picture his mom rushing into the nurse's office of whatever school he hasn't yet been expelled from and pulling him into her arms, just like she'd always do. On occasion, he'd paint a world where his classmates actually felt sorry and tried to help, too, but it felt too fake to continue thinking about. It was more often than not that his troubles and mishaps sparked from their hands.  

Yet, after eight years of what he only believes to be pure torture from the Gods themselves, Percy wishes he could go back and force himself to ponder upon happy things, like blue cookies and blue lemonade, and the fact that his mother would trade the world just for him to be happy. 

Percy sits in an empty bathtub, tapping his socked foot against the dry faucet. He's too cramped in here; his knees are bent awkwardly, and his cold feet lay flat against the far wall. His shoulders curl inwards as they struggle to fit inside the confines of the tub. He twirls Riptide between his fingers, just like he had any pen during the days of dozing out in lectures. Aside from a strong sword, the pen was Percy's favorite form of Riptide. For all intents and purposes, it always felt the most reliable. 

It's what he needed right now: something that would stay exactly as it is. Over the past few years, Percy's lost everyone he's ever loved. He and Annabeth had split not long after they had escaped Tartarus. She couldn't meet his eyes anymore, not after everything he'd done. She'd wake up screaming in the depths of the night and roll away from his open arms, all because the source of her nightmares was what she feared those very hands could do. As much as Annabeth said she was willing to try, Percy couldn't stand to live with someone who was so deeply scared of him, and it wasn't fair to watch the bags beneath her eyes grow with every sleepless night. They futilely promised to keep in touch, but they hadn't spoken in years. To find her, he wouldn't know where to start. 

Percy hasn't had contact with any of the demigods or friends in so long that he can no longer remember the last time they spoke. He doesn't hold any blame towards them. Grover has taken on more responsibility than Percy ever imagined to be possible, and for that he held all the pride in the world for calling the satyr his first true friend. The brief bursts of warmth in his chest from their empathy link were often the only smiles Percy had all day. But there were only so many hours in any given day, and Grover spent many of them working. Percy imagines he still returns to Camp with a new blubbering demigod in hand every few months between quests and work. He'd break out into the widest smile ever conceptualized if Percy stepped foot on the property again, but it's a useless thought. Percy can't bear to return, can't come face to face with the home of those whose lives perished under his command. 

It forges the reason why he can't reach out. He's too ashamed of everything he's done, and of everything that's come from his mere existence. He often finds himself half-bent out the window of his high-rise apartment, letting the cool city wind slap his hair every which way as he wonders why his parents allowed him to come to be in the first place. 

It always comes back to his mom, too. Sally Jackson, the bravest woman he's ever known, and ever will, had been the final straw. On a night like this, he'd take the long walk to her apartment, apologize to Paul for his late arrival and for pulling Sally out of bed. He'd tell him it's fine, like he always does, and his mom would tuck him in on the couch, humming and combing her fingers through his hair as he falls asleep. Percy would wake up to Estelle giggling as she jumps onto his limp body yelling, "Percy! Percy!". Things would be okay, considering. 

Ever since their plane went down, Percy hasn't slept a single night. Sally, Paul, and Estelle died a quick death at the hands of his uncle, and Percy knows he won't know a minute of peace from now on, not until he's dead. 

He knocks the cap off of Riptide with a single flick of his finger. The little metal cylinder goes bouncing, rolling down towards the open drain with purpose, but Percy doesn't bother trying to stop it. There's no reason to. The golden blade appears before his eyes, glimmering against the bright lightbulb twisted into the ceiling. Percy hisses, angling it just enough so that the ray shines above his head and to the wall. 

Percy takes a deep breath and brings the sword to his left arm. Bare and waiting, he sets the sharp edge against his cold skin. It pricks within an instant, drawing two individual, small beads of blood that aren't heavy enough to drip down. Slowly, Percy lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and drags the blade across the expanse of his forearm. 

Immediately, his arm begins to burn violently. He hisses, dropping the blade. Percy wraps his hand around his opposite wrist. He holds it closed for a few seconds, but as the nausea and dizziness start to manifest in his head, he remembers that it's of no use. His palm, slick with blood and shaking with nerves, slowly loosens until it drops his bleeding arm upon his own lap. Percy slides down the wall of the bathtub until his head lulls back against the lip. There's no noise, nothing to cloud his head, aside from the buzzing of the light and the shakiness of his own quiet, fleeting breaths. 

Percy takes three more before his eyes slip shut and his lips stick open. At twenty years of age, Percy Jackson gives up. 

As someone who has been to Underworld, Percy had an idea of what would happen when he opened his eyes. He expected the haunting screams of countless tortured souls, expected to trade Riptide in as the currency to cross the Styx, expected Hades himself to poke fun at his dear nephew for surviving two wars and their respective battles, yet dying to his own two hands. Percy had known that he wouldn't know peace again, just like the life he had while alive, but at least, this way, he had the chance to see his family again. 

Except, Percy wakes up and opens his eyes to the warm sun beating down on his skin. Confused, Percy brings his right hand up to his eyes, digging the heel of his palm into one and the tips of his fingers into the other. He scrubs desperately before he opens them again. Still, he finds the bright blue sky hanging high above him. 

Slowly, Percy forces himself upwards, pressing both arms behind him to get there. His left arm is incredibly sore, he finds. Quickly, Percy hauls it before him, finding a long, dark scar running straight up from his wrist to the crook of elbow. Oddly enough, it's the glance down at his arm that causes him to observe his dress. Dawning his body is nothing more than a thin blanket-like drape. Loosely, he recognizes the style from old textbooks Annabeth and Chiron had shared with him. His feet are covered by strappy sandals. It reminds him, all too closely, of remnants of the ancient world. 

Percy curls his fingers into the warm sand as he looks around. Before him lay the edges of the ocean, pushing up onto the beach. Conveniently, the wet ground from the tides has avoided him, as the water soaks around him in a protective circle. To his right lay a pile of rocks and boulders that crowd around the sea, complete with seaweed stuck to the bottom and thick lines of erosion stopping at only the highest parts where the water has reached. To his left, he spots a forest in the distance, but much closer lies the remnants of an old shipwreck, dry pieces of rotten masts and oars laying sprawled out on the beach, ready to be burnt. 

Atop the highest piece of driftwood rests an owl. Its body is a mottle of brown and white feathers, a splotchy pattern that continues all the way up to its head. Surrounding the bird's eyes are pure white feathers, with a solid brown guiding the underneath and the above. The head was slightly upturned, the bird peering down upon Percy like its presence alone stood high above him. He remembers the breed as the one that shone brightly on the symbols for Annabeth's cabin. She had told him stories of the little owl, the very species of Athena's sacred animal. 

As much as he believes it could simply be a normal bird on a coincidentally timed visit, Percy finds himself gazing into its eyes. It's uncomfortable initially. The creature doesn't seem to blink; it's a quality that all owls have, but it doesn't make it any more natural to a mortal like himself. Percy hasn't stopped blinking since he first cracked open his eyes. The color of the irises, though, is what convinces him that it's none other than the goddess herself in disguise. The owl's aren't just yellow, but they're golden, dripping with the shine of ichor. It flows through the eyes like a river, quick and rippled. Percy ducks his head, clearing his throat down towards his shoulder, and looks back up to the owl. "Athena?" he calls, words rough and scratchy. "Is that you?"  

The goddess makes quick work of her hidden form, suddenly morphing into the goddess he knows well. Her helmet reflects the bright beams of the sun Percy's been trying to avoid; she holds a spear tightly at her side. She takes a few steps forward, extending her empty hand down towards Percy's collapsed figure. "You call me quickly for a boy with brains of seaweed," she remarks. 

Percy scoffs. The comment alone is nearly enough to make him slap her hand away, and maybe he would have, if he was in a better position to defend himself. Percy pulls himself to his feet, dusting off the sand that sticks uncomfortably to his skin. "Thanks, I guess," he mutters. Percy sighs as he rests his hands on his hips. He looks away from Athena and out towards the ocean, squinting his eyes as he tries to recognize the landscape. "Why am I here?" he asks. 

Athena blinks at him. She tilts her head to the side. "Why do you ask?" 

Percy glances back up to her, snorting. She doesn't hold a smug nor prideful expression on her face. Her eyebrows just barely curl together at the center of her forehead. From this angle, he'd nearly say she borders on the edge of looking concerned. "I'm sure we both know what happened," he explains. Percy removes his left hand from its resting place and holds it out between them. Athena bites the inside of her lip as she looks at the damage. "No offense, but I should be Cerberus's chew toy right now. I don't exactly think this is the Underworld." 

Athena hums. "You'd be correct," she answers vaguely, sticking the end of her spear into the sand. The goddess turns, gazing out over the water. Her posture no longer faces Percy, but she doesn't step away, avoiding blocking him out completely. She elaborates, "It wasn't your time, Perseus. The Fates- they were not ready to cut your string." Athena's shoulders are strong, but they block Percy's view of her face. He can't exactly place her emotions through her stoic tone of voice. 

Still, he swallows, following her eyes out to the horizon. "I..." he trails, searching for the words. His eyes look back down to his injury. It's there. He went through with the attempt, and yet, he stands alive on a beach beside the Goddess of Wisdom herself. "I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here," he tells her. 

"Some things don't need to be understood. They just need to happen," Athena counters. She sighs slowly, letting the air gently pass through her lips before she turns back around, facing Percy with a sad smile. "You were a good demigod, Percy. There was a time where I despised you, but I know better than most what you've given to the world, and what it's failed to give back to you." As Percy's head falls, avoiding her piercing yet sympathetic gaze, Athena sets a firm hand atop his shoulder. "You were good to my daughter. You protected her and you let her go. I could not, under good conscience, let you die by your own hands. Not after the life you've lived," she explains. 

Against his will, Percy's shoulders begin to shake. He feels Athena tighten her grip, but all it helps is keeping him standing. It does nothing to stop the tremors or the tears that begin to well up in his eyes. He sniffles, balled-up fists rubbing at the stream that works its way down his cheeks. "I don't get it," he whispers, broken and distraught. 

Athena slides her hand from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. The pressure feels almost maternal, comforting in a way that Percy hasn't quite felt since the moment he turned on the television and saw a burning mess of jet fuel and wreckage. "You hadn't a reason to live before. I want to give you one now." Gently, she wraps her fingers around the base of his head until she has enough grip to guide his eyes up. She allows him to look over the island, the stony walkway he can see at the top of the farthest hills, the rocky grass that starts just a few feet from the edge of the sand. "We are in Ancient Greece. Ithaca, to be exact." 

"What?" he gasps, his head snapping in her direction. Athena doesn't flinch, but Percy still wriggles out from her hold. "How? You- you made me time travel?" Percy blinks wildly. His jaw falls open and closed a few times, trembling as he realizes he has no words to compensate for this situation. He's fought monsters since he was a child, seen death and wars, walked through the depths of hell, and still, he had never anticipated time travel being a true possibility. "If we're in the past, how do you know who I am?" he asks. 

Dropping her hand at her side, Athena doesn't look at Percy. She continues to monitor the land, just as she had done to the ocean. "Time is a fickle thing, Percy," she says quietly. She steps forward, beckoning him to follow with a wave of her hand. "It takes much energy, but us Gods, we can- we can go back and revisit times of the past." The strain in her voice is clear. She briefly glances down towards her spear as they approach the shipwreck. 

"Is that not painful?" Percy asks, watching her dig her hand underneath the broken wood. "To see those who are no longer there?" 

Athena hums. "Of course, it is. And yet," she pauses, standing back up to her full height, "some things must be painful in order to be felt." She reaches forward, her hands meeting underneath Percy's ear. When she pulls away, she flicks the air underneath, but the feeling is still felt within his skin. Percy reaches up. His fingers clash against a thin metal bar pierced within his earlobe, connected to a small seashell that dangles below. Behind his ear lies a small, feathery stick. "This is the only time you will speak to your version of me, the one that you know. It is quite uncommon to exist in the past. The Athena that knows Perseus Jackson will not greet you again." 

Percy looks up at her. His fingers twist around until he's holding the shell like a prized possession between his fingers. "You've done all that just to bring me here?" he asks. His question goes without answer as Athena continues to avoid looking upon him. Percy swallows down the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he tells her. 

She gives him a curt nod and gestures towards the footpath before them. "This path will take you around the coast. Use the time to think. Eventually, you'll be drawn towards the city. I'm sure you can find your way from there," she explains. The Goddess gives him a gentle nudge on the back, forcing him to stumble upon the guided way. "Have you brushed up on your Greek lately?" 

"What do you think?" Percy snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. The only place knowing Greek had been useful was in a world where the people around him also knew it, which wasn't a common scene. "Not since Camp." 

Athena chuckles. "Well, the luck I wish you will be needed, then." At Percy's nervous huff, she smiles. "Do not fret. It will come to you naturally." She turns back towards the shore. Her hand tightens around the spear, and Percy knows that in that moment, he's mere seconds away from saying goodbye to the only person who connects him to his own world. "Be careful, too. There are people important to me here. I expect you to treat them as you would any child of mine," she warns. 

Percy smiles, gently, and nods towards her. "Only my best to warriors of the mind," he promises. It pulls a gentle laugh from her throat, and the sound tugs at the corners of his mouth. He raises a hand up to wave, just a brief sign of an open palm. "Goodbye, Athena." 

"Goodbye, Percy," she returns. "May this life treat you better than the last." 

Athena quickly shifts back into the small brown owl he had spotted when he first looked around. She flies just twenty feet into the air, wings wide and outstretched, when her body zips away. In a flash, one that causes Percy to cover his eyes completely, Athena is gone from the bright day sky. Percy sighs. He touches the earring she had given him and turns towards the path, starting his steps to a brand-new world. 

Chapter Text

It doesn't take long for the winding path which unfolds before him to grace the edge of the forest. Percy says a quick goodbye to the splashing tides as he disappears behind the tree line. In response, he swears he sees the foam built up along the edge jump up into a wave of its own. 

The constant chirps from cicadas high in the trees is one of the only elements that makes Percy feel like himself. Despite travelling much of the modern world, home has always been the bustling atmosphere of Manhattan, the smell of rain tied together with hidden waft of trash, the sounds of honking in the streets and the rumbling of the subway. Yet, when the summer reached its peak, the late days of July bleeding into the early ones of August, Percy would step out onto the fire escape in the morning and hear it. The cicadas buzzed far above the endless human activity below every day over the summer. 

He can't see where they lie amongst the tall branches, but Percy would like to thank them, nonetheless. They carry an element of his life that the chiton and the sandals fail to provide him. 

Riptide has become none other than the quill Athena had passed him, and the tip that shines of Celestial Bronze is the only way Percy had recognized it. He twirls it between his fingers in the same way he had when Riptide was a pen. It's slower this way, but Percy cannot find it within himself to complain. Having Riptide by his side is the only reason he can walk this path with his shoulders pushed back and his head held high. 

Yet, the sound of the cicadas seems to only be one of many that accompanies the waiting forest. As he continues to walk, the light talking Percy swears he hears grows only in volume and aggression. Percy raises an eyebrow, slowly turning off the path and through the growing forest. The ground squishes beneath his feet as he searches for the culprit of the noise. The shouting, at first, is not identified by Percy to be that of human words. He pauses his steps and listens, waits for the foreign language to click in his head. Athena had been right: it came back to him in just a few moments. It feels like a switch flips. One second, he heard a mess of gibberish and wordless shouts and, the next, he's eavesdropping on what feels dangerously close to a murder attempt. 

"Let me go," someone yells. He can tell the boy in question tries to sound authoritative, but his voice is about as young as Percy's, and the high-pitched yelp that tags along the end of his demand doesn't help him seem like much of a danger. 

What follows the request is a myriad of deep, thundering laughs. Percy grabs onto the thickest trunk of a tree he can find and peers his head around the side. The scene in front of him isn't exactly unique. There's three tall, older men surrounding a boy around his twentieth year. The fear in his face and the desperate twisting of his body reminds Percy that not everyone has spent their early years waging war against the Gods and Titans. Two of the men stand on either side of their victim, holding his arms in a tight, immovable grip. The third man- the ringleader, it seems- stands before them, laughing and pushing the shoulders of the boy. 

"The kid has nothing on him," one of the men says. Flanked to the boy's side, he's the only one with a long unruly beard curling down towards his collarbones. So, Percy, like the genius he is, coins him Beard Face. Beard Face tugs on the boy until he groans, then smacks his face to punish the outburst. "What's the plan now?" 

The leader, which Percy chooses to call Ego- because the way he carries himself speaks everything of Ares- leans back and places his hands on his hips. "Well," he pauses, lifting his forgotten sword off the ground. "I suppose we must make a demand, for that of money and weapons. A credible one, though, must come with more than words," Ego hisses. He leans forward, letting the tip of his sword fall upon the exposed foot of the boy. "You wouldn't miss your toes, would you, young prince?" 

The boy pulls his foot back, his eyes twisting shut at the cut the sudden movement draws into his skin. The third man, Percy calling Normie for his remarkably average appearance, chuckles at the pain. Percy gulps, ducking his head back behind the tree. Of course, Athena had strategically guided him to an attempted kidnapping and maiming of the island's own prince. He's given a new life and, already, must fight for the lives of others. So much for a new start. 

"You- you guys can leave," the prince says suddenly, the fight melting from his body. He's smart, Percy knows, enough to know how to minimize himself and avoid appearing as a threat. He looks between the faces of all three men as he speaks. "I will not share this with anyone. I am not even aware of your names," he swears. 

Ego snorts. He sets the tip of his sword into the supple dirt. "We aren't numb minds, kid. We've seen what the King does to those of his hatred." He cocks his head to the side with a sly smile. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten the fate of the suitors. It's only been a year." 

Percy's eyes forcefully widen. Silently, he wonders if Athena had lied about everything she said and dropped him here just to cause him more pain. He, like most demigods, is more than aware of the journey King Odysseus had taken to reach home. Unlike others, Percy feels a special kind of guilt in hearing the story, knowing his father was the one who laid the most harm upon the man. He understands the importance of the family to Athena, but something twists in his stomach just knowing how Odysseus would react if he knew the Son of Poseidon was walking upon his island. 

Percy shakes his head. Never mind who this boy's father might be. He's never been one to attach a parent's wrongs to that of their children. It's an unfair weight that demigods like Percy are all too familiar with carrying, and he will not be one to assign the same fate to a suffering soul. 

The prince- Telemachus, he remembers swiftly- shakes his head. "I swear to the Gods above," he grovels. Percy feels the weight of the declaration in his guts. No mortal who believes fully in the Gods would dare to make such a promise in ill will. "No one will know." 

In an instant, Percy snaps the bronze tip of the quill, watching as it grows into the handy shape of Riptide that he is more than familiar with. He steps out from behind the tree with a whistle, brandishing his sword before him. "I will," he declares. 

He watches as confusion washes over the faces of each man before him, including Telemachus, who fails to use the distraction towards his escape. Percy takes a deep breath as he slowly stalks forward. Ego huffs, glancing at his friends before back to Percy. "And who are you?" he spits. 

Percy smiles, slow and sweet, knowing the very look in his eyes is enough spoil the expression. "Does it matter?" he asks quietly, continuing to cross the gap between them. "I am here for the Prince. Let him go," Percy orders. 

"Ha!" Ego laughs, chuckling hard enough that it spreads to Beard Face and Normie. "You're just as young as he is, kid. Do you think we would back down to a boy whose sword is more rigid than he?" he asks rhetorically. He stares, slowly realizing that Percy doesn't plan on abandoning the fight. He takes one last glance at his friends before bending his knees, lowering himself into a fighting stance. Once Percy is close enough, he starts to circle, like a hungry vulture waiting to strike. "What shall I tell them your name is, once they find your body in these woods?" 

Percy runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. He's always liked a challenge. "Nobody," he tells the man with the widest smile he can muster. "My name is Nobody." 

He doesn't leave any time for Ego to get the first strike. Percy raises his sword and slashes downwards. He knows the blade won't cut through Ego's body, but he can't help the urge to make the man scared. His blade is met by the edge of Ego's. They press together for a minute, locked, before Percy relieves the pressure and ducks under the swing. Ego goes stumbling forward. He turns around and quickly begins swinging his sword at Percy. He dodges repeatedly. The first swipe has him jumping to the side, the next ducking low. He leans back but sees Ego's eyes land upon his feet. Ego swings his sword just above the ground. 

Percy presses the tip of Riptide into the dirt, just out of range of the swing, and grabs the handle tight in his grip. He jumps up, using the leverage of the sword to get air height, before he swings around and sends the bottom of his foot straight in Ego's head. The man stumbles back into a tree, his eyes barely open as he blinks in and out of consciousness. 

Pulling Riptide back to his side, he turns towards the other men. Within one glance, they drop Telemachus and arm themselves with their swords. Beard Face steps forward first, swinging with effort and intention. His sword bounces against Percy's once, twice, and three times. He's stronger than Ego was, and his hits do more to tire the muscles in Percy's arms. He swings his blade below Percy's, but he jumps backwards to avoid it. Percy swipes his own sword upwards and, had it not been made of Celestial Bronze, Beard Face's cheek would've been sliced open instantly. 

His opponent may be burly, but what he has in strength he lacks in speed. Percy easily dodges the next few blows, running them in circles. As Beard Face misses again, following through on a blow that just makes him angrier, Percy looks up, catching the face of Telemachus. The boy is on the ground, moving backwards towards a tree as Normie towers above him, sword cast out towards his face. Percy curses, moves to stop him, and stupidly forgets about his current opponent. 

Beard Face grabs his shoulder and whips him around, then quickly slides his sword in the space between Percy's side and his arm. He pulls in and buries the blade within Percy's abdomen. Withholding a scream via clenching his teeth, Percy groans. He drops Riptide and pulls his arm down, trapping the blade within his own body. He pulls, ripping it from Beard Face's unsuspecting grasp. Now with a mortal sword in his hand, Percy smiles wildly. He puts a gash in Beard Face's arm, pushes him to the ground, and runs towards Telemachus. 

The man is bent over, hovering atop the prince, bringing his sword up to gain momentum. Percy rushes in from behind. He knocks the sword from his grasp with a hit of his own and jumps up, landing on Normie's back. He waits for the man to stumble backwards. His fingers claw at Percy's hands on his shoulders, shaking like an overgrown bear trying to reach an itch. Now out of the reach of Telemachus, Percy brings his sword before the man's throat. He places the blade horizontally before slashing, cutting a line straight across. He hops down as Normie stumbles, grappling at the fountain of blood that his throat has become before he collapses against the ground, dead.

Percy rubs the remaining blood off his hands and onto his chiton. He looks up and finds Beard Face pulling at Ego's arms, desperately pulling him from the ground. He points towards Percy's bloody stance and Normie's lifeless body. It takes all of two seconds for the men to go sprinting in the opposite direction, straight towards the beach Percy had come from. 

He stands for a moment just hovering. It takes a few moments for Percy to catch his breath. In the meantime, Telemachus rises to his feet, brushes the dirt and dander of the forest floor from his body. As Percy turns to meet him, he's surprised at the composure the prince still holds. He has a red mark on his face and blooming fingerprints bruising his arms, but he's come out well for a boy who was nearly maimed. Percy reaches to the ground, where Riptide has conveniently waited for him, and holds it tight within his slightly trembling hands. He's forgotten how much an adrenaline rush affects the body.

Telemachus clears his throat. Percy turns back to him quickly, straightening his shoulders. The prince brushes his hair back into place and hums. "Thank you, uh..." Telemachus trails. Percy can tell he's thinking hard by the furrowing of his eyebrows, but he also knows that no matter how hard the prince tries, he'll never land on the correct name. Luckily, he settles for a repeated, "Thank you." He reaches out and takes Percy's hand into his own; his shake is gentler than most of what he's experienced in the modern world. "I'm afraid I do not recognize your face, and I know your name must not truly be 'Nobody.'" 

Percy lets out a quiet laugh. He returns the handshake before dropping his arm back nervously at his side. "I'm... fairly new upon your shores," he explains. "Percy." 

The prince tilts his head. "Percy?" he tries, though his pronunciation is stiff and unnatural. Nonetheless, he nods in return. "How interesting. Your accent is unlike what I've ever heard before. And your name," Telemachus pauses, shaking his head. "Well, never mind that. I must know the name of my savior. I am Telemachus. I'm sure you've heard the titles they've called me," he comments, gesturing to the clothing along his body. It would have been in pristine condition, had his life not been attempted on. His hand comes out, then, waving at Riptide. "Beautiful xiphos. Where did you learn to fight?" 

He shrugs, gazing down at his own sword. "I've been fighting for a long time," Percy excuses. 

Telemachus blinks at him. He takes a few steps closer and lifts his hand. His wandering finger draws circles in front of Percy's face. "You look young to be a soldier," he comments. Percy merely shrugs. Telemachus looks the boy up and down. "The palace is not too far of a walk from here, Percy. I'd like you to come with me," he starts. As Percy opens his mouth to insist that it's truly not necessary, Telemachus holds his hand up in disagreement. "I will not hear a word of argument. You've saved my life today, and the least I can do in return is provide you with clean clothing," he assures.

Percy shrugs, his hands coming out in front of him. "If you insist, lead the way, Prince Telemachus." 

Telemachus rolls his eyes at the name. "Please, do not use such proper words. A man of your brute would not do such naturally," he mentions. As he walks forward, Percy finds himself stuck in place. He's suddenly grown lightheaded and weak. His legs feel like lead posts holding him upright. Telemachus must notice his absence, because he quickly stops and turns around. "Are you coming?" 

He nods. As Percy takes a single step forward, pain explodes like a firework in his abdomen. He gasps loudly, hands clutching at the bloodied side of his chiton as he falls to the ground. 

"Percy!" the prince calls. He runs back towards him, dropping to his knees as though there's nothing that could hurt him. He rolls Percy onto his back, knocking the boy's clawing hands away from the bloody patch. There, Telemachus pulls back the flaps of his ripped chiton, revealing a large, gaping wound in his side. "Gods," he curses. "I hadn't known you were injured. I thought this was only the other man's blood."  

"His sword," Percy breathes. He throws his head back, digging it into the moist dirt beneath him. "He got me with his sword." 

Telemachus huffs. "I can tell," he deadpans. He starts to gather Percy's broad shoulders within his arms, tugging towards the sky. "We must get you back to the palace. You need to see the physician at once," he demands. Percy watches as his head shoots up, slowly gazing across the expanse of the forest. "Where is that owl when I need her?" 

Knowing he speaks of Athena, Percy chokes on a laugh. It quickly turns to a dastardly groan as pain continues to spread through his body. "Water," he whispers. 

The prince's head snaps back down to his. His face is nothing short of confused and horrified, unknowing as to why Percy may request such a simple pleasure at a time like the current. "What?" 

Percy shakes his head. He wraps his bloody hand around Telemachus' closest wrist. "Water. It- it heals me," he mutters. Disbelief flows through the prince’s face within an instant and, while Percy would normally understand and give space to think, he doesn't have time to wait on long-winded explanations and shows of power. He guides Telemachus' hand to the underside of his left arm. “My father,” he rasps, as soft fingertips brush across the expanse of the trident tattoo that lies there. 

Immediately, the look on Telemachus' face hardens. "No," he whispers, completely aghast. His hands hesitate over Percy's arm. He looks back and forth between the wound, his face, and his tattoo before making the ultimate decision. Torn between his father's tortures and the boy who saved his life, Telemachus grunts. He sets his feet on the ground and drags Percy's arm onto his shoulders until he's completely sitting up. Percy moans in pain. "You must work with me. I cannot get you to the palace on my own accord." 

Percy wrings his eyes shut as he gets to his feet. Most of his weight is bearing upon Telemachus' own two shoulders, but he stays as close to consciousness as he can. They stumble through paths and shortcuts until it becomes too much, and Percy slips away without a fight. Distantly, he wonders if he will wake to the sight of his bathroom. 

"For the last time, Father, I am fine," Telemachus insists, pulling away from the worried hands patting around his body. He glances to his mother standing in the corner, a worried expression on her face as she gazes upon his blood-stained clothing. "Mother, would you tell him it is okay?" 

Penelope tsks, pulling her lips taught across her face. "I cannot," she denies, prompting a betrayed look to flash across her son's face. "You lied many times about the harms the suitors had caused you, Telemachus. Now you come to us covered in bruises and blood and tell us you are fine?" She shakes her head, crossing her arms across her chest. "Your father has the right to be worried." 

As much as Telemachus loves his parents- the unwavering support from his mother and the undying loyalty from his father- there are undoubtedly times it becomes overbearing. It's felt stronger since his father had made his way home, slaying over one hundred men just to make it back to them. Telemachus would have been surprised if you had approached him one year ago and said that the act of slaughter wasn't the most overbearing thing Odysseus had done. 

When Odysseus' hands approach his face again, Telemachus intercepts, catching them at the wrists. His father's eyes flicker from the red mark on his cheek to his eyes, Odysseus' wide with fear and confusion, while Telemachus narrows his own with annoyance. "I am fine. It is just a mark." 

"A mark you shouldn't have," Odysseus argues. Begrudgingly, he drops his hands at his side, huffing from the rejection. He turns on his heel, beginning a pace across the floor. "You will describe them in as great detail as you can manage. I will hunt this island day and night for the men who thought they could get away with such a thing," he swears. 

Finally, Penelope steps forward. She places a steady hand on Odysseus' shoulders, stopping him where he stands. "He understands, my love. You've threatened them more times in the last hour than I can keep track of." 

As his father opens his mouth to argue, undoubtedly to declare that it still is not enough, the door they all wait before opens with a silent creek. The palace's physician stands behind it, wiping the last of the blood coating his hands with a loose rag. Telemachus can't help but notice how the amount sticking underneath his fingernails is just like his own. He glances down what feels like gallons coating his chiton and, after remembering how much Percy was coated in, doubts the possibility of his health. 

"Is he alive?" Telemachus bursts, rushing towards the room. The physician pulls the door open as he approaches. Telemachus marches straight through the opening towards the flat bed, where the boy lays still. 

"He is," the doctor confirms, just as his eyes catch the gentle rising and falling of his chest beneath the thin blanket that covers his body. Telemachus lets out a quick breath of relief, collapsing onto the stool waiting by the bedside. "It may only be by the grace of the Gods above. That boy survived a wound of such dire that I personally would not have bet on his survival. If not for my own expertise, I'd have blamed his livelihood on divine intervention itself." 

Telemachus gulps. His eyes don't stray from Percy's pale face, even as the physician excuses himself from the room and his parents file in afterwards. He reaches forward and brushes the hair off of Percy's forehead. His fingertips thread through soft black strands, mysteriously passing through a light grey strand that lies between them. 

Odysseus steps forward, staring at the body his son sits beside. "He's just a boy," he mutters. 

Nodding, Telemachus agrees, "Yes." He pulls away, looking back towards his parents. "I believe him to be no older than I. When I mentioned he appeared all too young to be a soldier, he merely shrugged," he explains. Penelope frowns, slowly pulling her own chair out beside her son. She rubs a comforting hand across his back as he speaks. "I do not know where he comes from, but he is in no state to be sent back." 

His words must come out as a defensive attack, spit like poison towards his father, whose expression morphs into one of confusion. "I did not mention sending him back once, son," he reminds. “Why do you assume such a fate?”

Telemachus swallowed. He has only been here a moment, and yet, he’s managed to spill the one secret that puts Percy in more danger than the sword wound had. “Nothing,” he tries. “I… suspect he has a connection to the Gods, is all. He had used the same trick on the men that you had on the cyclops. He declared his name to be ‘Nobody.’”

Odysseus clenches his jaw. He looks between the still body and his boy. “Is that all?” he asks. His voice is carefully placed, carved out of the dark, accusing tone he used only as the leader of troops through the war. Odysseus demands, “What are you not telling me?" 

"Odysseus, love-" Penelope tries, but her words are too late.

Telemachus reaches to turn Percy's left arm over, just to keep the tattoo hidden, but it is of no use. Odysseus has already spotted it. He marches across the few feet remaining before he yanks Percy's limp arm with such aggression that his body begins to lift off the table. Unconsciously, he groans in pain. Telemachus stands quickly, looking to slap away his father's grip. "You are going to pull his sutures!" 

"Let me!" Odysseus bellows. Telemachus has not heard such horror in his voice since the day they met and have never imagined it would be used towards his own son. He quickly shrinks backwards in fear. The anger does not slip from his father's eyes. "You dare bring the Sea God into our home? After all that he's done? There are 600 widows within our streets because of him!" Odysseus ends his shouts with throwing Percy's arm down with all his might. He walks towards the wall behind him.

Telemachus leaps forward, fixing his body back onto the bed. He brushes Percy's hair back again, surprised but relieved he had not been awoken by the movements. "He is not the Sea God, Father, this is his son." 

Odysseus turns back towards him. "You think that is any better?" he spits. His hand flies out towards the bed, his pointed finger trembling in anger. "He is here to finish that monster's job! He is to leave at once!" 

"He saved my life!" Telemachus screams back. He fixes his hands on the edge of the bed, leaning over top Percy's body to minimize the distance between himself and his father. "He is not leaving. I say no." 

"No?" his father asks. His voice is quiet, broken in disbelief.

Telemachus nods. "No," he repeats. "You wish to forbid him for things he may not even know of. You wish to punish him for the actions of a man who he is not," Telemachus starts. He looks down at the face of the boy no older than he; he's unable to imagine having to carry the weights of his father's misdeeds. Even after all Odysseus has been through, it's yet to bleed into the life of his own. "Do you wish the sirens to come take my life for the things you've done? For the cyclops to behead me as a punishment for your crimes?" 

"Telemachus!" Penelope shouts. Her hand casts a quick grip around his bicep, yanking him back to his seat. 

Odysseus shakes his head repeatedly. His hand comes up to his face, squeezing at either side of his temples. He continuously mumbles under his breath as he begins to pace. Not even Penelope's call of his name can shake him from his bought of despair. He casts his hand out towards the boy once more. "He has until he can walk," he declares. His words feel so final that Telemachus cannot bring himself to argue a second time. "The boy heals until he walks, and then, he is out of our borders at once!" 

His father rips the door open and slams it behind him so violently that Telemachus can hear the wood splinter around the hinges. He sighs and looks down at his feet. The air is tense. His mother does not move to follow Odysseus out. He imagines his father needs space to calm himself. Telemachus is okay with that. It gives him more time to take his attention back to the healing boy. 

He rises from his seat and towards the water bucket in the corner. Though it is dirtier that he would prefer, there is no other source within the room to fetch it from. He grabs the discarded chiton, tattered and stained. He isolates the corner and dips it until it is completely soaked. Telemachus drags it across the bloody splotches on Percy's neck and shoulders. "The physician missed these," he tells his mother. 

Penelope does not answer his comments. She watches his every movement. "You should not have used your father's travels against him," she scolds, holding her own hands together. "He awakes thrice every night just dreaming about them." 

Telemachus swallows toughly. He already regrets his words but, somehow, it feels too soon to backtrack. Telemachus keeps his head held down and answers, "He should not have used Percy's heritage against him. It is not of his own choice." 

"You defend a boy you do not know over your own father?" Penelope questions. "Knowing everything he's done to get back to you?" 

"I defend my father every day from the very people of this kingdom and their whispers of his atrocities," Telemachus growls through closed teeth. He grips the fabric between his hand so tightly the water begins to squeeze out, landing in mini puddles on cold skin. "This boy has no obligation to the crown or its people. He had not stepped foot on our shores before today, but he nearly died to protect me. He has defended me, knowing nothing of my character." Finally, Telemachus looks up to his mother. If the lighting had been right, he could've sworn there was an inkling of tears within her eyes. "That is who I am defending. The boy who, Gods forbid, has given me his life," he finishes. 

Penelope takes a long, deep breath in. As it leaves her lips, so does the tension that wound up the anger and disappointment into her features. He can tell when her motherly sympathy kicks in, when she looks down at the boy and realizes that, truly, there's no possibility of him being younger than her own son, who she still views as nothing more than a child. "I understand what you mean," she says vaguely. 

"Thank you," Telemachus mutters. Satisfied with his own cleaning, he drops the rag down to his feet. "Why must Father have been so rude about his life? He was nowhere near willing to hear another outlet of the story," he remarks. 

Sighing, Penelope straightens her posture, rubbing away the gooseflesh on the back of her arms with her warm palms. "You know of his troubles with the Sea God," she reminds him. 

"I do," Telemachus agrees. "But Percy saved me. He is good," he argues. 

Penelope rises from her chair. She takes her time in slow, patient steps, rounding the table until she reaches her son. She pulls him to face her, cradling his young face within her palms. Her thumb rubs across the welt still shining on his cheekbone. "Your father is a man of loyalty, Telemachus, and he is loyal to the hundreds of men who died at the hands of this boy's father. He is loyal to us, who the God wanted to kill," she explains. "You cannot expect him to deal forgiveness out like bread when he has not slept through the night in eleven years." 

Telemachus slips his eyes shut. He ignores the tear that rolls from the corner, ignores what it feels like when his mother washes it away with a single swipe. He hates how it doesn't erase all the feeling of shame from his bones. "I know," he promises through a hushed breath. "I am sorry." 

His mother does nothing to corroborate his apology. She leans forward and presses her pursed lips to the mark on his cheek, as though the single kiss will heal it. When she backs away, Penelope takes her hands with her. Telemachus must stop himself from reaching down and replacing her grip at once. "I am going to find your father. Please, Telemachus, apologize to him before dinner." 

"Of course, Mother," Telemachus promises. 

He watches Penelope disappears into the hallway upon gentle footsteps, closing the door with light hands and nonexistent anger. Telemachus' shoulders fall involuntarily. He rounds the medical bed once again and sits upon the stool. This time, he leans onto the sufra, draping his head into the neat fold of his arms, and slipping away into a dream.