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He was so beautiful, so breathtakingly perfect, this forbidden child of his. The glorious product of true love and respect. The son he created with a mortal anomaly; a human that held cosmic power in the way she could cut and see right through him. Who understood and accepted him like no other. A woman whose uniqueness in kindness and in cunning was the catalyst for breaking the strict prohibition on the existence of his mortal offspring. An oath and law that for seventy years he had upheld but can never regret breaking.
Poseidon is unable to look away as he slowly steps closer to him; propelled forward to his son like a magnet from the moment that holy word left Percy’s lips.
“Patros,” he had uttered shyly, and it felt like a vital but constrained section of Poseidon’s brain and soul had abruptly ignited to life. Like all his unending and insurmountable love for Percy had been lying forcefully dormant, but was now unable to remain agonizingly numb in the physical presence of him and his brilliance.
Poseidon’s entire being was flooded with eleven and a half years of longing and separation. The sorrow of being forced to watch his son’s life from afar, with the distance of whole worlds between them, with his unconditional love unfulfilled and unoffered, unable to intervene. “That’s the only word I really caught. It means father. Right?”
He stares intently into his son’s eyes, and he realizes that his heart, his soul, his power is walking outside of himself in the corporeality of this precious, mischievous demi-god who is as untamable as the sea coursing through his veins and the storms roaring in the depths of his Larimar eyes.
Poseidon feels adoration and devotion the likes of which he has not permitted himself to feel in many years, and equally feels the rage and desperation he had felt only moments before—surrendering and begging Zeus not to touch his son—multiply thricefold. He deeply understands and reaccepts in that moment the lengths to which he, God of the seas, Earth-Shaker, and bringer of tempests, would go to keep his son alive.
The child whom for six glorious months he held in his arms day in and day out. Whose infant laughter was a melody that resembled the upsweep sound of active undersea volcanoes. The vibrant, endlessly happy baby boy with eyes bluer than the neon blue of lagoons still untouched by humanity.
Poseidon takes in the pleading face of the twelve-year-old child in front of him. His impossibly golden curls, which from appearance alone seem softer than any silk or cotton in Olympus. His flushed cheeks, a pink that spread from his eyelids to his neck—and Poseidon can so easily bring forth every last memory of the baby he once was.
When he, beyond grateful to require no sleep, would nightly stay awake and alert while Sally rested beautifully by his side, and his son slept soundly in his arms. That six-month-old Perseus, who would only succumb to a peaceful, long-lasting sleep if in the embrace of his father. His rarely-used crib always replaced by the ocean of Poseidon’s strong arms and the soothing sensation of waves he would create with a constant, melodic rocking of the baby lying on his chest.
He remembers years of hearing the echoes of his baby’s cries and restlessness across dimensions after Zeus had forced Poseidon to leave him. He recalls watching from afar how long it took for Percy to get used to his crib at night. Poseidon feels his face crumble as he comes to a stand inches away from him now. “Chiron has taught you well,” Poseidon says, a small and inevitable smile forming on his face at his son’s knowledge and brilliance.
“I didn’t learn it from Chiron.”
“Your mother taught you Ancient Greek?”
“She taught me a lot of things,” Percy replied, and it felt like the fist of a Titan went right through his heart at that remark. Yes, Sally had been there to teach his baby Perseus everything that he knows now. She had been the only one there to shape him into the brave, loyal, beautiful boy that stood before him today, and Poseidon was able to have no part in it.
He tried to mask the pain that consumed him in that moment with a smirk and failed miserably—sure that all the longing showed in his face anyway. Poseidon felt every minute muscle in his expression unwillingly flex and move at the heart-rending sight in front of him.
“Can I ask you a question?” Perseus adds, the curiosity evident in his furrowed brow and wondrous eyes. A curiosity that persisted even amongst his shaky words, red-brimmed eyes, and those tear-soaked eyelashes of his, trying so hard to disguise his own pain and anger.
Poseidon mistook his sudden question to be born of fear for his mother’s wellbeing and quickly said, “I don’t know when Hades will return her. He can be difficult when he wants to make a point.”
“Do you dream?” Percy suddenly interrupted, “Ares said gods don’t dream.”
“Ares is a moron. Perhaps you’ve noticed?”
Percy offered the tiniest of smiles at Poseidon’s teasing remark and nodded his agreement almost cheekily. Poseidon would do anything to keep that mischievous smirk on his face; to keep him safe, happy, and adorably impertinent always.
Taking one final step toward him and closing the space between them at last, Poseidon answered his son’s inquiry, “Of course, we dream. Why do you ask?”
“Do you ever dream about Mom?”
Poseidon almost did not register Percy’s startling question. There was so much indignation and sadness, clear and devastating in his trembling voice as he sought this response from his father. His chin shaking with emotion, his eyes anxiously searching Poseidon’s face for an answer, for anything.
And Poseidon had everything to confess, because for twelve years his dreams had consisted of nothing other than Sally’s auburn hair, gentle eyes, and endless grace. Her voice, along with Percy’s newborn coos and babbles, consistently haunted his most beautifully painful dreams. All of his son’s infinite perfection, the scattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, was a constellation that he has never been able to escape, constantly making an appearance in his dreams, and equally in all the stars shining brightly upon Olympus.
He was struck silent by both the question and the painful way Percy was staring up at him. His face was full of insurmountable hope and adoration, even if it was reluctant and unfounded. The unspoken doubts Percy tried to hide behind his seemingly simple question hung in the air: Do you ever dream about me? Do you care and think about us? Do you love me?
Poseidon could not help the short, bitter laugh that left him as he succumbed and finally brought his hand up to touch and hold his son’s face.
It was unfathomable even to himself how much he loved this boy with every fiber of his being. He had him right in front of him, but he was unable to give him any of the answers and explanations he deserved. With his palm resting firmly on Percy’s neck, tangled in his golden curls, his thumb caressing his cheek, Poseidon took one final look at him, taking in his fill of the impossible sight of him—falling in love with the way Percy’s expression softened at the touch, how he immediately leaned into his father’s palm, his lips parting in wonder and anticipation.
With the strength of the entire sea, with the will required to summon waves and hurricanes, Poseidon forced himself to let go of him, to take away the firm, comforting hold he had on his nape. He was left wondering how many times a single heart could shatter as Percy’s expression changed to one of confusion and abandonment at that. He looked down at the pearl Poseidon had in his palm and back up into the eyes of his father—an almost exact mirror of his own ocean-blue irises.
“You should be going,” Poseidon whispered as he let the pearl free-fall from his hand, teleporting his son back to Montauk, taking his entire heart and soul with him.