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Something was wrong.
He’d known for weeks now. It was a feeling of wrongness deep enough to permeate even the agony of the split. Neptune warred for space in his head, raging and blustering, but even he had to admit that something was off.
It was insulting, frankly. The Romans didn’t ever pray to Neptune in this modern era, happy to cut themselves off from the sea and maintain one little boat for their navy, but now that they had declared war on a people who actually respected the ocean, they called on his aid. It wasn’t enough to save them. Had they needed to sail to reach Camp Half-Blood, they’d have seen no mercy from the god they despised. But it was enough to leave Poseidon out of commission.
All he could do was watch. All he had ever been able to do was watch.
Laws. There were laws against interfering. And Percy had been forbidden—if Poseidon had gone to him, he’d have threatened him. Yet surely he could have done more. Surely, he could do more than sit here and—
When Percy had first disappeared, he’d known about it. Of course he had. Annabeth Chase had prayed to him frantically after the first few days, but Sally had got there first, and Poseidon always listened to Sally. And when they realised who had taken him—that his sister was to blame—Poseidon had been left in an awkward position. He would have been well within his rights to demand his son’s return. But Percy was, by that point, awake and in the care of Lupa. To fetch him, Poseidon would have had to negotiate with his Roman side. And Neptune was always unpredictable.
He might have been indifferent to Percy. He might have disliked him so much that he wanted him out of New Rome. That hadn’t happened; when Juno had declared Percy a son of Neptune, Neptune had been intrigued. Poseidon had felt his reaction like a thrill along the back of his spine. It had been so long since Neptune had had a child with a human, and apparently the sea would be just as possessive in Rome as in Greece. He wouldn’t extract him on Poseidon’s behalf.
Which meant it was Neptune’s fault as much as Hera’s when they sensed… something off. Percy was gone. The thought just made Neptune rage more, and Poseidon bit back, and they wrestled, and none of it helped—
The Argo II no longer sailed on the water. In their weakness, they couldn’t peer through the storms to see what was happening. But if the ship was not on the water, that was probably because Percy wasn’t there. And if Percy wasn’t there—
Something was wrong. They could feel it. Not they—ugh—Poseidon could feel it, somewhere in his chest, where he cradled all his pearls and strung them to him. The string was thinned. Broken? Broken?
He tried to reach out. Ancient Laws or not, he had never not helped Percy when he needed it before. And Percy trusted him enough to ask. Percy always prayed if he thought Poseidon could help him, but Poseidon’s ears were Neptune’s, and they were filled with the din of a thousand voices, from across the eons, from Greece to Rome and everywhere in between, and both sides wanted his help. He tried to snarl, because the only person he wanted to help was not interested in this rivalry, had started the war and intended to finish it, and amidst the clamour he couldn’t hear him. If Percy prayed for help, and Poseidon didn’t hear him…
The Argo II docked in Athens. Neptune howled as Poseidon strengthened his grip; this was his land, and it was his shrine on that hill. Even if Athena had won that contest, they shared the same roots. But Neptune bucked like a bridled serpent and snapped at him, because the sea hated to be restrained, even by its kings…
They had co-existed for so long by ignoring each other. Why couldn’t Neptune have continued to ignore him? Ignore Percy?
Juno declared the boy Neptune’s son—
He was Poseidon’s son! Ignore him and let him watch. Let him help!
They could not help. That was the fact of the matter. Poseidon had chosen not to extract him from Hera’s bold scheme when he could, and now he couldn’t help at all.
Gods did not like to feel powerless.
Relief was a fresh current from the depths. It came far too late, but it was welcome, nonetheless. The prayers faded. The antagonism faded too, and Poseidon suddenly wondered why he’d hated Neptune so much. Usually, they were on good enough terms that Poseidon could wear a hat with the wrong name on it without suffering from adverse side effects. It was horrible, how dependent they were on mortals. When their worshippers fought…
But he did not have time for philosophy. There was a statue at Camp Half-Blood. Zeus was summoning them to Olympus, then to Athens, to assist the demigods. The battle was brief and bloody, but something was wrong. Something was wrong.
He could sense Percy was near. Polybotes, Poseidon’s old bane, was absent from the fight, and he feared that Percy had lured him away to fight him single-handedly again. But if he had, he couldn’t find him. He should be able to sense Polybotes with all the revulsion he inspired, and he should definitely be able to sense Percy, this close. Neither of them were there. Poseidon smacked down Dionysus’s twin banes after Mars’s boy disarmed them, and then there was another giant to face, but he was distracted.
“Brethren,” Zeus said at last, as the dust settled and he returned from his chat with his Roman son. “We are healed, thanks to the work of these demigods. The Athena Parthenos—”
Poseidon couldn’t abide waiting. He’d scanned the ranks of demigods several times. He only counted five. “Where is Percy?” he demanded.
Zeus gave him a stern look; Poseidon didn’t care. The five demigods were suddenly very interested in looking at their shoes. Weren’t there supposed to be seven? Who else was missing?
“And Annabeth,” Athena weighed in. She still looked disgruntled, as if it was an affront that she’d been made to talk to Minerva for the first time in centuries. “It was her efforts that recovered my statue. Let her step forth to receive the glory.”
He should have guessed. Wherever Percy went, Athena’s girl followed. Or, he admitted begrudgingly, the other way around.
Jupiter’s boy and Aphrodite’s girl exchanged glances. It was Pluto’s girl that had the courage to say, “They’re still on the Argo II.” She pointed up at where the ship hovered in the sky. “They’re… um… unwell.”
“Unwell?” Poseidon clenched his trident. “Is he—”
“They’re alive,” Pluto’s girl said hurriedly. “But… Tartarus isn’t meant for mortals. Clytius said the transition back into the mortal world was a shock to their system. A final straw. Since they returned—”
Poseidon did not wait for her to finish. As soon as she said final straw, he was no longer on the Acropolis, but on the decks of the ship above. It filled him with revulsion—a ship, something that belonged to his domain, in the sky?—but he didn’t have time to argue about heresy. Below decks, in a small cabin amateurishly but lovingly painted with waves and sea creatures, slept Percy.
He and Athena’s girl were in his bed, entangled in each other, unconscious. Poseidon pushed her hair aside so he could get a good look at his son. Percy had never looked so pale or gaunt. His face was nearly a skull. His hair hung limp and unwashed. Under Poseidon’s gentle fingers, his muscles were thin and weak, like crumbling clay. His eyes were firmly closed, and it was only the rise and fall of his chest that meant Poseidon didn’t flood Athens there and then.
Tartarus. Why had he been to Tartarus? What had happened?
“Let me move her,” Athena said behind him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Athena was cold and used her children like a private army, more than any other god, yes. But this girl was one of her favourites, even if she’d only ever expressed that by trying to warn Percy away from her. All gods were possessive in their own ways.
“Be my guest.” He didn’t care about the girl. But when Athena tried to untangle her arms and fingers from Percy’s, both the demigods shifted, twisting into each other. The girl whimpered.
Athena paused. “Perhaps they are taking comfort in each other.”
“Apollo will have to determine that.” He split his consciousness, one part of him refusing to release his grip on Percy’s arm, while another part reappeared on the Acropolis. “Nephew! Attend to my son.”
Ares and Hephaestus looked at each other in a is he talking to me? way. Apollo was not there.
“He has been sent to Olympus to await his punishment,” Zeus informed him.
“Then bring him back,” Poseidon hissed. “He is needed. Two of your vaunted demigods are…” He turned away, addressing Pluto’s girl again. “What happened?”
She tried her best to explain where they’d been. It wasn’t much. She finished with: “We don’t know how to wake them. They’ve been unconscious since they returned. We feed them nectar and some food supplements, but…”
As soon as Apollo reappeared, looking shaken and frail, Poseidon seized him and took him to the bedside. Athena hadn’t left, which surprised him. She was kneeling next to her daughter and stroking her hair.
“Fix them,” Poseidon commanded.
Apollo tried for his winning smile. “Of course!” Whatever Zeus wanted him punished for, he clearly hoped this would lessen the sentence. He wasn’t wrong. Poseidon would speak in his favour if he saved Percy.
He didn’t save Percy.
Apollo kicked both Poseidon and Athena out, so they didn’t interfere with his assessment or attempts at healing. When they returned to the Acropolis again, the demigods were gone. To Camp Half-Blood, the others supplied. To fight Gaia.
Good. That meant Poseidon could unleash his full godly strength without worrying about incinerating any mortals.
He seized Hera by the throat. “What have you done?”
Hera looked surprised at how quickly he’d turned on her. Why? Did she not realise what she had done? “I—have—saved—us—” she got out.
“You kidnapped my son,” he growled. “There was no reason that prophecy should have applied to him. You chose him to be one of those seven.”
It was all about choice. Always. Percy had only been the child of the first prophecy because of the million decisions made before he was sixteen, where Thalia Grace dodged it and Percy ran at it full throttle to save Nico di Angelo. He had chosen the prophecy, and so it became about him.
But Hera hadn’t given him any choice. She’d decided that the next prophecy was imminent, and in hand selecting the seven heroes she wanted to fulfil it, she had dared to heap more danger on his son—
“Release her,” Zeus commanded. “Hera knows she has overstepped.”
“My son suffered through Tartarus because of you!”
But he knew that telltale crackle of ozone in the air. He released her. His wrath was explosive, but it could last. It could last years.
She glared at him. “Your son is the greatest hero of the age, brother,” she spat. “Do you deny that he was the best choice?”
Calling Percy a greater hero than her own champion was a blatant way of trying to butter him up, but even then, Poseidon’s pride warred with his fury. Thankfully, his fury won. “It should have been his choice.”
“Did you give him that option when you used him to clear your name all those years ago?”
Poseidon’s trident rematerialised in his hand.
“Enough!” Zeus roared. “Apollo, make your report to Poseidon and Athena. I have no desire to witness this quarrel. Once you are finished, return to Olympus and await me.”
Apollo was back, Poseidon realised. He was cowering behind Artemis, of course, still in the guise of a teenager. When he met Poseidon’s eye, he waved weakly. “Good news and bad news, Uncle!”
Poseidon growled. Every other Olympian vanished, except Apollo, Athena, and Artemis. Maybe Artemis stayed to defend her brother. Or maybe she just didn’t want them to level the Acropolis.
“They’re physically well,” he said. “Well… not well. They haven’t eaten solid food in weeks and all that. But they’re alive! The unconsciousness… well, it seems that…”
Apollo trailed off, losing his nerve. He tried to look at Athena instead of Poseidon, but for once the two of them were in agreement. They both glared at Apollo.
He gulped.
“The mortal body is not meant for Tartarus, as that girl said,” Apollo admitted. “But I suspect the issue is something spiritual. You’ll need Uncle Hades to look at them. Or Psyche. Or—”
“Begone.”
Apollo didn’t need to be told twice. He and Artemis vanished.
In the same place their feud had truly begun, Poseidon looked over at Athena and, with a nod, sealed an alliance they would have laughed at a mere few years ago.
“I will contact and enlist the relevant gods,” Athena said. “Uncle, can you return the ship to America? I fear moving them from their positions may be detrimental. As would separating them.”
He nodded, surprised at her politeness. He wondered if she felt the same guilt that raged inside him. She hadn’t saved her daughter, either. Worse. Annabeth Chase had chosen to be one of the Seven. And she had chosen it because her mother had given her a quest.
Events spiralled from there, each day more aggravating than the last.
Every god they paraded in front of their children agreed that something was wrong. A part of them was still in Tartarus. The spirit of the Pit had laid claim to their souls, rampaged through their minds, and unless they fought him off, they couldn’t escape. As to how they were supposed to fight him off, no one knew. Morpheus flinched when he tried to peek into their dreams. A grandson of Nyx, and he flinched.
They were very carefully moved to the Camp Half-Blood infirmary, after Gaia was vanquished. Both Poseidon and Athena wanted them on Olympus, but their mortal parents wanted to visit them. As did their friends. Poseidon knew that separating Percy from his home would do more harm than good, so instead, he just visited camp himself.
He hadn’t ever actually been to Camp Half-Blood. Not in this location. He’d watched it and sent gifts, but he had never walked the hallowed ground of the place his son loved so dearly. Now, he knew its infirmary inside out.
Weeks passed. Percy and Annabeth lay in adjoining beds, their hands clasped together. They did not wake. A satyr, their friend, who had a damaged empathy link with Percy, sat with them often. From his pallor and his own nervous shakes, he received some of the backlash of what Percy saw in his mind. But unlike Morpheus, he did not flinch away. Poseidon spent many hours sitting quietly with Grover Underwood.
When he was alone, he spoke to Percy. In Atlantean, of course, so no one might overhear. He told him how proud he was. He told him he loved him. That he was sorry.
He had said such things before. But he tried to remember how sincerely he had meant them. And he wondered if Percy realised just how rare it was for a god to apologise.
Athena didn’t dote quite so openly. She had other demigod children, of course. But Poseidon frequently heard the hoots of owls nesting in the infirmary rafters, even during the day. He could feel her eyes on her daughter.
Sally screamed at Poseidon, even as her husband tried to stop her. He didn’t react. So many parts of him scurried all over the world—ruling his kingdom, running the seas—but most of him was here. Triton resented how distant he was in his dealings, especially considering the mess that had been left in the way of his and Neptune’s spat, but Poseidon dismissed his concerns.
There was nothing he could do to help his son. Staying away had not helped. Nor did pressing close. He’d spent so much of Percy’s short life simply watching, and now that was the only thing left to him. The medics ensured he was nourished, but Percy still wasted away before his eyes. His battle with Tartarus continued.
Gods hated to feel powerless. But that was what the Pit rendered him. That was what he was.
The seas raged. Millions of creatures lived and died under Poseidon’s thrall. The earth trembled in his grasp, and yet between his hands, Percy’s fingers did not twitch. All Poseidon could do was hope his son was strong enough to survive the fall, and strong enough to one day climb back out again.
That was all Poseidon had ever been able to do.