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There are two people in the world.
Mama is soft and golden all over. She smells like sunshine and lemon trees. She feeds me milk and honey, and softly tells me stories. In the dark, when the water falls from the sky and the earth rumbles, she holds me tightly to her chest.
Papa is the biggest thing in the world. His voice is low and dark, like when the earth rumbles, but kinder. He smells like the place where the wind blows off saltwater. He is hard and sharp, and even the water listens to him.
_______
The first thing I know is the cold. A bitter, stinging, wet cold. It comes with a howling that seizes my throat and a rumble that rattles my bones. But it does not last long.
The next thing I know is warmth. Huge, all-consuming warmth, wrapped around me like a blanket.
I don’t know it then, but it is Papa.
His arms are huge and tough, like the rocks that form mountains. And he is warm. He is so, so warm, pressing me against his chest and brushing the rainwater off me like it is dry sand.
He takes me inside, where it is darker, drier, and the howling is silent.
Something, or someone, calls out.
I hear Papa’s voice. It feels like his arms; big and warm.
My face, covered by the blanket, is exposed to a soft light.
There is a sharp breath.
I don’t like the light. I want to stay in the warm darkness of Papa’s arms, where nothing can touch me and the world is kind.
Then I feel something brush my face. I do not know it, but it is Mama’s fingers, feather-soft and reverent.
I like the feeling, Papa’s warm, strong arms and Mama’s gentle, patient touch. But she pulls away.
I hear her voice. It is like music, the first song I ever heard.
Papa responds.
Mama stutters, but I feel my body leave the huge wall of Papa’s chest. I don’t like it, but it is only a heartbeat before I am nestled in Mama’s arms.
She is not big and strong like Papa; she is warm and soft. She rocks me, side to side, and I push my face into her body.
I want Papa’s arms. I want to feel the shield of his chest and the warmth of his embrace, but I do not want to leave the cushion of Mama’s chest or the smell of her skin, like oil and sunshine.
Mama holds me-tight, maybe too tight, but I can only sigh.
Quickly, Papa wraps his arms around Mama. He protects us. He makes a fortress with his body, and suddenly, all I have ever known is the safety of his arms and the warmth of her body.
Water splashes on my cheek. It’s not cold and biting like the rain, though. It is hot and salty.
It is a tear, dripping from Mama’s face onto mine, but I only know it’s warmth.
I am so tiny, so fragile, and new. I do not know words like love or home, only the feelings of being shielded from a storm by my father, rocked into a dreamless sleep by my mother.
_______
I don’t know true fear. I have never felt true pain. I don’t know what it is like to cry out and to not know if anyone will come.
All I know is that I have been left in a stranger’s arms. They give me milk from a familiar bottle and wrap me in blankets that smell like the salt of Papa’s skin and the sunshine in Mama’s hair, but it does not soothe me. I want Mama. I want Papa. I want to taste the warmth of Mama’s chest and feel the pulse of Papa’s heart.
The stranger talks to me in soothing tones.
I cry louder. It is not Papa’s booming laugh or the melody of Mama’s voice.
I do not care that this stronger has fed me and kept me warm. I do not care about the bone rattle the stranger shakes in front of my eyes.
I want Mama and Papa. I want to know that they are with me, that they have not stopped loving me, and that they will protect me.
I don’t know yet that the world is cruel, I only know that they are not here.
The stranger sighs. She, the stranger is a she, but I do not understand the difference yet, laughs as she says something, picking me up and moving with me.
I do not know then, but I know now, that the stranger takes me to the study. It smells like papyrus and tallow candles.
Mama and Papa sit at a desk, near the window.
Mama greets the stranger before she can get very far into the room.
I hear her voice, and then I feel her arms.
This is what I need. I need to feel her gentle touch, feel her holding me like the most precious treasure, and feel the steady beat of her heart against my ear.
I settle, not totally finished with my fit.
I do not leave Mama’s arms, but I feel her nestle me against Papa.
He laughs, and I feel Mama’s thin fingers trace my features.
The bottle rests against my lip again, the same one the stranger gave to me.
I am hungry, I realize, my stomach clenching painfully.
I did not know I was hungry, only that a stranger held me and that Mama and Papa were far from me.
Now I suckle eagerly, knowing all is right in the world. I still do not know pain or fear, but they seem like faraway feelings wrapped in their arms.
________]
I am older now, and so are they. Mama’s hair is as silver as her eyes, and her body holds more weight than it did in my memories. Papa’s joints irritate him, and his skin is wrinkled and thin.
My face hs lost the roundness of my girlhood, and my body is as lithe and muscular as I remember their’s being.
When I was a child, Mama could not read or write; the price of being born a Gaulish girl child. Now, I bring her tea as she reads old scrolls and tablets.
_______________
The knocking comes as they prepare for bed.
It’s a terribly stormy night, with rough winds and rougher rain. There’s a chill in the air, the kind that seeps into your bones. It’s a far cry from the warmth of the sun that shown for most of the day.
Perseus had already washed his hair and face. Annabeth sits at her vanity, plucking pins and thread from her hair.
The knock comes. It is too strong to be a mortal knocking. Annabeth pauses, her hands still suspended mid air. They share a glance. If it is a God, he is not welcome. However, it would be a death sentance to purposfully ignore an immortal.
With great reluctance Perseus fastens his chiton again, striding toward the door.
But no one stands outside. He searches, wondering is a tree branch had crashed into the walls from the wind or if the storm had broken part of the house.
There is nothing.
He closes the door and returns to the bedroom.
Annabeth meets his eyes in the mirror. She says nothing, but she gives him a disapproving look.
Perseus huffs as if he is exasperated by her silent scolding, but he knows she is right.
He turns toward the wardrobe, pulling out a heavy cloak. The rain is inconsequential, but the wind is brutal and the earth is cold.
He places his hand on her shoulder as he leaves. Her own covers his briefly before she continues unraveling her hair.
Perseus stands in the doorway for a moment, hoping that whoever has knocked will reveal themselves.
They don’t.
The wind continues whipping, the rain pelting, and the sky unrelenting.
Jupiter must be in the foulest of moods, Perseus thinks.
It’s as he steps through the doorway that he hears a sound- or, he thinks he does.
It’s high and thin, more like a mouse than anything.
But as it comes again, Perseus realizes it cannot me. A mouse would not scream at the storm the way this being does.
The man walks closer to it, boots squishing against mud and flowing water.
The cry comes the grove, under an olive tree Annabeth had planted and cared for.
Perseus should hesitate, not knowing what he will find, but he doesn’t.
There is something pulling him, his heart, his body, his feet, toward the trees.
A basket lays beneath Annabeth’s favorite tree, a wad of soaked cloths piled inside.
The cloth makes a sound; a shrill call, full of pain and fear.
The man trembles, sinking to his knees.
Inside, half hidden by heavy cloths and shadowed by the storm, is a tiny red cheek.
He moves the soaked cloth. More of a face appears.
A baby, red, swolen, and angry, screams from the basket.
The baby, naked exept for the cloths, is new, still covered in the blood of birth.
It is the blood that makes Perseus’s heart stop.
It is glittering, smeared across the baby’s skin like molten gold.
Ichor.
Even the godlings he teaches bleed red, only the hint of glitter in the their veins.
But this is pure, vibrant, unmistakable gold.
He looks to the sky with a soft gasp, terrified.
Who does this belong to? He thinks.
And why have you sent it to me?
A choked breath turns his attemtion back to the babe.
“Shh, shh,” He wispers.
He plucks the cild from the basket, the soaked cloths sliding off with a heavy sound.
It is a girl.
She is the tiniest thing he has ever seen, even smaller than his mother’s daughter had been.
She screams, angry at the cold, or the rain, or the whole world.
“It’s alright, little one,” he shushes as he pulls her to his chest.
He takes the cloth from the basket, flicking the rainwater out. When it is dry again, he messily wraps the babe in it.
He should place her back in the basket, he thinks, but as the baby settles against his chest, soothed by his heartbeat, he cannot find it within himself to let her go.
Instead he stands, grabbing the basket after a second of contemplation.
He moves toward the house once more, his mind racing as he makes the short trek.
Annabeth took silphium religiously, terrified of a pregnancy.
He had not thought much of it, then. They had plenty of children around them in the sanctuary, and he was secretly relieved that she would not suffer the pains and the dangers of childbirth.
He could not do this without her.
But an infant had never been something they discussed. Most of the children in the sanctuary were older, around 10, some even staying into their adulthood.
A baby, he thought, was not something they had ever contemplated.
But, he thinks as he looks down at the snuffling infant, the fates laugh at the plans of mortals.
________________
“Perseus, love, who was it?”
He hears her call before he sees her.
He doesn’t answer, unsure of her reaction.
“Perseus?” She questions again as she stands from her vanity.
He turns the corner, stopping in the doorway of their bedroom, still silent. The babe sniffles, but remains quiet as well.
Annabeth stops in her tracks, her skirts swishing around her ankles from the momentum.
“What is that?” She asks, still frozen.
“A babe,” he responds simply. She is just that: a babe, but one that could change the course of fate. Stiil, he thinks, just a babe, left alone and scared in the cold. He moves the cloth from the child’s cheek, exposing a swollen face.
Annabeth’s fingers trace the newly exposed cheek.
“Who’s babe?” She presses.
“Mine,” he growls the word more than he speaks it. It came from something deep inside him, a protectiveness he didn’t know a man could feel bubbling from his chest.
Perseus’s wife’s face pales slightly, then narrows quickly.
“What?” She bites.
He stumbles, realizing his blunder, “Well, your’s too.”
Standing near enough to touch now, her eyebrows shoot up.
“No?” It’s a rebuttal, but her tone is so laden with confusion that it becomes a question.
“I mean,” Perseus falters, “I mean, ours. She’s ours.”
Annabeth is still confused, her feet planted to the floor as he carefully pushes into her space, the baby in his arms.
“Here,” he nudges his wife softly.
“No,” she protests, “I don’t- I don’t know- I don’t want-”
The child is nestled in arms she hadn’t realized were extended.
Immediately, the infant pushed against her breast, the baby’s soft breath skating across her skin.
“A babe,” Annabeth whispers, disbelieving despite the weight in her arms.
“Not just,” her husband corrects, his voice grim.
He moves to wrap himself around the two, shielding the baby from the cold air as he pulls back her loose swaddling.
Annabeth gasps, seeing the same golden rivlets of ichor that Perseus did in the garden.
Her voice is filled with dread, “A God.”
Perseus nods, silent.
Annabeth shakes her head but pulls the babe tighter against her chest.
“It would be a kindness to kill her,” his wife intones, devoid of emotion.
Perseus nods again before firmly replying, “But you won’t.”
Annabeth’s eyes are still on the child’s face.
“But I won’t,” she whispers, resigning herself to the same inevitable conclusion her husband had reached.
Annabeth begins to rock her hips, soothing the babe as a tiny mouth opens into a yawn.
“Who does she belong to?” She asks.
Perseus shakes his head, “I don’t know.”
Annabeth nods, too familiar with the ways of the immortals.
“We will take her to the sanctuary,” Annabeth directs, “It’s where all children of the gods belong.”
Perseus wants to protest, but there are more important things to do.
“Later,” he decides, “For now, she needs milk and a soft place to rest.”
Annabeth nods, relenting, but her eyes don’t leave the babe.
“How could anyone leave her there, alone in the storm?” Perseus cannot tell if she even knows she spoke aloud. He wonders if she is remembering her own girlhood, alone, hungry, and cold as she wanders the plains of Latium.
“Annabeth,” he whispers. Her name seems to shake her from her memories.
His wife turns to the bed, “Well,” she speaks with great authority, “First, we must fix this swaddle. It will do nothing if it remains pooling around her.”
Expertly, she tightly rewraps the babe. Perseus wonders where she learned to do that, but figures it must be from reading medical journals, as she often does in her free time.
“I will…” Perseus trails off, looking around the room for something to do.
Ananbeth eyes him.
“Go get some milk,” she says it like she is finishing his sentence, but it is a command nevertheless.
“Right!” Perseus is relieved to finally have some direction