Chapter Text
Poseidon had many children; the most of any god in his pantheon.
One would think he was accustomed to losing them by now. But perhaps he was rusty from the years spent trying to honour his oath, because as he watched his youngest child ride the Minotaur like a common bull, he could not look away. Nor could he intervene without risking putting the boy in even more danger than he was already in. So he watched. The God of the Seas, the Earthshaker, watched helplessly as his child fought. His son won, and if Poseidon had had a heart, he was sure it would have beaten faster with pride and a slight hint of smugness. Of course his son had beaten that bull-cretin. If Zeus’ spawn could do it, then Percy could too. But his smugness was short-lived. The child he had barely begun to know fell unconscious and had to be dragged across the camp boundary. Poseidon stared at the now-empty scene a little longer before waving his hand and dismissing it into mist. His son was safe for now, and Poseidon had work to do. From experience, he knew demigods had disorientingly short lives compared to the eternity of a god, and it would not do to miss his son’s life and death because he had become distracted by another hundred-year, entirely unnecessary debate about species of fish.
Poseidon returned to Atlantis. He had banished mortals and enemies to other dimensions before. Usually, he sent them to worlds of fire and pain; he had never once transported someone for their own safety. But Percy’s situation was unique. Poseidon had lived for eons and seen civilisations rise and fall, yet he had never seen a world so dangerous for his mortal children. Monsters and gods had always been a threat, but they were getting bolder. Mortals, too, had less respect for the gods and a growing creativity when it came to punishing anyone different. Even the ocean, once a safe harbour for his children in the most tumultuous times, was becoming restless. Minor deities were complaining, and the river gods had developed a bitterness that Poseidon needed to curb.
And that was not even to speak of the Prophecy.
Poseidon had made up his mind: his child would not be the one to bear this life. He could not promise Percy an easy life; no demigod ever got that. But it would be better than this. So he summoned his closest advisers, including Delphin, and told them to gather information on obscure realms, preferably ones where no god of their pantheon had ever ventured. He told no one else. Not his wife, not his other children, and certainly not his brothers. As for Percy himself, Poseidon intended to explain everything once he had found somewhere safe. There was little point in making promises before he knew he could keep them.
But, as it turned out, an Olympian looking for a place specifically absent from Olympian interference had a difficult task ahead of him. Every dimension his advisers uncovered had, of course, been recorded by someone in their pantheon. It was not until the third day that Delphin brought him an option he had not considered. After all, Poseidon did not need a world the gods had never touched. He needed a world that no god was likely to talk about.
Pan.
Pan, the once-great Lord of the Wild, had reportedly vanished nearly two thousand years ago. Even if the satyrs were right in their dogged insistence that he still existed, the god had withdrawn so thoroughly that Poseidon considered him unlikely to interfere. Pan had had a hand in many dimensions, both discovering and creating worlds. His objective had always been the preservation of the Wild, and one world would never have been enough. Thus, Poseidon had plenty of material to sort through, and, as luck would have it, one of Pan’s worlds seemed perfect for the job. It was similar enough to their own, perhaps a century or two behind in some respects. Which, to Poseidon’s mind, was perfect, since that was the last time mortals had possessed any level of respect. Pan had also created creatures called Lion-Turtles - which Poseidon found a little insulting, as he was meant to be the only one who could make turtles - but they were useful. Apparently, they had granted mortals control over the elements. Nothing like the power a demigod could possess, but enough that Percy would blend in. Better still, the last recorded visit Pan had made to the world was thousands of years ago. Even if Poseidon’s brothers threw a hissy fit about Percy’s disappearance, they would never think to look through Pan’s abandoned projects, let alone find the right one within a mortal lifespan.
It was perfect.