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Luke lunges at him swinging backbiter with the strength of a titan. His face is a picture of possessed fury. The scar running down the side of his face is a bright, irritated red; almost as if it were new again. Luke’s eyes are glowing red, and Percy knows that Kronos is staring through Luke, at him.
Percy barely manages to deflect the blow. The tip of Backbiter skids, denting the ground in the throne room of the gods of Olympus. Luke doesn’t waste a second before he’s raising his sword and charging and slashing again and again and again.
Percy can’t keep up against the onslaught.
Between them, Luke has always been the stronger, more talented fighter. The curse of Achilles has only made their fight more intense. With Kronos on his side, the scales are irreparably tilted in Luke’s favor.
Despite Percy’s attempts to hold his own, he’s losing ground at an alarming speed. Luke is reigning blows on his body. Thanks to the curse, it only hurts, it doesn’t actually injure him. However, Percy knows that won’t last. Luke doesn’t hit the same place twice. Percy knows that Luke is rapidly shrinking the list of places where Percy’s Achilles’ spot can be.
There’s no help coming for him. Percy has always known, feared that it would come down to this. Luke versus him. Grover is lying unconscious somewhere near his father’s throne. Annabeth is slumped against Athena’s throne, her arm broken and a bloody head wound to match. The rest of the campers and Artemis’s hunters are struggling to keep the rest of Kronos’s army at bay. The gods are busy battling Typhon.
He’s all alone.
And he’s going to lose.
The edge of Luke’s mouth curls up, and Percy is instantly suspicious. Percy has fought against Luke since he was twelve years old; he knows Luke’s tells. The edge of his lip curling?
It only happens when Luke is about to achieve victory.
Luke steps forward, slashing backbiter. Percy takes a step back and his ankle hits something. A throne. Backbiter crashes into riptide, and Percy’s unsteady stance isn’t enough to absorb the blow. He crashes down, and gets a glimpse of blood red paint and cameo.
Of course.
Of course it’s Ares’s throne that makes Percy lose.
Percy’s head smashes into the side of the throne, and for a second everything goes fuzzy. He loses his grip on riptide. Percy lunges, trying to get it back, but his fingers only manage to skim the tip, making the blade revert to its pen form.
Above him, Luke grins evilly and raises Backbiter above his head.
“Percy?”
Percy wakes up with a start. His eyes focus, and the same face is staring down at him. The same blue eyes, the same elvish features, same skin tone-
Before he knows it, Percy lunges up, grabbing Luke with one hand, uncapping riptide with the other, kicking out with a leg and violently twisting until Luke is pinned underneath him. Percy slashes with riptide, forwards, under Luke’s neck until-
Hands appear in front of his neck, stopping the blade from touching. Golden blood emerges, staining the celestial bronze blade.
Golden blood? Luke doesn’t have golden blood.
Breath heaving and confused, Percy looks up at Luke’s face.
The large, intrusive scar that runs down Luke’s face isn’t there. His hair isn’t blonde, it’s brown. His eyes aren’t glowing golden. The presence that Kronos emits isn’t there. It’s not Luke. But if it’s not Luke, then that means -
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
It’s Hermes.
Hermes, Luke’s father, the Olympian god. One of the only Olympian gods that doesn’t actively want Percy dead. Didn’t, maybe before this happened. Another wave of hysteria rolls over him.
Oh gods, what has he done?
There’s ichor, the blood of the gods on his sword.
Percy withdraws Riptide, letting the sword fall on the bed beside him as he sits up, away from the god’s bleeding fingers.
Because that’s where he is; in his bedroom, in Manhattan. Not on Olympus with Luke and Kronos. His mom and Paul are probably a few rooms over, in the living room or the dining room. The fight against Luke had been years ago, when Percy was sixteen. Abruptly, Percy realizes that he’s in his pajamas and that he’s completely drenched in sweat.
“I am so sorry.” Percy stammers. “I didn’t-I mean, I thought-”
Hermes frowns and raises himself on his elbows. “Percy-”
Just when Percy thinks the situation cannot possibly get any worse, it does. Percy’s bedroom door, previously cracked open, creaks catching Percy and Hermes’s attention. Percy turns, and sees Paul standing in the entrance.
For a moment no one says anything. Percy’s step father stares at the scene clearly at a loss of words. Percy watches with growing dread as Paul’s eyes go from him, to Riptide on the bed with drops of ichor on it, to Hermes’s fingers with little cuts in him, ichor dripping out, to Hermes’s face.
“I know you - you’ve been around here before. You’re Hermes, um, Lord Hermes?” Paul guesses. His hand tightens on the door knob, and he looks like he’s steeling himself mentally. To Percy’s growing horror, he continues. “Right so, I know I’m just a mortal and you’re an actual immortal powerful Greek god, but Percy is my step-son, and I love him as if he were my own blood. I know that he’s technically an adult, but he’s still my kid. If you’ve done-if anything untoward has happened-”
Percy’s face burns.
He abruptly realizes that while he has moved away from Hermes, somehow he’s straddling Hermes’s legs. Combined with the fact that they’re both in Percy’s bed, and Hermes is on his elbows, slightly leaning towards Percy, it paints a very misleading picture. With a very undignified yelp, Percy moves off, stumbling and nearly falling on the floor, stammering, “No, no it’s not-I’m not-We’re not-”
Hermes cuts him off, annoyance seeping into his voice. “Blofis, on account of Percy’s affection for you, I’ll pretend that you weren’t about to say something you’d regret. However, I will assure you that nothing untoward is happening. I have children Percy’s age. I’ll let Percy explain the situation once I’ve left.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll leave you guys to it.” Paul says, somewhat faintly. Still he looks at Percy, and only leaves after Percy gives him a very flustered nod. Underneath all the embarrassment and hysteria, Percy is worried that Paul just offended a god. Goodness knows they deal with that in increasingly horrendous ways.
But between Smelly Gabe and Poseidon being absent, there has been an absence of protective male figures in his life. Percy can’t help but love Paul just a bit more for trying to help him.
“I’m really sorry.” Percy says, breaking the silence after Paul leaves. “I was having a nightmare - I dreamed that I was fighting Kronos and then I think I just reacted on instinct when I woke up and saw someone hovering over me. I didn’t mean to, um, yeah. I’m sorry.”
Hermes sits up, and inspects his fingers. Small flashes of gold cover the injuries. When Percy looks again, Hermes’s fingers are unblemished again.
“Apology accepted.” Hermes says, at last. “I suppose I shouldn’t have hovered over you, while you were having a nightmare. It was quite obvious what was happening, and I was trying to wake you. I also acknowledge that there are a number of similarities between my chosen appearance and my son’s.”
Percy nods, significantly more relaxed now that the imminent threat has passed. “What can I do for you, Lord Hermes?” He fiddles with the bottom of his shirt. It’s sticking to his skin uncomfortably. Percy hopes that if Hermes is sending him on a quest, he’ll have time to shower before he leaves.
Hermes picks up a bag from beside Percy’s bed. It’s his mailbag, marked Hermes Express. In all the panic, Percy hadn’t noticed it.
“I have a letter for you, from Hephaestus.” Hermes says, pulling out an envelope from his bag and holding it out to Percy.
Hephaestus? For a moment, Percy’s confused and then he remembers making a deal with the god; he’ll personally help collect Hephaestus’s children and bring them to camp safely in return for Hephaestus teaching him how to replicate the magic that returns Riptide to his pocket.
“Thanks.” Percy says, taking the letter. He studies it for a moment, wondering if Hephaestus has sent another list of names, or if he’s going to start teaching Percy.
A creak in his floorboards has Percy looking up. Hermes is leaving.
The messenger god never leaves this fast. Every time Hermes visits him, they usually talk, for at least a few minutes. Hermes is one of the few immortals whose presence Percy actually likes; who he actually considers a friend.
Despite Hermes accepting his apology, Percy can’t help but feel like he messed up. “Wait-”
Hermes stops, and looks back at him.
Questions crowd the edge of his tongue. Are we still friends? Did I just irredeemably destroy our friendship? Are you still offended? Did you actually heal your fingers that fast, or was it just an illusion?
“You’re not staying?” Percy says, and then flushes. “I mean, whenever you visit, we usually catch up and talk.”
“I would, but you are in desperate need of a shower. Not to mention, your step-father is waiting to verify that your honor remains intact.” Hermes teases gently, and then sobers. “He’s good for you, I think. A little too bold, in my opinion, but good.”
Face burning, Percy nods. “Yeah, he is.”
“I’ll see you around, Percy.” Hermes says, and then he’s gone.
The End.