Chapter Text
Percy's short life has become even more pitiful. Not only does he live with his mother in an apartment too small for the two of them and his selfish stepfather, but he has to deal with impossible school challenges. Or had, since, well, he got expelled. Percy is actually still a little speechless about that latest development.
He has been expelled. His teachers had warned him of that possibility before; they had been meeting with the school counselor since he started elementary school, but nothing had been definitive. Percy actually feels guilty, not so much about being expelled but about what caused his kick-out. He is a young boy, and yet Percy understands. He should not have taken his classmate to see the non-existent flying horses on the school roof, nor should he have encouraged her to go near the edge of the roof. No one was hurt, Ms. Margaret found them before any tragedy could happen — a misstep, a strong wind, a fall from too high — and led the children back to the safety of the school; however, the damage had already been done. Three strikes for Percy Jackson.
Percy understands that what he did was wrong. He just wanted someone else to see what he did, what he has been seeing since he started school last summer; but he also knows it was dangerous. The adults hint at it when they call his mother and urge her to show up at school, and Percy hears what they do not say; just one mistake and his classmate could have been hurt, something Percy would not wish on anyone, least of all Lucy who has been one of the few not to call him out on the strange things he sees.
The expulsion is the culmination of a whole year of bizarre behavior and mediocre grades. Taking Lucy to the roof was the last straw for the principal and teachers. Percy is too much trouble to be in the same classroom as twenty other kids, and it's best if Mrs. Jackson finds some school that has a different approach to dealing with kids like Percy. He is only seven years old; he has only been in second grade for a few weeks, and his mother will have to find an elementary school that ignores his school record. From what the principal said, that will be difficult, and Percy squirms. He does not want to give his mom any more trouble.
And Percy was expecting — foolishly — that his mother would reprimand him, maybe give him a stern talking-to to stop his imaginings; the counselor already has, his teacher has, too. But, as usual, Sally Jackson does not go the same route as others, and one day after he is expelled, she walks through the door of their apartment with two grocery bags filled with thick, somewhat battered books, fresh from the local library a few blocks down the street. The ends of her hair drip with rainwater, and her coat is heavy on her shoulders; the books, however, are dry; “always treat what you borrow well” Percy can almost hear his mother's words and hurries to help her close the door.
Sally Jackson is a wonder of a mother. She is patient, she is gentle, she bakes cookies every Friday; trays after trays come out of the little oven to join them for the weekend at the living room table while some old movie flickers on the TV. She is a dream of a mom - and Percy may be only seven years old, but he is not naïve or oblivious. Not all moms are like Sally Jackson; some are mean, some indifferent…some leave purple stains on the skin of his classmates and Percy listens — he is a good listener — as they awkwardly explain to the teacher what has happened: a bad answer here, a bad move there, a broken vase, unfinished dinner. He knows Sally Jackson is a wonder of a mother, because his mom never gives him purple and blue colors for not finishing dinner (he really, really hates asparagus); she does not yell at him, as he has heard his neighbors do to their children, when he runs into the apartment with dirt-smeared shoes. She is not like Gabe who is easily angered and always seems to have something stinky in front of him when he sees Percy. Gabe is impatient, mean, leaves purples and blues on his mom and leaves purples and blues on Percy when his mom is not there.
His mom is the best of them all.
So when Sally tells him they should swap the bedtime stories for these new books, Percy nods and settles under his sheets. They do not look as fun as the superhero or princess stories, in fact, there is not a single picture in these books! And that is bad, because Percy has not yet learned to read well. Words escape him, letters twist and move; his teachers do not believe him. It's impossible for letters to move out of place, but for Percy they do. Not that it matters now, even if they are intimidating with their endless pages, his mother puts the book in her lap and begins to read.
Percy lingers and listens to what his mother has to tell, as her hands create shadows with the little night light and her voice changes with the story. She is a fantastic storyteller.
The first tale — or myth, if one must be exact — is that of Perseus.
“Like me.” he cannot help but point out with a gasp of pure excitement.
His mom laughs. Percy sometimes forgets how young his mom is compared to the other moms at school, but her laughter always reminds him of it “It is.” she states with a sweet smile. “I named you Perseus thinking of the Perseus of great heroes… do you know why?” his mom lowers her voice as if sharing a secret.
Percy shakes his head, waiting expectantly.
“Well, Perseus is one of the few heroes who got a happy ending. And you, Percy, will have one too.” mom's eyes fill with sorrow and hope, not quite dropping her smile, only turning it into a more sober gesture. Mom always seems to be full of it — hope and pain — and Percy nods slowly. Silently he tells himself that yes, he will have a happy ending, if that is what his mom wants. She is the best of them all, she trusts Percy and listens to him when he tells her about the strange animals lurking outside the apartment, she never doubts him, about Percy being able to be more than trouble and Percy does not want to let her down. A happy ending, surely, should not be too difficult to achieve, should it? “Let's get started.” Sally clears her throat and her mysterious voice kicks in. Bedtime is Percy's favorite part of the day. “Once upon a time there was an oracle…”
It is a story full of adventure. Keeping track of all the tricky names, places and creatures is difficult. His overactive mind works extra time to keep up, but Percy still cannot help but interrupt his mother here and there when he gets lost in the travels of the great Perseus. Percy asks about every little detail, practically forcing his mother to draw a map to point out where is what and what happens where. The map hangs proudly above his bed, next to the millions of drawings Percy draws with his mother for every character she introduces — Percy accuses her of making them up and Sally just lets out a laugh, promising him that they have all existed long before she was born.
In the end the expelled does not turn out to be so bad and Percy almost forgets about it in the afternoons when his mother comes home from work and sits beside him drawing and coloring the creatures and artifacts, the heroes and heroines.
It takes them a few nights to reach the happy ending his mother had promised, and when they do, Percy dreams of a tall man surrounded by many children; he sees him laughing in an ancient palace, he sees him reach a blissful old age, and in the end, he sees life slipping from his eyes, but a smile lingers on the old face. It is a dream that should be terrifying, and yet Percy does not wake up screaming. It feels like more than a dream, Percy would truly swear he was there, standing beside old Perseus, at the background of his greatest moments of joy. There is bliss and peace at the end of a great story; an itch at the back of his mind whispers to Percy that this is not always the case.
From Perseus, they go to Theseus, from Theseus to Jason, and from Jason to Achilles. They bounce from one hero to another, and in all of them, his mother makes a point of reminding Percy where all those heroes failed and triumphed. She speaks of them with a closeness more akin to history than fantasy. Still, Percy does not point it out to her, just as he does not point out the stains on her old candy store uniform or the blood-red lips from biting them. It does not matter how or in what form, the important thing is that his mom is here, and Percy likes to have his mom read to him, although, as Sally soon came to discover, Percy likes more to hear about the all-mighty gods, about the fantastic creatures. The heroes… they rarely have a happy ending, and Percy's heart clenches with grief for them. He cannot bear to hear of their journeys, their pain, only to end on a sour note. It is unfair; Percy thinks that might be the point.
And one night, after so many other nights of Greek and old tales — Percy has even already started at a new school — Sally tells him about a particular goddess. Her voice trembles a bit unsteadily, but her descriptions remain just as beautiful, never letting objectivity escape her.
Sally describes a goddess of immense beauty, regal and stern, but, though somewhat cruel in her intentions, always protective. Hera is terrifying in her stories, but, in her cult, she does not seem so bad. She stands for something, and what she stands for is greater than what she did.
Mom does not strive to aggrandize or belittle any of her stories. She is firm and clear that there is no such thing as perfect heroes or magnanimous gods. But she always reminds him that the gods were praised for a reason, and while there may be frightening tales about each of them, that is only part of their stories. The gods have existed before humans wrote their stories.
“They are a reflection of us, Percy.” she taps his nose, a gentle but cautionary poke “They are as perfect as we make them to be. Their virtues and their flaws reach as far as we can aspire. That means they are sometimes cruel in unspeakable ways…but they can also be kind, so, so kind.”
Percy hugs his plush fish — Lord Tides sometimes freaks out at stories, and Percy must hug him tight, tight to give him comfort. “The gods must be able to be very good then.” babbles Percy, sleep soaking into his words “If they're a reflection of us, they're a reflection of you, and you're the best.”
Sally huffs, she seems touched, she seems fond “Do you think so?” she asks with a hand on his cheek.
“I do.” affirms Percy “My mom is the best mom in the world. She is strong and beautiful. You're the best… Is the goddess Hera as good a mom as you?” it is only natural to elevate his mother to the same level as a goddess, and not just any goddess, but the goddess of goddesses. His mother's beauty must be greater than Aphrodite's, her wit greater than Athena's, and her courage and radiance eclipse that of gods like Ares and Apollo. She is so… so incredible. Hera in her great splendor must be like Sally Jackson, because his mother could not be less than a queen and in his childish mind it is impossible for Percy to think of anyone who could be greater than his mom.
“Well, Percy.” Sally puts a hand on his head and tenderly strokes the soft black curls. Mom says his curls are just like waves in the sea. “There's no such thing as a good mom. We all do what we can, and I'm sure the goddess Hera did what she could.”
“You do more than you can,” says Percy to her with a sleepy smile. He does not see the sadness and uneasiness that mists Sally's eyes and does not see how her lips tremble just a little as if she wants to laugh or cry.
“But never less than you deserve.” her mom leans over and kisses him on the forehead. Her lips are chapped and cracked from the cold winds and broken heating.
Percy yawns, his eyelids slowly closing until he finally welcomes sleep — Morpheus! — his thoughts cry out as an afterthought. And in his dreams, Percy sees a beautiful woman in a cloak of peacock feathers. She looks stern and hard, but in her eyes, which are dark and deep, Percy sees a dancing reflection of constellations and dreams. In her gaze, Percy finds a glimpse of his mother, of Mrs. Brown (the librarian at the new school), of some of his neighbors, of that lady who sells balloons in the park… Her eyes reflect so many people and Percy feels so dizzy to see them, but there is affection and hope, toughness and resilience, pain and resignation. She looks young and she looks old, girl and woman; her eyes are welcoming, but also punishing.
Hera is the queen goddess, a very important title, as important for sure as being… as being… well, Percy is not quite sure what could equate to being the queen of the gods. Hera is also the goddess of women, of marriage, and something like family. Percy does not have it very clear yet, sometimes he forgets that Hera is not the same as Juno (her Roman counterpart) although both are one and the same. And Juno has something to do with motherhood — it's so complicated! Why are there so many versions? Why don't the stories resemble what they should be? All Percy understands and takes in is that Hera is a protective goddess, even if her stories do not show her that way all the time. That is the weird thing about everything his mom tells him. The gods should be something, but they do just the opposite!
It's okay, though, because people are like that, too. Gabe, for example. Gabe is supposed to be a cool, funny guy, he should be someone Percy and his mom can trust, kind of like Mrs. Gordon's new husband. But what Gabe should be, he is not. He is mean, rude and impatient. He raises his voice at anyone who gets in his way and does sneaky things like selling bad electronics. Gabe is not a protector or a decent stepfather, but is. He cannot be trusted, and Percy sometimes feels anger rippling in his stomach. Gabe is mean to Mom, and Percy — still so young, still somewhat hopeful — imagines a horde of vultures swooping through the apartment windows and carrying Gabe off in the middle of a poker game, for did his mother not say that Ares once helped women? Does his mother not deserve help to make Gabe go away?
But gods do not exist, and no flock of vultures is going to come and take his stepfather away. If Percy is going to take anything from all these stories his mom reads to him before bed, it is going to be that heroes and gods are not real, not in the way that matters. It's just Percy and his mom against the world, alone. Percy will be his mom's hero; he will have a happy ending for both of them. He is going to be that bigger-than-heaven hero in his mom's story. They just have to wait a little while, a little while longer, for Percy to get bigger and stronger.
He will be brave enough to take on the monster in their living room. He believes he can do it. And the first thing is to overcome his fear.
It has been years - quite possibly centuries - since Hera has received any prayers or offerings directly to her. Mortals seem to have cast her aside, no surprise there, and thus Hera does not take it with further insult; it is only a wound that has long since healed, even though it sometimes pulsates. She is not the only goddess whom mortals have cast aside, and, therefore, she has no reason to be more enraged than any of her brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, children, and stepchildren.
But it is one thing for mortals to delegate her to the drawer of fantasy, and quite another for other creatures to do so.
Demigods perform their offerings diligently, bringing their food to her sister's fire in order to acknowledge the existence of their divine side. And on occasion, those same demigods launch prayers for gods other than their parents, asking for blessings or good fortune for those missions on which they embark. All this Hera knows well, she is an ancient and powerful goddess, a goddess who long ago was as revered as her brother-husband. At a time, she might even have been revered more. And in those times, which Hera sees as the good old days, it was not uncommon for the occasional demigod to ask the fire for any of her favors and attributes.
Mortals used to look to her for guidance for a good marriage, they prayed that she would grant them protection in their homes and cities, and sacrificed life so that she would bring them bliss. Her figure was revered with due importance, nothing could stop her from reaching out and serving. But time passes, humans are ungrateful. They create meaningless rivalries and drag the divine into their battles, forcing them against each other.
Those good old days perished at the hands of mortals who took their names and stories to make them myths. Her cult suffered for it, but not her power. And she has lost followers and believers; she has gained fear instead of respect. Her power remains intact, in the end. She existed before mortals were an idea, she proceeds them, and her existence though forcibly tied to them, has deeper roots elsewhere. When that ungrateful Prometheus brought fire to mortals, stealing her sister in the process, he united gods and men, a two-way channel, equally beneficial and detrimental. But she and her immortal family existed before, their powers not dependent on man, though their existence is up for debate.
Demigods were sometimes left under her statues waiting for her to be their patroness. And she would take their lives under her plumage and guide them on their heroic journeys. Many of her demigods failed to finish their journeys, others reached the gates of Elysium too soon, and many of them were not “great” enough to endure in mortal history. But she always took her responsibility seriously and did what she could to answer the prayers of their mortal families.
Yet all of this is old fire. Her name and her gifts have been called into question; mortal history has buried her in a bad light. Of course, Hera will acknowledge that her reputation is well earned; she is not ashamed of what she did or did not do, even if many of those mortal (or semi-mortal) authors have added much of their own seasoning to the complicated broth of half-truths.
Her domains have been called into question, ridiculed, and misrepresented. And Hera has had to see her memory as a once beloved goddess incinerated in doubt and contempt. No mortal believes in what she represents anymore, and the demigods are even more skeptical of her domain. Those mighty children her family begets like spring buds, distrust her. She can never have half-divine children from her own womb, for the world of men may question her symbols, but Hera still remembers them. She is a goddess of matrimony, and she is a faithful goddess, she will not betray her existence for a few short-lived children. No half-blood child of hers has been born and no such child will be born; all Hera could ever have, were children to whom she gave her protection and guardianship. And it has been centuries since such a child was willingly given to her.
No demigod is going to offer himself to her, no mortal is going to leave her infant in her care. The stories told about her have sullied her legacy and cut it short. And sometimes Hera resents that Grace child who now shines with her protection; he is the first in centuries to find himself under her mantle, but Hera is not fooled into thinking her husband's bastard was given to her willingly. Still, she will take care of Jason, for she will not fail in her dominions or her responsibilities, however unwanted they may be. Cursed be Zeus, cursed be her husband, chaining her to a child of his.
From her throne on Olympus, Hera can see Jason hiding in the house of the wolves. He is a small but mighty boy, Lupa is setting him up as a promising young man, though her ways are barbaric; Hera does not entirely disapprove of them, heroes are not forged with a gentle hand - and deep down, Hera does not forget that this is one of her husband's bastards, she is always tougher on such children. And, yet, there is a wisp waving inside her, a flame of concern. She alludes it to the modernity of mortals.
For Hera no longer exists on their altars or in their prayers, other divine names have taken her place in mortal homes, but Hera exists in them. She persists wherever there is a marriage, wherever there is a wife, a mother, or a family. She exists in silence, just as her sister Hestia exists in any friendly fire, and as her not-so-beloved brother Hades exists in every ending. They are constant, immortal presences, nurturing civilization and taking forms in them. Mortals now are not so adept at letting wolves raise their children, and for that reason alone Hera worries a bit about Jason — but like any illegitimate child of her husband, his struggles are easily brushed aside by her.
Jason is more Juno's child than Hera's, but the two forms have been coming together for centuries now. Their separate entities stole from each other, and Juno and Hera are not mutually exclusive but complementary. It is a headache to switch from one form to the other, but it does not generate nearly the same torn as in their primitive times when Hera was an old woman and Juno a child. Mortals forced them together, call them counterparts, and they, the gods, have indulged mortals in their delusions. It was never supposed to be this way, but it is what it is. Though she prefers her Hera side — in a way, it is wiser and more controlled.
So, she sees Jason hiding from the wolves behind a wall riddled with vines. He is a smart boy, good with a sword. She smiles proudly as she watches the boy roll on the ground and dodge a sharp-toothed wolf. Maybe she will call in a favor to Lupa to let the boy sample some sweet delights, that is not too much of her part, is it? Her future champion deserves some praise now and then. She may be ancient, but she still remembers a thing or two about having children and soldiers: a little honey for two of salt. Loyalty is not earned with blood, and neither is family.
Soon, however, her thoughts are invaded by a new, intrusive sensation. Or not so new, just… unexpected.
The years have grown long, the silence inside her mind a familiar sting of an empty memory. But she welcomes it. That almost annoying hum, she could never forget it. Time has passed, the earth beneath her palaces has eroded and lost, man has gone from animal to more intelligent animal. She remembers it, welcomes it with a silent gasp. A weaker goddess — one of those lesser goddesses who like her have been deprived of honors and priestesses — might let out a few silvery tears at this.
She would not.
Hera is not a weak or lesser goddess.
Around her, the Olympian council prattles nonsense. She thinks she remembers that her stepdaughter has come to demand from her lord father greater weapons for her hunting group, but Hera is not interested in it enough to listen. Instead, a voice pierces the emptiness of her mind, stealing her away from Jason and the house of wolves. It is a tiny little voice, no bigger than her own champion, and so surprised is Hera that she cannot remember how to quiet that voice.
She has not been prayed to in so long, and she cannot afford to ignore this prayer. It is the first after years of drought. Her Olympian family allows themselves to silence the dozens of prayers they receive every minute, they have no need to worry about every little prayer that goes up on their behalf — the noise hits them at every damn moment, they have no empty existences.
Hera has been silent, and the voice echoes within her, striking the ichor of her veins and reviving purpose and life. Ignoring it is not an option.
Percy trembles.
He did not expect to end his day with laughter and smiles, but neither did he expect to end it like this. He has been kicked out of his new school, just a few months after starting. Christmas break has not even started, and Percy has been expelled from school for the second time. Thus, there was no way his day could have ended on a happy note, but it should not have come to this either.
It all goes downhill when Percy walks into the house. His mom comes in after him; Sally had made her way home from work early so she could get him out of school. It is a good thing Sally has such an understanding boss; the number of times she had been forced to leave early so she could get to Percy's school would have had someone else unemployed by now. Percy thinks about that as he leaves his coat by the door, and then he sees the shoes lying on the side of the hallway and his face goes pale.
Mom has not said much about the expelled. She is understandably distressed about it, but she lets none of her distress out on Percy. Percy reads it in her eyes, sees the weariness weighing on her eyelids and the agitation color her skin a sickly shade of worry. After having only a few words with the principal, Mom soon had them both on the bus on the way home. They had both planned to distract themselves with some baking and a friendly chat about what had happened — basically the same routine as always when Percy gets into trouble, but that would have to wait now.
Gabe is not supposed to be home for a couple of hours, his stepfather has no reason to be home so early. But when has luck ever smiled on Percy? Gabe is spending progressively more time at home; a few weeks ago, a new assistant was hired at the electronics store, too competent for Percy's liking, and Gabe's work can do without the man's presence. Percy might feel bad for the poor assistant being over-exploited by his stepfather, were it not for the fact that this has earned his stepfather an excuse to spend fewer hours in the store and more hours in front of the living room TV.
“Gabe's at home.” Percy feels his heart racing. His mother has probably already seen the shoes and heard the TV busting through the walls, but Percy has yet to say it out loud, that way he can ignore his shattered hopes.
Sally sighs heavily “Looks like it.” she says with a strained grimace “Why don't you go to your room? I'll make dinner and bring us a plate to eat together there.” She gives a nervous glance around the room but encourages him to walk quietly to his room. With Gabe sprawled on the couch, his bald head is turned away from them and Percy can tiptoe to his room unnoticed.
He hugs his backpack against his chest, his stomach churning and his nerves cutting off his breath. He has had enough of being called a fool and a brat for one day, if his stepfather says anything like that to him Percy might cry or lash out. Preferably the former, even though Percy has emotions too big, he knows the consequences of responding to Gabe's violence with more violence. But Percy still feels the tears rising; just the thought of Gabe's taunts when Mom tells him what happened takes Percy to a dark and scary place.
Once in his room, the last thing Percy can hear with perfect clarity is his stepfather:
“You got off work early? Ha! That kid gave you trouble again, didn't he?” Gabe guffaws.
Percy closes the door, and his breath comes back again. With the door between them, Percy can only hear snatches of Gabe and his mom; more from Gabe than Sally, as the former is known for his brusque tones, while Mom becomes silent around Gabe. Percy cannot understand why his mom married a man like Gabe, he is convinced that his mom could do so much better. She sure could marry someone nicer and more important; she sure could be something like a first lady. Percy is only left to wonder if it is not because of him that his mother has had to settle for a guy like Gabe.
Percy, who is a problem child, a dumb kid who cannot read or keep his hands to himself. He has already been expelled from two schools, and his school record is in shambles. With a kid like him, who would want to be his father? His own dad left him long ago, and now his mom must make do with the horrible Gabe.
Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, slowly dripping down to his chin. Percy leans against the door as he sniffles. His heart aches at the thought of how much trouble he tends to get his mother into, and how many things he has deprived her of by existing. If he were not here, would Sally have met a better man? Would her mother have made it through high school? Sally is not secretive about the dreams she once had, she dismisses them as fantasies that can wait, but Percy thinks his mother should not put her dreams on hold, not for him, not for Gabe. Not for anyone.
“— private?” Gabe's voice rises in a rumble “You want to spend all that money on a private school for a kid who can't tell his left from his right? That's money we'd be throwing away!”
“You wouldn't have to pay for anything.” Mom appeases with measured words “I'll work extra shifts. I will pay for it.”
“And who's going to make dinner - who's going to take care of the house?”
“Well, we could - we could split some of the chores.”
Gabe's fist slams against something, on the table perhaps “That wasn't our deal” growls the man “When we got married you said you'd take care of all that. I already work too hard to pay my share of the rent! Really, had I known your spawn would be so much of a problem, I would never have even taken you to bed. He steals my food, he steals your time, what else am I supposed to let that brat steal from me?”
“Percy is not a problem” and Percy knows his mom did not intend to say that at all. But it's what she always responds to teachers when they call her to school, Percy imagines the fierce face she always has when she responds to the teachers, those eyes that burn with protective fury. That usually makes teachers bite their tongues, but that will do her mom no good in front of Gabe.
Thud.
Something falls against the floor, hits hard, and shakes the floor. The walls of the apartment are thin, and the floorboards are old; there is nothing to protect Percy from feeling the vibrations from his room. He knows what is happening outside. More things are falling; the distinctive sound of Gabe's fists against Sally's soft skin is heard. She does not scream or cry, her whimpers are quiet. Percy cannot remember the last time his mom let out any screams, she has not done so since that time the downstairs neighbors got into a fight and the police came to the building; Percy has not seen his neighbors' children since then, though everyone knows where they went.
He digs his blunt fingernails into his palms, trembling in terror at whatever is happening on the other side of the door. Even his mother's suffering must be stifled for Percy's sake.
The walls shake, and Gabe's insults are swallowed by the noise of his violence mixing with the television. But all Percy cares about at this moment is his mom's insistent pleas to temper her husband's anger. She reminds him that the neighbors might hear them. She offers him desperate apologies and assurances. She tells him that Percy may hear them, and Gabe only becomes enraged.
It's been a rough day for Percy. He saw some shadows follow him during recess and in his fear, he skipped class again, which eventually led to him being expelled and his mother leaving work before the end of her shift. He received a full lecture from his teacher and a long series of disappointed looks. And now Gabe has fallen into one of his moments of uncontrolled rage. If only Percy was a better son, a better child, his mom would not be in that position. He put her there, he always does, when do the fights with Gabe not start over Percy? Underneath all that horrible realization, Percy finds anger. That anger grows and grows. He is angry at himself, he hates himself.
He hates his life. Dumb Percy. Idiot Percy. His brain is stupid and only knows how to cause trouble to adults. Why him? Why his mother?
And in that anger as powerful as a tidal wave, Percy manages to overcome his fear and opens the door. Never has the hallway been so long, and he runs and lunges at his stepfather. His body is small and puny, his fists barely reaching to hit his stepfather below the back. With fear freezing his tears, but anger roaring in his ears. He thinks of Perseus — the one in the stories — just for a moment, and wonders if he would have left a monster to attack his mother. He concludes that he would not. Perseus would have saved his mother. Percy has no sword or Medusa's head; he just has his little hands. That should be enough.
“Leave her alone. Leave her alone.” demands Percy between hits “Leave my mom alone!"
His stepfather stops his attacks, taken by surprise.
“You!” roars Gabe angrily as he recognizes Percy. His little eyes look bloodshot. Percy does not stop his attack. “Get out of here” Gabe grabs him by the shirt, lifts him a few feet in the air, then shoves him to the ground.
His elbows scrape against the carpet, and he falls to the floor with a thud. He is ready to get up again, to launch himself at his stepfather again, but in front of him, Percy sees his mom's horrified face. Up until then Percy had felt so proud for overcoming his fear, thought he had done a good thing by distracting Gabe from his mom; now he is not so sure, not when his mom looks even more frightened than when Gabe had her at his attention. Fear coils in his throat when he sees Gabe raise his foot as if to kick him, and Percy braces himself; he rolls into a little ball and covers his eyes. The kick never comes, and Percy pulls his hands away from his face to see his mom clinging with all her strength to his stepfather. She is so scared that she trembles, but she does not let Gabe continue to move forward.
“Get off me!” Gabe pushes Mom to the ground. He is a huge man, too big for Percy and his mom to overcome, and even with that, Sally refuses to let go. She puts herself between her son and her husband, reluctant to let go “Your son is a brat, a little discipline is what he needs.”
“No, no.” Sally breathes shakily. There are red spots on her arms, on her face, and all over her skin as far as Percy can see. Tomorrow she will need to wear sweaters and scarves, a mask and glasses. “Go to your room, Percy. Go to your room.” she urges him insistently as if that alone will make everything better for her.
Percy crawls back to his room and Gabe's violence resumes against his mother. In his recklessness, he has made it worse for her, and he desperately wants to disappear. If only he had never been born, he thinks as he slips under the bed with the door open in front of him. He wishes his mother had never met his father. He wishes his father had never abandoned them. If only there was someone who cared.
Vibrations in the apartment shake the walls, and a drawing — one of many — falls from above his bed. Percy sees the silhouette of a woman barely illuminated by the hallway light and cries harder. That drawing was made by his mom.
He cries. He is a child and does not understand why life is not fair. What has his mom done to deserve this? She deserves a happier family than this… and Percy, is this all the family he will ever know? A loving mother but a monstrous stepfather. He sees the drawing and bites his lips to stifle his sobs. Who could help them? If Percy calls the police, will they take him away from his mom? Should he go find some neighbors? But they might call the police, too, and no one is strong enough to stop Gabe. Gabe is a colossal beast; he is a huge titan. Percy fears him, his mom fears him, and she is the bravest person.
Desperate, with that desperation that only children can compose, Percy drags the drawing and his backpack. He rummages through his things and pulls out the remains of his breakfast; he still had leftovers of a blue muffin, something Percy had hoped to save to have after dinner. Further at the bottom of his backpack, Percy finds a well-worn lighter; he had noticed that the shadows following him were frightened by the fire.
Outside, the night is noisy. Inside, Gabe continues to spew insults.
No one can defeat Gabe. No one is coming to save them. It is just Percy and his mom. But deep-down Percy still has some innocence, and that innocence is all for his mom who continues to read him bedtime stories. Who bakes him blue desserts and defends him from all his teachers. It is for his mom who seems to believe, if only a little, in all the stories she tells him.
The lighter flares into a flame — in a low voice, Percy almost wishes the fire would consume everything: his sadness, his fear, his life. He moves the muffin closer to the flame and thinks of the goddess in his drawing. The fire burns against the food, the smell is sweet and cloying. This is how Mom said the gods were prayed to in ancient times.
There is nothing more Percy can offer than a half-eaten muffin. To him this is the best food he could give, it is something so pure and genuine that it should not be refused. To save his mom, Percy would set fire to the world and all the delicacies it has to offer.
“Lady Hera.” his words come out choked, trembling with fear “Lady Hera, if - if you're there, will you help me? My name is Percy Jackson and my mom, she - she's the best mom ever. She needs help, and I have no way to help her. Can you help her? Please, please, please, please. You're a mom too, can't you help other moms like you? Please, please… I'm scared. I can't help her.”
Percy does not believe in gods, but he does believe in monsters. There is one just down the hall. It is a cruel and violent monster that takes advantage of his mom.
Percy does not believe in gods, but he is still too young, too naive at heart, and in his childish reasoning butchered by anguish, he is drawn to a clumsy conclusion: if monsters exist, gods should exist too.
“So if you're there.” Percy trembles and the flame almost goes out. “Please don't leave us here.”
More than a prayer, it is a plea. It is the cry of a frightened child begging for a savior. Hera is not a savior and has not been one for a long time. But she was one once; a protector of homes, the figure to turn to when the fear of destruction became too great.
It is a rusty response, but Hera barely staggers to answer. Someone has called her name; someone has brought her an offering. They have remembered her for what very few seem to remember her for, and Hera need only listen to the awkward babblings that floods her mind to act. No matter who, no matter where. She has been summoned to render duty to her cult, she must respond.
She almost toys with the idea of disappearing from the council, going herself in her full form to answer her little believer. But she cannot afford that — a part of her warns her not to; she need not alert her Olympian family to her intentions. So she splits her essence and sends a projection of her there. She exists in every home; she exists in the heart of every family. And the home that has called her is so close to her palace that it is only a blink of an eye trip.
A putrid smell hits her just by setting foot in the place.
She materializes in the apartment's home — every family has a different home, and Hera blinks to take in her surroundings. Walls upholstered with colorful drawings, a ceiling with a sky of glittering stars, and the most complete collection of sea stuffed animals that certainly cannot belong to anyone but her little believer. This family's home lies in a child's room, but that discovery is soiled by the pestilent odor that tries to pollute such a sacred space.
Gasp.
At her feet is a child with a tear-stained face. His eyes are wide open, and he looks at her in disbelief. The remains of his offering burn poorly in his hands. Hera twists her lips at such a humble gift and treasures it deep in her immortal blood. Small or not, the gift comes to her bathed in unwavering faith and that gives it value greater than that of any feast.
“So you have called me.” Hera scans her little believer and nods. Yes, he looks appropriate. He is small, but Hera can see shadows of strength. His appearance is vaguely familiar, she recognizes him as a demigod and it does not take her long to discover this little one's progenitor; only one of his siblings had inherited their mother's eyes, and this child showed the same electrifying green. She feels her blood warm with the resemblance; she has not seen her mother in a long time.
Her duty as the lady of Olympus should be to incinerate this child. It is what her husband would do. There is a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled, and this child could be their downfall. Moreover, this child has been born of a promise broken twice. Her brothers have sworn to have no more half-blood children, and all three are married. She is a goddess of marriage; she should burn this child who is an offense to her domain. But the first promise is of no interest to her, and the second? Well, every marriage is different, Hera recognizes that. Civilization has changed and the foolish Amphitrite is known for letting her husband have his fun every two or three centuries; how she handles her marriage is something Hera will not interfere with.
Prophecies are meant to be fulfilled, sooner or later. Her husband-brother has tried to delay the last great prophecy for too long; Hera has warned him against doing so, but he has not listened to her. It is only her luck that her little believer is such a complicated child. But she does not back down from a challenge, and she does not back down from his call.
“Are you… are you real?” the child asks with his wide-eyed expression. Tears have dried under his sea eyes. What a beautiful pearl. Children of the sea have a peculiar charm.
Hera huffs. “You called me, and now you ask that?” She leans down to put her face in front of the child's. Up close, the child's resemblance to his immortal father is undeniable.
She wonders if perhaps this child is more alien than he should be. She will not blame this child's mother for keeping him so obscured from his reality; too close, and the child might reveal himself — as he has now. Fortunately, this child has called out to her and has not done something as unwise as asking for her lord husband. She is more willing to answer his prayers, not wanting to deprive herself of an opportunity to which she has been previously limited; whereas her husband would have done something as petty as exploding the child with his master thunderbolt — she can only imagine the storms her other brother would have unleashed over the loss of a child of the sea.
The child pales and Hera frowns when she hears growls — is there a monster in this child's home? That would explain the smell and the call.
Determined to evaporate the creature and fulfill her prayers, Hera prepares to leave the room, but her little believer stops her by tugging at her dress.
“No!” warns the child, clinging to her with fearful eyes “Don't go in there, ma'am. He… he might hurt you.”
Hurt her. On her. No one has ever cared for her like this, why would they? She is a powerful immortal; she has no need for anyone's concern. There have been times when her children have made their concern for their mother clear and have leaped to her defense in front of their lord father, but they have never questioned Hera's ability to protect herself, it is purely a matter of filial love. She does not know how to take this child's concern.
“Naive child.” Hera continues to move forward, carrying the child with her. “Who could hurt me? You have asked for my protection, and that very thing I will give you.”
She hears a woman's scream, and her eyes flicker with unfulfilled threats. Gladly she will detach the body of the monster that has invaded this child's home, except that, upon arriving at the center of the battle, Hera finds no hydra or chimera, she finds only a man, and that infuriates her even more. She can tell that this excuse of a man is the woman's husband, how dare this mortal disrespect her dominion? Beat a woman, beat his wife. The times may have made mortals more interesting, but not smarter.
“Disappear,” commands Hera, and the gleam in her eyes catches fire like new constellations. The man has no chance to respond, his mortal life cut off by the short words of a goddess.
The boy clinging to her skirt slowly loosens his grip, and steps in the direction of the woman on the ground. There is nothing left of the assailant, not even his smell. At first, the boy is cautious, but that does not last long, and he rushes to his mother's side. Hera snaps her fingers, and the room rearranges itself to a clean glow; the wounds on the woman fade and Sally Jackson regains consciousness with dazed blinks.
With the child clinging to the mother, Hera furrows her brow. She quickly reconstructs the story behind this woman and rises mightily.
“Explain to me, mortal, why you decided to bring such an animal in where your brood sleeps?”
Sally Jackson sits up, she embraces her son, and shelters him to her chest. She recognizes Hera, her mortal eyes are clear, and Hera can already tell that this woman sees more than she should. Perhaps that very thing was what attracted her reckless brother.
“La-Lady Hera.” the woman stumbles over her words. “I don't, I… Why, what are you doing here?”
Hera tilts her head, drinking in the woman's frightened look “You have not answered my question, mortal. Why did you decide to bring such an animal in where your brood sleeps?” asks Hera once more, analyzing Sally Jackson intently. She is not an ugly woman, nor does she look foolish. But she soon gives up fear for caution; she is a cornered creature with a calf in her arms and Hera silently approves. A woman alone like her must not show weakness, even in the face of an immortal. Hera lets her get away with her offensive attitude, for it should not be otherwise “Do not worry about me, mortal. Your child has asked for protection, and I have given it to him. I know what that child is, and I will not tell my siblings what I have seen here, but I will not leave without an answer.”
The woman swallows, her hands trembling where she caresses the infant's head. Gradually the child's breathing grows quieter; Hera finds the mortal children so strange in their ability to go out like night lights “My husband — No, ex-husband? I don't know, he… Well, his scent, my lady. My son is - he's a demi-god, a strong one. But you already know that… His father warned me against sending him away, said it wouldn't be safe, but it's not safe here either. The monsters have been following him for some time, and I, I only sought to protect him… Gabe, his smell… Oh, my baby…” the woman chokes back tears and the child in her arms fell asleep “I'm so sorry, Percy, so sorry… I brought Gabe into the house; I thought his smell would protect my baby…”
What nonsense, Hera thinks. This woman has willingly brought doom into her home; wanting to protect her child, she has harmed him too. But those are mortals, too weak to make more than insufficient sacrifices. The woman is not wrong; to send her son to the other half-bloods is to condemn him to die, although one cannot have an unprotected demigod in the world of man either. And it is curious, how in the end it was not the children of the echidna who have mangled the child, but a mere mortal man.
“Dry your tears, woman,” commands Hera with careful gentleness. While the fear coming out of the woman is impossible to miss, Hera is not angered by the distrust Sally Jackson displays. Beyond the feral fear, she recognizes traits of respect. For whatever reason, this mortal recognizes Hera without prejudice in her eyes; she does not cover the child as if she fears she will tear it from her, but as if she does not trust the world to care for such an extravagant creature of the sea. Well, if this mortal is willing not to disrespect her, Hera has no need to give her reason to do so.
She is a fair goddess. To those who fear her rather than respect her, she is prepared to give them what they seek, to show herself as equal to her infamous stories. But to those who respect her even in fear, Hera can be merciful.
“You have done your part in your duty, now you know the risks of your careless plan.” continues Hera, drinking in the woman and her family “Rejoice that I am here, for it means that your family is not to suffer. That child of yours has prayed for me, and I have chosen to listen. From now on your home has been blessed by me, the children of Echidna will not be able to come to you. But I cannot promise you protection forever. One day your child will have to do his duty, and then there will be little I can do. Until then, be content with my blessing, and do not forget to whom you owe your prayers.”
Sally Jackson takes a deep breath and bows her head with dignity “Then I thank you deeply, Lady Hera, for your gracious consideration.”
Hera nods. “Now, I think a talk is in order. Stand up, mortal, that your child is still far from safe. There is much waiting to be decided.”
A light flares behind her back with the low roar of a stove coming to life. This talk will not get any easier and this mortal could benefit from a warm drink.