Chapter Text
The first thing he noticed was the salt—thick on his lips, sharp in his nose, stinging the cuts on his skin. His limbs were heavy, the wet sand crunching beneath him as he shifted, grains sticking to his cheek, gritty between his fingers.
He pulls himself closer to the water, letting the waves roll over his body, their rhythm steady, taking away his exhaustion, healing his wounds as the water retreated. The sun’s rays felt warm on his skin, and the clean scent of morning breeze and medicinal herbs filled his lungs.
Death should be made of harsher things.
He hears voices in the distance — male voices, in the low and tripping tongues of Ancient Greece.
He opens his eyes.
()
The last thing Percy remembers is slashing at arais in Tartarus. They were so close to the doors, but another swarm surrounded them. He remembers bleeding from his sides — Greyon — feeling as if every vein inside him was bursting and burning — the Telekhines — and then he saw a pair of golden eyes, whispering a curse in an ancient language —
Kronos.
Titan of Time.
Shit.
He’s on his feet in a second, reflexively reaching for Riptide, only to find himself without pockets.
There are five men in front of him, dressed in bronze and linen armour, armed with spears and shields. The men look startled and hostile, faces concealed by helmets but lips pressed in grim lines.
Most importantly, they look Greek.
Not Camp Halfblood Greek, Greek Greek.
Percy surveys his surroundings. He’s on some sort of island, or a peninsula. There’s smoke in the distance, which means fire — a camp was likely set up, and a very large one at that. He sees people, also in togas and sandals, sharpening weapons or carrying fruits.
Verdict: not NYC.
“Greetings, stranger,” The man in the centre bows.
Percy narrows his eyes: “Who are you? And where are we?”
“Aulis. We are at the borders of the Greek camp,” The man explains. “My men and I were on patrol, only to find… you.”
Percy flexes his fingers, relaxing when the water responds readily to his call.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” The man smiles, surprising Percy with his perceptiveness.
“I come with the blessing of the grey-eyed maiden.”
Which Percy interprets as diplomatic speak for if you kill me, Athena will be pissed!
“You’re Odysseus,” Percy’s eyes widen.
If this is Odysseus— with a Greek patrol— it must mean—
Wow. Percy is in so much shit.
“You’ve heard of me?” Odysseus looks more curious than pleased. And wary.
“My… father… spoke of you,” Percy hesitates, not sure if he should lie to the walking lie detector.
More like Triton cursed Odysseus during one of his long-winded rants about Athena and her children and her mentees and her followers.
“Only good things, I hope?” Odysseus says with humour.
Percy’s lips quirk. “He appreciates the trail of blood you leave in your wake.”
Even clever Odysseus falters at that, but he recovers quickly. “I shall interpret this as a divine endorsement of our imminent victory in Troy.”
His men roar in approval.
“Are you here to join the fight, young hero?” Odysseus asks, smiling.
Percy shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“The Moirai veil the threads of destiny from mortal sight.” Odysseus gives him a pitying look. “Perhaps you’d like to rest in our camp for the time being. Ithaca is barren, but I will extend you our best hospitality.”
“Thank you,” Percy says genuinely. “I’ll pay you back.”
Odysseus’s eyes flicker. “For both our sakes, I hope such a day does not come.”
()
“Father.” Standing alone at the shore, he calls out to Poseidon.
“You claim to be my son.”
Percy doesn’t see anyone around him, but he feels Poseidon’s presence. Foreign. Cold. But it felt like home.
Overall, a nice change from Tartarus.
“Yes,” Percy says. “My name is Perseus.”
“No son of mine will share a name with that Zeus spawn,” Poseidon drawls. He manifests in a wave of water, his beard frothing with saltwater, his eyes abysses of mirroring the ocean’s wrath.
“Then call me Percy,” Percy offers.
Poseidon assesses him. Whatever he sees, his eyes soften. “You are my child.”
“I am,” Percy agrees.
“How come I do not know you? When did you arrive?”
“Hours ago, I think.” Percy shrugs. “I washed up on the shore.”
“A true child of the sea,” Poseidon smiles. “And your mother?”
“I have no mother.”
Sally Jackson does not exist.
Oddly, Percy feels… empty. No sadness, no grief. Just numbness.
Poseidon nods: “I understand. All the better — the glory you bring will only be for the sea, and you will be unrestrained.”
“I’m lost in time, Father,” Percy confesses. He’s hesitant, but if there’s anyone he could trust, it’s his father. “I come from the future, courtesy of a curse from the Titan King. I think I’m needed back in my time.”
Poseidon’s eyes darken.
“I’m sorry,” Percy says quickly. “I don’t mean to disappoint you — I want to bring you glory, but—
“Enough, son.” Poseidon interrupts, eyes still swirling dangerously. “There is no reason to apologise. I am not upset at you, only on your behalf.”
Behind him, the winds howl, the air humming with the weight of the tides.
Percy relaxes.
Trojan War or not, this was still his father.
“Do you know how I can return?” Percy asks.
Poseidon closes his eyes.
“A curse like yours is unheard of. Time… there is one god I could consult, but…”
Poseidon looks at Percy, head tilted. “Can you wait out this war? The gods have cast their favour, naming champions for the war to come. Now Olympus stirs no longer in its accustomed way, nor shall it, until the sands of Troy are stained and stilled.”
Percy’s heart falls a little.
If this is what Poseidon offers, it must be the only way.
“Yes, Father, I can wait.”
Poseidon pats his head, awkwardly, in an attempt to comfort him.
Somehow, this poorly executed human gesture is what brightens Percy’s mood.
“And what should I do in the meantime?” Percy asks. “Odysseus has invited me to his camp.”
Poseidon scowls. “Athena’s?”
“Yeah,” Percy shrugs. “He found me first.”
“He will ask you to fight.”
“I know.” Percy looks at Poseidon curiously. “You have no champion. Do you want me to fight?”
Poseidon smiles wryly. “I have a feeling whatever I say, you’ve already made up your mind.”
Percy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, grinning. “Well, the sea does not like to be restrained.”
Poseidon throws his head back and laughs.
()
The newcomer is odd.
When Odysseus’s men alerted him of a presence on the shores, he joined their patrol expecting a message from the gods — a dead mortal, a monster, punishment trapped in something that explains the unnatural weather impeding their journey to Troy.
Instead, Odysseus found Perseus.
The young man lay sprawled across the coarse sand, like a gift from the sea itself. His dark hair curled damp against his forehead, lips slightly parted in untroubled sleep — the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, the way his long lashes cast shadows over unblemished skin— even the sun seemed to favour him, basking him in warm rays. It was the picture of innocence, but Odysseus has learnt not to trust good things.
After all, he’s leading a war for the retrieval of a pretty face.
Him and his men approach the stranger.
Then—
A shift in the wind, and the young man was on his feet — a single, fluid motion, muscles coiled like a wave about to break. His eyes shot open, a deep blue-green alive with shifting depths, as if the ocean itself had learned to gaze back. Every line of his body thrummed with preternatural awareness, too precise, too ready—the stance of someone who had never truly been unarmed, even in sleep.
A demigod? A lost prince of the waves? No mortal woke like that.
The last time Odysseus saw something like this— when they unmasked Achilles, Prince of Phthia— the practiced elegance of a dancer of death, an unsheathed sword coated in luring honey— but Achilles is Aristos Achaion, best of the Greeks. The greatest warrior of his generation.
This stranger— if he can come close to Achilles —will either be a dangerous enemy or a formidable ally.
And, Odysseus thought, the greatest opportunities lurk in danger. It wouldn’t hurt to have some leverage against the Myrmidons… Achilles was too important, too powerful, too prideful— too uncontrollable, with no one to check and balance him.
As the stranger surveys his surroundings, Odysseus forms a plan.
()
Percy recognises a few faces from Chiron’s lessons. The viking warlord version of Ed Sheeran is Menelaus, King of Sparta and cause of war, which means the arrogant dude to his right must be Agamemnon, leading general of the Greeks.
Further down is a familiar man — Achilles, looking much younger and brighter than the soul guarding the Styx, Patroclus standing behind his chair.
“King Agamemnon, Lord of Men,” Odysseus bows. “I have brought you the mysterious visitor to our camp.”
He looks at Percy expectantly, waiting for Percy to introduce himself.
“Uh, hi.” Percy waves. “I’m Perseus.”
They wait.
Percy doesn’t elaborate.
“Take a seat, Perseus,” Odysseus smiles, defusing the tension. “We can do formal introductions once everyone arrives.”
Percy sits next to Odysseus, making himself comfortable.
Right on cue, a handsome man with broad shoulders bursts into the tent, looking disheveled, neck covered in love bites.
“The King of Argos graces us with his presence,” Odysseus comments dryly. “Reminding each of us the importance of withstanding indulgence.”
“Suck my dick,” Diomedes replies.
Percy laughs.
“You have brought me someone more unruly than Prince Achilles,” Agamemnon scowls. Patroclus bristles, but Achilles just rolls his eyes. “Explain yourself, Ithaca, on why this trespasser has not been executed.”
“Killjoy,” Percy mutters.
Odysseus gives him a resigned look. He begins his politician thing again: “King Agamemnon—
Percy tunes him out.
Odysseus refused to give him a weapon, but they’re in a port city, and the camp is not far from the sea. He could drown them. It would certainly help with the headache he’s getting. But he also can’t change the course of history.
What if drowning Agamemnon is the flap of the butterfly’s wings that’ll prevent Sally Jackson from ever being born?
And if the war ended earlier, what would that mean for the course of history? If it isn’t Troy that goes up in flames…
“So you will fight, Perseus?” Agamemnon asks, drawing Percy out of his thoughts.
“Huh?” is Percy’s very eloquent reply.
“If what King Odysseus says is true,” Menelaus watches him with calculating eyes, “I will be honoured to fight by your side.”
“We all know the King of Ithaca likes to exaggerate,” Diomedes drawls. “I’ll have to see for myself before I trust in his silver tongue.”
Percy rolls his eyes. “I’ll fight any of you. However, I don’t kill mortals.”
Agamemnon’s eyes flash. “Then what use are you—
“You speak as if you are not mortal,” Achilles interrupts, head tilted, eyes curious.
He really is as beautiful as the myths say.
“What I am is not your concern,” Percy replies without heat.
Agamemnon seethes at the interruption.
“You are a creature of the sea, yes?” Achilles smiles, obviously pleased at Agamemnon’s displeasure. “You have such wonderful eyes.”
“We have the same eyes, Prince Achilles,” Percy snorts.
They do. Percy remembers Achilles’s mom was a naiad or something. All children of the sea have blue-green eyes.
“Ah. That must be why I find them mesmerising,” Achilles grins.
“Perhaps we are brothers,” Percy mirrors the grin.
“Perhaps,” Achilles eye shine with mischief. “I cannot recall my mother ever denying to having two sons.”
Percy fakes a gasp: “You’re right! My father never told me I didn’t have a brother, either!”
Patroclus looks between them, frowning, not caught up on the joke. “But Achi— my prince. King Peleus only has you as his heir.”
“Then Perseus and I must be the same person.” Achilles declares. “It cannot be a coincidence that we both have two eyes, a nose and a mouth.”
“And most importantly, I never said I wasn’t Achilles.” Percy looks at everyone solemnly.
“And I too, have never claimed I wasn’t Perseus.” Achilles mirrors Percy’s fake seriousness.
“I like this guy,” Percy hears Diomedes tell Odysseus, who looks amused.
Agamemnon’s face is more red than Menelaus’s hair.
()
“Sister!” Apollo sings, clearly in one of his rare, good moods.
Which, naturally, put Artemis in a poor mood.
“What,” She snaps. “Do you want.”
“Such a cold welcome,” Apollo sighs.
“You know men are not welcome near my hunt,” Artemis sneers.
“I do,” Apollo agrees pleasantly. “But I have news to deliver.”
“Is Hermes dead?” Artemis deadpans.
“Oh, how I wish that were true,” Apollo sighs dramatically. “But no, he is on an official visit to Atlantis.”
“What for?” Artemis puts her bow down.
“Remember how sweet Athena was born?” Apollo takes a seat. “Springing from Father’s mind in full armour, a grown woman, yet a newborn.”
“A lucky day for us all,” Artemis mutters.
“Well, Uncle was bragging about creating a child on his own, without a headache,” Apollo smirks. “A creature of the sea, washed upon the shores of Aulis, a godling that bleeds mortal blood.”
Artemis raises an eyebrow: “What monstrosity did he unleash? The earth shaker is the least human of us all.” She hums, thinking about a potential hunt… if the monster interferes with the war, surely, Father will allow her Huntresses to turn the tides.
“Oh, this is where he surprises us, dear sister,” Apollo smiles, too widely. “The creature is gorgeous. It’s been welcomed into the Greek camp, roleplaying as a little human. I watched it dine with Odysseus, spar with Achilles… it is more courteous than most of Uncle’s children.”
“It holds its own against Aristos Achaion?” Artemis looks doubtful. “It is mortal, yes?”
Apollo hums. “As much as any of Uncle’s children can be.”
“You are pleased.” Artemis assesses her twin, suspicious.
“Why not?” Apollo smiles. “It makes the war so much more interesting.”
Artemis narrows her eyes. “You hate the Greeks, brother. They will tear down Troy with ease, if Uncle’s spawn stands by their side.”
“Do I?” Apollo shrugs. “I stand with Father in this matter. As the sun observes the deeds of mortals yet takes no side, so too shall I remain unmoved by faction or favour. You, however, chose to still their winds, did you not?”
“Speak to me frankly,” Artemis sneers. “I do not enjoy your silly word games. We both know it is your pride that was wounded by Agamemnon the Arrogant, when he declared your favourite bard inferior to his young daughter's voi—”
“Enough!” Apollo snarls. “Your lies offend the very air.”
Artemis smirks. “Peace, brother, I mean no offence. Let us both speak with truth.”
Apollo strums his lyre angrily, but the temperature around them slowly cools down.
“The creature is interesting,” Apollo admits. “And I did not lie when I said it is beautiful.”
“A demigod, then?” Artemis arches her brow. “Uncle alone cannot wrought beauty without a woman’s touch.”
“Oh, but the creature is of the sea and only the sea,” Apollo says. “I could not believe it either, not at first…But that grace is no mortal gift. Those eyes… they have drunk from the Lethe and remembered.”
“You wish to bed her.” Artemis states plainly. It's not a question.
“Him,” Apollo corrects.
“A man.” Artemis sneers.
“A male.” Apollo strums his lyre, humming a light song. “He is not very human, from what I’ve seen. Only a newborn, yet there is so much blood on his hands, such darkness in his heart. He walks as if he’s journeyed through a thousand tragedies.”
Artemis studies him.
“So little trust, Artie,” Apollo sighs. “I will not act rashly with Uncle’s children. This one will be different, I promise.”
“If it breaks your heart, I will hunt it down.” Artemis tells him, standing up to leave.
Apollo smiles.
“And don’t call me Artie. It’s disgusting.”