Chapter Text
The first time Percy Jackson washed up on Ithaca’s shores, he had just been blown up by a volcano.
Of course, Odysseus didn’t know this at the time. All he knew was that a strange boy in even stranger clothes had just been spat out by the sea, right onto his doorstep. Figuratively. The boy was still on the beach.
The boy was clearly injured; his clothes were torn, exposing mottled and enflamed skin. It looked like he had been dipped in the Phlegethon itself and left in the sun to dry. Burns, clearly. Was he even alive?
Odysseus approached the boy. His age was hard to place with all the burns and open wounds, but he couldn’t have been of maturity yet. He had that baby fat to him, still, even with his sharp bone structure. He was a fighter, to be certain, and not just because of his armor. He had the arms of one, lean and muscled, and hands that bore the calluses of swordfighting.
He knelt at the young man’s side. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Shallow breaths. He radiated heat; strange. At least he was alive, but he needed a healer soon. His breathing grew more labored by the second.
Odysseus hated to move the boy, but there was no other choice. The physician’s quarters had been spared the worst of the destruction from the sack of his palace, thank the gods. He did not think the boy would survive without immediate attention.
With a sigh, he placed his hands beneath the boy’s torso and legs and lifted him. He was shockingly light. His head lolled, black hair pressing against Odysseus’s chest. An unusual color, so black it was almost blue. Where did this boy originate from? Perhaps one of the western isles, one Odysseus was less familiar with.
He let out a small groan. That was a good sign. The boy was intact enough to make sound and respond to touch. Perhaps he could be saved if they hurried.
“Hush,” he soothed. The sight of him pulled at Odysseus’s cold heart. Recently, only Penelope and Telemachus could illicit such feelings from him, but Odysseus had always been fond of children.
He fought back the wave of guilt that threatened to claw out his throat.
The boy protested weakly, trying to push away. He had all the strength of a sickly mouse. Odysseus hushed him again. “I am taking you somewhere safe.”
The boy made a mournful sound, his hands pressed flat against Odysseus’s chest. He did little more than wrinkle his chiton before his hands fell limp again. His strength was fading fast.
“Hold on,” Odysseus soothed. “You must save your strength.” He peered down just in time to see the boy’s eyes flutter open.
Odysseus nearly dropped him.
Sea green. The same sea green that had haunted and hunted him for ten years. Infinitely deep, even clouded with pain as they were. The color of the most treacherous parts of that dark ocean, of the swirling depths containing monsters beyond mortal comprehension.
“Poseidon,” Odysseus hissed.
The boy blinked. His black hair—gods, of course, unusual because only one man in existence had that hair color—fell over his pain-addled eyes. He spoke, but the words were gibberish.
Odysseus gripped the boy tighter, tight enough to illicit a cry of pain. His fingernails dug into a burn, slick with sweat and blood. “You dare come to my shores?” It had only been a matter of weeks since he stood over the god of the sea, splattered in golden ichor. He could still feel the acidic burn as it bit into his skin, mortal flesh that was never meant to come into contact with the blood of gods. Scars that would never fade.
The boy-visage of Poseidon stared up at him. He said something in that strange language again, then choked on his own spit. Pathetic. Did he truly think this sad, weak disguise would make Odysseus feel empathy? Poseidon must have lost his wits to his rage. Revenge had made him stupid.
“I—not—” Poseidon finally got out before coughing again. Odysseus took the chance to twist his arm behind his back, restricting any possible movement.
The boy did not cry out, but his expression scrunched up in pain. He set his jaw. “Not Poseidon.”
Odysseus bared his teeth at him before setting off up the hill. “Your lies are poor. I thought you smarter.”
Poseidon—gods, he could barely think of the god before him by that name with how pathetic he looked—squirmed in his arms. He barely had enough strength to turn his head.
“I do not understand why you come to me now in this form, but it will not illicit any pity from me.” He did not dare throw the boy back into the ocean. It would only strengthen him. No, he knew the place for him.
The boy struggled harder. “I am not—I—hurts—” he coughed. It splattered red across Odysseus’s chest.
He froze.
Odysseus stared down at the boy again. The boy, moments away from death, bleeding red onto his white garments. “Who are you?”
“Son,” the boy rasped. “Son of Poseidon.”
Oh. Oh dear gods above.
-0-
Odysseus sat with his hands folded, elbows braced on the table, as he watched the son of Poseidon’s chest rise and fall.
The boy was asleep. Had been since his choking admission on the steps of the palace. He was laid out in the healer’s chamber, wrapped in bandages and salves. Nearly every inch of his skin was burned. His strange clothing was unsalvageable; where it wasn’t burned or torn, it was covered in ash. The healer—Demas—had wanted to discard it, but Odysseus asked to keep it. Unlike his armor—standard issue, though also unsalvageable—it was unusual, with some sort of writing obscured by the burns. He had never seen anything like it. Perhaps it could help him figure out where the boy had come from.
He had not managed to get a name before the boy fell unconscious, just that he was the son of the sea god. Odysseus, well… it wasn’t his proudest moment, but he nearly threw the boy back into the sea upon that admission. He’d had enough of sons of Poseidon for one life. But the last thing he wanted was to attract his wrath yet again, just weeks after returning home.
It did not mean he trusted whatever this was.
Perhaps it was a trap. The boy was clearly not Poseidon in disguise; no amount of magic could obscure the ichor of gods. His blood was mortal. Red as any other man. But he could be sent by Poseidon, maybe to spy or sabotage while Ithaca was weak. The god was not known for his espionage—he was more for brute force—but stranger things had happened. But then, why would the boy admit to who his father was?
So many unanswered questions, all of them kept in the unconscious mind of the young boy before him.
He mumbled something in that strange language of his. He did that every few minutes, even as the healer dressed his wounds hours prior. A variety of words, none Odysseus understood. But a name kept coming up—Annabeth, he thought. An unusual name, and the boy’s accent made it sound even more foreign. Just where had he come from?
Odysseus stood and approached the boy. His hair was a sweat-slicked mess, pressed against his forehead, and his tanned skin was pale. Even so, his resemblance to his father was uncanny. How had Odysseus not realized it immediately?
Despite his hatred of Poseidon, Odysseus couldn’t help but feel pity. He wouldn’t take it so far as sympathy, but pity, yes. He was certainly a pitiful sight. In this state, he looked young, weak, vulnerable.
One of his forearms was unburned, Odysseus realized with a start. His sword arm, it looked like. Besides his face, it was the only part of him untouched by whatever had hurt him. Unconsciously, he reached out to touch the unmarred flesh.
His eyes flew open. With a yelp, he tried to scramble off the bed, but his body seemed to not respond. He cried out in pain.
Odysseus held up his hands, eyes wide. “Calm. You will hurt yourself.”
The boy stared at him, green eyes sharp, even clouded with pain as they were. His sword hand clenched and unclenched. He looked ready to attack at any moment.
It is not that Odysseus didn’t think he could take the boy in a fight. In fact, with the state of injury he was in, it would take almost no effort at all. But he did not fancy another fight with a son of Poseidon, much less a child. “I do not mean to harm you.” As long as you do not mean to harm me, he did not add
The boy blinked. He opened his mouth, winced in pain, and closed it again. He lifted his unburned arm and did a strange motion with his hand, tipping it toward his mouth.
Odysseus cocked his head.
“Wa—” his voice caught. “Water.”
Keeping his eyes on the boy, Odysseus walked to the bowl at the side of the chamber. He scooped a ladle of water from it and brought it to the boy’s lips. He drank greedily, like it was the nectar of the gods. And, well, considering the likely state of his throat, it probably felt as much.
When the boy drank the last drop from the ladle, he pointed at the bowl.
“More?” Odysseus asked.
“All,” he rasped. His voice sounded less raw, at least.
Odysseus frowned. He scooped some more water into the ladle, but the boy shook his head. “All.”
Odysseus glanced between the bowl and the boy. He looked about ready to leap out of the bed and get it himself. Sighing, Odysseus hefted the wooden thing and brought it over to the boy.
As soon as he held it out, the boy grabbed it out of his hand and dumped the entire thing over his head.
Odysseus yelped, ready to chastise him for wasting so much and ruining his bandages, but his mouth froze open, choking on the first syllable, as the water seemed to seep into his skin.
Yes, that’s exactly what was happening. The water worked its way down the boy’s burned limbs, swirling around the worst of them and sinking into the skin. Before his eyes, the angry red-purple skin turned lighter. Still burned, but significantly less.
The boy sighed in relief. “Gods—” he tilted his head back, eyes closed. His hair was completely dry.
Automatically, Odysseus took the empty bowl back from him, eyes wide.
Son of Poseidon indeed.
After a few moments, the boy seemed to come back to himself. He opened his eyes again, glancing around the room, then stopped on Odysseus. He cocked his head, green eyes bright. “Who are you?”
“I should ask you the same,” Odysseus responded.
The boy’s eyes flicked to the doorway, so quickly it was almost imperceptible. “I need to know who’s asking.”
“And the same for me,” Odysseus said. He really did not—he had all the power here—but appearances needed to be kept. The boy’s piercing green eyes raised some sort of primal fear within Odysseus’s chest, twisting his heart and lungs into a knot. He had no desire to give that away.
The boy considered himself for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Where am I?”
Now that, he could answer. “Ithaca.”
The boy startled. “The island?”
“Is there any other?”
He swallowed, his burned throat bobbing with the effort. “I—please. Who are you?”
Odysseus considered going in circles with him again, but the poor boy looked so pitiful. What good would it bring him beyond petty satisfaction? He inclined his head. “I am Odysseus, king of this island.”
He couldn’t quite place the expression that washed over the boy’s face. Shock, definitely. Devastation too. A level of disbelief. And rage.
A shudder ran through the boy’s body, and he put his head in his hands. “No.”
Odysseus cocked his head. “No?”
The boy shook his head, still buried in his hands. “No. No. I’m—I’m supposed to be at Mount St. Helens. This is a dream. It’s another demigod dream and I’m going to wake up.”
Odysseus watched the boy. His words made little sense—he had never heard of a Mount St. Helens. And he threw the word demigod around so casually. He was likely in shock. “I assure you this is real.”
The boy shook his head again. “I’m not in Greece.” His voice cracked. “Gods, I can’t be in Greece.”
Certainly shock, then. The boy spoke perfect Greek, yet he thought he was somewhere else. Odysseus carefully approached the boy. He had seen his fair share of battle-shocked soldiers, ones trapped in their own minds. They were volatile. Reactive. And considering that the boy was now healed, and clearly had powers, Odysseus needed to tread carefully. “Can you please tell me your name?” He kept his voice soft. Neutral. An easy question to answer.
“Percy,” he said.
“Percy, alright.” Odysseus nodded. He didn’t know why he was being so kind to this boy—this son of his worst enemy. Truly, he should throw Percy in the dungeon and be done with it. But something about him tugged on his heart. Perhaps his age, still so full of that youthful energy Odysseus lost in Troy. “I believe you are in shock, due to your injuries. Can you—”
Suddenly, Percy stood. Well, more fell off the bed and stumbled to his feet than stood. His eyes darted around the room, then he looked down at himself. “I’m—why am I naked? Where are my clothes?”
Odysseus did not know many young boys who cared about modesty, of all things, but his face turned redder than his burns, even though he was still wrapped in bandages.
“I will get you some—”
“Where are my clothes?” Percy interrupted.
Odysseus blinked, then gestured to the table where the remains of them were folded. “They were ruined when you arrived.”
Percy stumbled over to the table. With shaking hands, he lifted his tattered orange… tunic?... off the table and stared at it. It was hardly more than strips of fabric at this point, burnt through in multiple places. It stood out starkly against the bare stone walls of the chamber, still stripped of the resources that once populated the physician’s supply.
Odysseus watched him carefully.
“I was at Mount St. Helens,” he whispered, eyes still on the shirt. “There… there were telchines. I couldn’t… there were so many.”
Telchines? The boy had encountered telchines? Surely he must be mistaken. Otherwise, it was a miracle he had survived. “I do not know this mountain you speak of.”
“Volcano.” The word came out as a choked rasp.
Odysseus’s eyes flicked unconsciously to the angry burn winding its way up the boy’s left arm.
The shirt slipped out of Percy’s hands. He turned back to Odysseus. “I’m not supposed to be here.” His eyes hardened. “Why am I here?”
Odysseus did not back away, but the instinct was there. In that moment, his eyes were a perfect mirror of Poseidon’s. It was uncanny in the face of a boy so young, so injured. “I do not know,” Odysseus answered. Some would think it a weakness to admit not knowing, but only a fool would pretend to possess knowledge he does not. It would only turn to disaster.
Percy’s sword hand flexed. “There’s always a reason. Someone always has it out for me.”
Odysseus filed that away for later. What kind of person had many enemies at such a young age? “You washed up on the shore, half dead and unconscious. You live because of my good will.”
Something flashed across Percy’s eyes, gone too quick to interpret. He deflated. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” He sat back on the bed. “I need to talk to my father.”
A flash of hatred lit Odysseus’s chest. “No.”
Percy looked up, eyes wide. “What?”
“No,” Odysseus repeated. “You will not call upon Poseidon in my kingdom, or anywhere near it.”
The boy cocked his head to the side, a question lighting his eyes. Then recognition sparked in the green, and his eyes widened. “Oh, gods. You’re Odysseus.”
Odysseus frowned. “I believe I said as much, yes.”
“No, you’re… oh, I am in so much trouble. Oh gods.” Percy buried his head in his hands and muttered something that sounded a lot like gods damned lord of time.
Before Odysseus could respond, Percy shot to his feet again. He stumbled over to his ruined clothing, rifling through the contents. “I need to go. Something’s gone wrong. I have to speak to my father.” His gaze flicked to Odysseus, then back. “Away from here, don’t worry.”
Odysseus’s eyes narrowed.
Percy continued his frantic search. “I just need some clothes or something. No, wait—" He grabbed his strange pants and started to tug them on, wincing as they scraped against his burns. They were torn and singed, but managed to stay on. “Where did—" He procured a sort of stick from the fabric, small and white, but before Odysseus could even ask what it was, it disappeared in a flash. In exchange, a glittering bronze xiphos rested in Percy’s hand.
Odysseus reacted on instinct. He drew his own sword and caught the edge of Percy’s, twisting to send it flying. The boy yelped, scrambling for it, but Odysseus grabbed his arm and tugged him in, restricting his movement. “I should have known.”
Percy struggled in his grasp. “Dude, what? Let me go!” One of those words sounded like his native tongue. It made no sense.
Odysseus tightened his grip. Percy hissed in pain. “Your father sent you, to get my guard down. Why would I suspect the boy so willing to admit to his parentage, knowing our history? A spy would not admit as much.”
“A spy?” Percy spluttered.
“You were unwise to draw your sword, sea spawn,” Odysseus spat.
“Woah, woah, wait, dude, I just wanted to make sure it—hey!” He stumbled as Odysseus started to drag him from the room. “Ow! Lay off!”
“I nearly fell for it, too. Shame on me and the pity left in my heart.” Odysseus ignored Percy’s continued protests. “And shame on your father for using a child to get his way. He will not learn the defenses of my palace, no matter his efforts.”
Percy wrapped his hand around Odysseus’s arm and yanked back, causing them both to stumble. Even in his injured state, the boy was strong. “I’m not working for my dad!” His accent was slipping, Greek words mixing with his native tongue. Odysseus could pick up the meaning well enough.
“Please!” Percy continued as Odysseus started to drag him down a flight of stairs. He put up a good fight, but he’d clearly exerted himself already.
“I should kill you now,” Odysseus hissed.
“Get in line!” Percy quipped, but his voice shook on the delivery.
The dungeon was a gloomy place, lit only by torchlight. It smelled of dirt and stale water. “Oh, you have a stereotypical evil dungeon. Of course you have a stereotypical evil dungeon,” Percy rambled, his voice picking up in speed and pitch. “You probably also have a torture chamber right? People always have torture chambers.”
Odysseus tossed Percy into the first room and slammed the cage door shut. The boy yelped in pain as he hit the ground.
“I will figure out what to do with you in time. Perhaps some days alone in here will be good for you,” Odysseus said.
The boy stumbled to his feet, wrapping his hands around the bars. “Wait, come on, I haven’t even done anything!”
“You drew your sword in my palace,” Odysseus said with a raised eyebrow.
Percy winced. “That was stupid, okay? I didn’t mean to, I swear. I was worried it wouldn’t—look, there’s a lot—di immortales.” He shook his head with a groan. “I promise, I’m not here to do you or your family or your kingdom any harm. I’m not in with whatever my dad did to you. I think he was a real asshole for that, seriously.”
Odysseus blinked.
“I’m his son but I’m not always his biggest fan,” Percy continued, eyes wide. “And he doesn’t even know who I am, okay? He has no idea I’m here. I swear if you went and asked him—no that’s a stupid idea. Don’t summon him. You wouldn’t do that anyway, duh. Stupid.” He turned that last word on himself, letting his head fall forward against the bars.
Odysseus stared at the boy. Gods, he really was profoundly young.
He should’ve left Percy to rot here. Should’ve let him stew in his naïve plan. Should’ve used him to get his revenge on the god who tortured him for ten long years. Odysseus’s heart had long since hardened against sympathy; he did not have room for those kinds of feelings. But this boy…
There are times, to Athena’s utter dismay, that Odysseus is not the most logical.
“Tell me why you are here, then,” Odysseus whispered.
“I can’t,” Percy whispered back, head still pressed against the bars. “Not because I don’t want to, but because… there’s so much.”
Odysseus frowned. “I do not understand. If you have no secrets to keep, or plans to aid your father, then why not tell me your goals here?”
“I don’t have any.” Percy still didn’t look up. His eyes were closed, now. “I swear it. I swear on the River Styx that I mean you, your family, and your kingdom no harm.”
Odysseus hissed as thunder boomed in the distance. “Have you no sense of preservation, boy?”
He looked up, then, green eyes bright in the dim lighting of the dungeon. “That’s why I swore on it.”
Odysseus met his eyes. He refused to back down from that inhumanly bright gaze, even as it seemed to stare into his soul. “If you mean us no harm, then you can tell me why you are here.”
Percy opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then he muttered a slew of what were likely curses in his native language.
Odysseus crossed his arms.
“I—” Percy started, then chewed on his lower lip. His eyes darted around the room. “There was an explosion,” he tried again. “I was inside Mount St. Helens, the volcano. And it erupted.”
Odysseus gestured for him to go on.
“I think I did it,” Percy continued. Odysseus didn’t even have time to register shock as an emotional reaction before the boy steamrolled ahead. “The telchines were throwing lava. It burned. And I think… I just grabbed onto whatever I could. I’ve never done that before, but they call my dad the earthshaker for a reason, I guess.”
Odysseus stared. Then blinked and stared some more. “You’re claiming to have—”
“Blown up a volcano, yeah,” Percy interrupted.
Odysseus processed that. He nodded. “Alright. And this led you to wash up on my island, how?”
Percy pursed his lips. He started to pace the length of the cell. “It’s… complicated. I know I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t really know how I got here, but I know it’s not supposed to go this way.” He winced as his burned arm scraped the stone.
“And how do you know this?” Odysseus prompted. Truly, he was getting tired of this talking in circles.
Percy tilted his head back and muttered a curse. “Annabeth would be better at this.” He shook his head, then leveled his bright gaze with Odysseus’s. “But whatever. If the Fates want to mess with time, then I guess I have to deal with it.” He set his jaw. “I am not supposed to be here.”
The pieces clicked into place. Odysseus forced himself not to react. “You are not from this time.”
Percy shook his head once.
It was impossible to believe. The lord of time was dead, scattered to pieces. The era of of that power had long since passed. But if this boy told the truth, then sometime in the future… but it was impossible. Odysseus shook his head. “There is no—”
“600 men, right?” Percy interrupted. “You set off with 600 men back to Ithaca. Ended up on Polyphemus’s island, blinded him. He still calls you Nobody, you know that? I met him, in the future. He hates you. Hates me too, I think, even though we’re brothers.”
“I—”
“Then you met my father, of course, and he was a supreme asshole to you. Circe’s island next.” Percy ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “Met her too, she turned me into a guinea pig. Said pigs were too much to deal with. Broke that spell. You go to the Underworld next, meet your mom and friends, and then the prophet. Can’t remember his name. Am I getting this right?”
Odysseus stared at the boy, mouth hanging open.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, blah blah blah, the king of the gods commits some extreme assholery, because he’s the biggest dick in existence, and if he strikes me down about that he’ll have to fight my dad, so I can say that. He makes you choose—”
“No one knows that,” Odysseus interrupted. He’d heard enough. Gods, he had heard enough. “Not even… Poseidon wouldn’t know about the Underworld.”
Percy’s eyes glinted in the torchlight. “Your story is not forgotten, even when I’m from.”
The words washed over him, the sheer absurdity of it all. This boy, this stranger that washed ashore like a piece of driftwood, knew his story. The details that others did not. The ones that haunted him in the dead of night.
Odysseus sank to the floor.
“Yeah,” Percy said. He joined Odysseus on the floor, legs crossed, wincing in pain as he settled on the hard-packed dirt in the cell. “It’s a lot. I was afraid to say anything because the butterfly effect, you know? Mess up the whole timeline because I said something stupid. But I dunno, I’m sick and tired of Fate throwing me around like I don’t matter. It’s their fault I’m here.”
Odysseus nodded absently. His words made little sense, but he barely had the mind to question them. Time travel? Truly? Could such a thing be possible, this many centuries after the age of the Titans?
“Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll forget all about this once I leave. Like a Doctor Who situation or whatever. Not Back to the Future.” Percy leaned his head on the bars. “I really don’t want to accidentally erase my birth.”
Odysseus let those words pass over him. Perhaps the boy was insane. But that still didn’t explain his knowledge of Odysseus’s secrets. It didn’t explain the strange clothes or strange language.
He let his gaze slide to Percy. The boy was still shirtless, though he had recovered his blue pants. Many of the bandages had come off, either from the water or Odysseus dragging him into the dungeon. His burns looked better, no longer worryingly purple-red color from before. But on the skin that wasn’t burned, Odysseus could make out very familiar markings, ones he had become accustomed to during his long years at war.
Scars.
They littered his skin. Tiny white and pink flecks, large slices, mottled stab wounds, and everything in between. When he shifted, Odysseus could even make out a circular scar on the boy’s palm. Clearly, even at his age, the boy had seen much battle. And yes, boys of his age fought in battles. Odysseus had seen many on the fields of Troy. But they were not so close to the front that they suffered these injuries. Not so trained that they possessed the reflexes this boy clearly had.
“Why were you in a volcano?” Odysseus finally asked. His voice was quiet in the damp room.
Percy frowned at him, then looked down at his body. “I had a quest. I—well, it took me to an old forge belonging to Heph—the god of metalworking.” He glanced up at the sky, as if he feared the god himself would appear. “It was overrun with telchines using it to make… something bad.” His eyes darted around, as if he were back in the forge, planning his strategy. “A weapon, but not… not a normal one. I had to stop them. I told Annabeth to get out, and she—“
“You brought a woman into danger?”
The look Percy fixed him with was so unimpressed, Odysseus nearly apologized for speaking.
“She is more than capable of defending herself, and she’s also a demigod.” He blew out a breath. “Gods, I was so stressed about talking to you, I completely forgot about the sexism. Why couldn’t Greeks just get their heads out of their asses?”
Odysseus blinked.
“As I was saying,” Percy continued with a pointed look in his direction. Odysseus did not even have time to reprimand him for disrespect. “She got out of there, and I blew everything up. And now I’m here. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m still alive.”
“Our healer is very skilled,” Odysseus said, choosing to put the boy’s contempt aside for the time being. “You are lucky that I was willing to ignore who your father is.”
Percy rolled his eyes.
Odysseus bristled. “You seem to think it is a small thing, the pain he caused me.”
“I don’t,” Percy said, frowning. “But I don’t think sins of the father belong to the son, or however the saying goes. You thought it was wrong when my father threatened Telemachus. Why is it different for me?”
Odysseus tilted his head. Percy’s eyes still darted around, and his fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm on the floor. “You’re surprisingly wise, given your age.”
Percy snorted. “Tell that to Annabeth.” He kept his eyes off Odysseus, but his fingers slowed their incessant drumming. The poor boy looked like he expected an attack at any second. And, well, given his story, it seemed that was what he experienced on a normal day.
They lapsed into silence again, interrupted only by the drip drip of water running down the walls. Percy did look a bit sad in that cell, littered with injuries as he was. He leaned against the bars, his shoulder wedged between two of them, and examined the room. His eyes never stayed still.
“Suppose I believe you,” Odysseus began. Percy startled, his fingers resuming their drumming. “What is your plan from here?”
The boy sucked in a breath, then shrugged. “I washed up from the ocean, right? I’d probably start there. Retrace my steps. If it threw me out of time, then it can put me back. I hope.” He pursed his lips.
“There is not a being alive that has power over time,” Odysseus said softly. “Not anymore.”
Percy drew his knees to his chest and said nothing.
With a sigh, Odysseus stood and dusted himself off. Percy’s eyes followed him, his mouth closed in a thin line.
“Come on, if you believe it will work, then it is where we will begin. However,” Odysseus opened the cell. “I will not have you leaving without a meal.”
Percy kept staring at him. His eyes narrowed. “Is this a trick?”
“As much a trick as your story.” He peered down at the boy. “If you are telling the truth, then so am I.”
Percy muttered something in his native language, but he stood anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped out of the cell. His eyes tracked up the wall. “Your humidity problem is coming from there.” He pointed to a seam along the ceiling. “It’s not sealed properly, so it’s letting water in.”
Odysseus blinked.
“Just thought I’d help make this place less miserable.” Percy shrugged.
Odysseus sighed. The boy’s oddities only grew with every passing minute. “I will have someone look at that after we repair the rest of the damage.”
Percy sucked in a breath. “Ooh, shit.” The second word was not one Odysseus recognized, but it was certainly a curse based on his expression. “Did you just get rid of the suitors? Gods, they were such assholes.”
Odysseus decided to brush off the boy’s increasingly unsettling knowledge about him. He motioned for Percy to follow. “Let’s get you fed.”
-0-
Percy attempted to show good table manners, but it was clear that the poor boy was half-starved. Something about his powers requiring large amounts of energy, especially healing (and, if Odysseus had to guess, blowing up a volcano).
He only had a moment to consider the implications of serving a son of Poseidon fish before Percy tore into it, picking the wiry bones out with expert precision. Clearly, he did not mind it.
Odysseus sat across from the boy at the small table in his study. He had the food brought here, mostly as to not arouse suspicion.
Percy glanced up just as he shoveled another scoop of lentils into his mouth and blushed. Odysseus just raised an eyebrow.
He swallowed, looking away sheepishly. “Sorry. Hospitality manners, I know.”
Odysseus waved him off. “I have seen soldiers eat with far less decorum, and they were grown men.”
Percy looked down at himself, as if just realizing his age. He shrugged. “I don’t know a whole lot of adults, besides my mom and Chiron.”
Odysseus choked.
Percy seemed not to notice Odysseus’s flailing. He continued, “my dad kind of counts, as much as any of the gods do. I dunno, Chiron feels more like the adult adult at camp. Gods know Mr. D doesn’t.”
“Camp?” Was what came out of Odysseus’s mouth in response to learning the boy personally knew Chiron, trainer of the late Achilles.
“Not a soldiers’ camp like you’re thinking. Or, er, well, not really.” Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s for demigods. Keeps us safe, shields us from monsters and stuff. It’s a place for us to train.”
Odysseus cocked his head.
Percy answered his question before he could ask. “Things are… different, where I’m from. Mortals don’t have to fear monsters anymore. They only hunt us.” He swallowed, eyes flicking to a point on the wall behind Odysseus. “A lot of us don’t live to adulthood because of it. It’s good to have a place where we can be safe.”
Odysseus’s head spun. Demigods… well, they were not a rarity, but they certainly weren’t common. But the way Percy spoke, it seemed there were many more during his time, and they were in much greater danger. Certainly, Achilles had faced his fair share of risk, but he had lived into his adulthood without much trouble. And the ichor that ran in Odysseus’s veins from Hermes was too diluted to grant him any sort of special immortal grace or mortal peril. He had enough of the latter without it.
A question burned in Odysseus’s mind, one he would never have seen himself asking a son of Poseidon. But Percy… something about him gave Odysseus the same feeling as when he looked at Telemachus. A boy thrust into danger far too young. Someone who deserved protection as much as anyone else, but had never received it.
He pursed his lips. “Are you…” his voice caught as Percy’s bright eyes locked onto his. Odysseus cleared his throat. “Are you safe, where you are from?”
Percy’s gaze flicked away again, first to the wall, then down to his hands, right to that circular scar on his palm. He swallowed. “Things are… not great, right now.”
Odysseus didn’t respond, instead electing to let the boy think over his words. He had found, through years of strategizing, that people did not like to sit in silence.
Percy ran a thumb over his palm scar. “There’s a prophecy. It’s not… well, I don’t really know what it says. But it’s about me.” His lips pressed into a thin line.
Something about the way he said it, the way he would not take his eyes off his scar... Odysseus knew prophecies. He had experienced his own unfair run-ins with prophets and oracles. He knew what hopelessness looked like.
“I think I’m going to die,” Percy whispered.
Odysseus folded his hands. “And you choose to return, anyway?”
Percy kept his thumb on the scar. “If not me, then it’s someone else.”
“Must it be?”
He looked up then, his green eyes sharp. “There’s another demigod. He’s only eleven. But he’s next, if I…” he swallowed. “I can’t let that happen. He’s just a kid.”
“As are you,” Odysseus observed.
Percy scowled. “So you think I should just let him die instead?”
Odysseus studied the boy, his inhuman eyes and piercing glare. The set of his jaw. The way his hands tensed on the table.
Somehow, in that moment, Percy could not have been less like his father. He also could not have been more like him.
“Your loyalty is so much like your father’s, but I do not think he would sacrifice himself for others,” Odysseus said, keeping his voice quiet. “No, I do not think you should leave another boy to die.”
The tension bled out of Percy’s shoulders. He slumped down, looking older. Tired. Like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
“I wish that children did not have to die,” Odysseus said.
Percy scoffed.
Odysseus felt a fond smile creep onto his face, despite the heaviness of the conversation. Percy had a certain charm about him. Even knowing who his father was, it was hard not to like him. “I suppose, if I offered for you to stay, you would refuse.”
Percy nodded. “I can’t. I have to get back. Gods, Annabeth is probably worried sick.”
Odysseus’s smile grew. “You seem fond of her.”
Percy’s face flushed.
Ah, Odysseus thought.
He stood, pushing away from the table. Percy’s eyes followed him. He looked better now, with some food in him and new bandages on his burns. He was no longer shirtless, having donned a loose chiton over his strange pants. It looked odd, but Odysseus wasn’t about to question it. He’d had enough strangeness for one day.
“It seems that you have much responsibility on your shoulders, and thus you must continue on your journey.” He motioned for Percy to stand. “I will pack you a bag and see you off at the shore.”
Percy’s eyes widened. “You don’t have—”
“I have grown fond of you, in this short time.” He smirked. “Do not throw away my kindness. You never know when my hatred of your father will win out.”
Percy clamped his mouth shut. Odysseus laughed.
-0-
Percy left at sunset.
What pieces of his armor they could salvage, he strapped back on, and Odysseus supplied replacements for the rest. He hefted his bag and stepped into the surf. It seemed to welcome him, swirling around his ankles in a way Odysseus had never seen.
He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Um… thank you.”
Odysseus smiled. “I would say I hope to see you again someday, but knowing your circumstances, I believe it would be better if we did not meet again.”
Percy laughed. “Yeah, guess so.” He waved. “Well, goodbye!” With that, he dove into the water, and the ocean whisked him out of sight.
Odysseus sighed. Please, guide him safely home. Let Fate be kind and the prophecy be wrong.
He stood, watching as the sun lowered over the sea for a while longer. It was peaceful. The ocean seemed calmer than normal.
Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the ocean orange, Odysseus turned to make his way back to the castle.
Just in time to come face to face with his wife, standing with her arms crossed. “Just when were you going to tell me we were hosting the son of the sea god in our home?”
“I—well, I… um,” Odysseus stuttered.
Penelope looped her arm through his. “Come, tell me all I missed. And next time a demigod washes up on our shores, do come tell me. I hate being left out.”