Chapter Text
Percy had never wanted to be a half-blood. It's true that, like many children, he'd stare at the ceiling while hiding beneath the covers, a toothy smile on his face as he imagined what his life would become if he woke up with superpowers the next morning. He'd picture himself flying high above the New York City skyline, rushing down through crowds and danger to save people, and the looks on the faces of his classmates when they realize that he isn't just some lousy kid who can't quite read properly.
Sometimes, he'd imagine what would happen if he got hurt, too. Percy would picture his mom rushing into the nurse's office of whatever school he hasn't yet been expelled from and pulling him into her arms, just like she'd always do. On occasion, he'd paint a world where his classmates actually felt sorry and tried to help, too, but it felt too fake to continue thinking about. It was more often than not that his troubles and mishaps sparked from their hands.
Yet, after eight years of what he only believes to be pure torture from the Gods themselves, Percy wishes he could go back and force himself to ponder upon happy things, like blue cookies and blue lemonade, and the fact that his mother would trade the world just for him to be happy.
Percy sits in an empty bathtub, tapping his socked foot against the dry faucet. He's too cramped in here; his knees are bent awkwardly, and his cold feet lay flat against the far wall. His shoulders curl inwards as they struggle to fit inside the confines of the tub. He twirls Riptide between his fingers, just like he had any pen during the days of dozing out in lectures. Aside from a strong sword, the pen was Percy's favorite form of Riptide. For all intents and purposes, it always felt the most reliable.
It's what he needed right now: something that would stay exactly as it is. Over the past few years, Percy's lost everyone he's ever loved. He and Annabeth had split not long after they had escaped Tartarus. She couldn't meet his eyes anymore, not after everything he'd done. She'd wake up screaming in the depths of the night and roll away from his open arms, all because the source of her nightmares was what she feared those very hands could do. As much as Annabeth said she was willing to try, Percy couldn't stand to live with someone who was so deeply scared of him, and it wasn't fair to watch the bags beneath her eyes grow with every sleepless night. They futilely promised to keep in touch, but they hadn't spoken in years. To find her, he wouldn't know where to start.
Percy hasn't had contact with any of the demigods or friends in so long that he can no longer remember the last time they spoke. He doesn't hold any blame towards them. Grover has taken on more responsibility than Percy ever imagined to be possible, and for that he held all the pride in the world for calling the satyr his first true friend. The brief bursts of warmth in his chest from their empathy link were often the only smiles Percy had all day. But there were only so many hours in any given day, and Grover spent many of them working. Percy imagines he still returns to Camp with a new blubbering demigod in hand every few months between quests and work. He'd break out into the widest smile ever conceptualized if Percy stepped foot on the property again, but it's a useless thought. Percy can't bear to return, can't come face to face with the home of those whose lives perished under his command.
It forges the reason why he can't reach out. He's too ashamed of everything he's done, and of everything that's come from his mere existence. He often finds himself half-bent out the window of his high-rise apartment, letting the cool city wind slap his hair every which way as he wonders why his parents allowed him to come to be in the first place.
It always comes back to his mom, too. Sally Jackson, the bravest woman he's ever known, and ever will, had been the final straw. On a night like this, he'd take the long walk to her apartment, apologize to Paul for his late arrival and for pulling Sally out of bed. He'd tell him it's fine, like he always does, and his mom would tuck him in on the couch, humming and combing her fingers through his hair as he falls asleep. Percy would wake up to Estelle giggling as she jumps onto his limp body yelling, "Percy! Percy!". Things would be okay, considering.
Ever since their plane went down, Percy hasn't slept a single night. Sally, Paul, and Estelle died a quick death at the hands of his uncle, and Percy knows he won't know a minute of peace from now on, not until he's dead.
He knocks the cap off of Riptide with a single flick of his finger. The little metal cylinder goes bouncing, rolling down towards the open drain with purpose, but Percy doesn't bother trying to stop it. There's no reason to. The golden blade appears before his eyes, glimmering against the bright lightbulb twisted into the ceiling. Percy hisses, angling it just enough so that the ray shines above his head and to the wall.
Percy takes a deep breath and brings the sword to his left arm. Bare and waiting, he sets the sharp edge against his cold skin. It pricks within an instant, drawing two individual, small beads of blood that aren't heavy enough to drip down. Slowly, Percy lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and drags the blade across the expanse of his forearm.
Immediately, his arm begins to burn violently. He hisses, dropping the blade. Percy wraps his hand around his opposite wrist. He holds it closed for a few seconds, but as the nausea and dizziness start to manifest in his head, he remembers that it's of no use. His palm, slick with blood and shaking with nerves, slowly loosens until it drops his bleeding arm upon his own lap. Percy slides down the wall of the bathtub until his head lulls back against the lip. There's no noise, nothing to cloud his head, aside from the buzzing of the light and the shakiness of his own quiet, fleeting breaths.
Percy takes three more before his eyes slip shut and his lips stick open. At twenty years of age, Percy Jackson gives up.
As someone who has been to Underworld, Percy had an idea of what would happen when he opened his eyes. He expected the haunting screams of countless tortured souls, expected to trade Riptide in as the currency to cross the Styx, expected Hades himself to poke fun at his dear nephew for surviving two wars and their respective battles, yet dying to his own two hands. Percy had known that he wouldn't know peace again, just like the life he had while alive, but at least, this way, he had the chance to see his family again.
Except, Percy wakes up and opens his eyes to the warm sun beating down on his skin. Confused, Percy brings his right hand up to his eyes, digging the heel of his palm into one and the tips of his fingers into the other. He scrubs desperately before he opens them again. Still, he finds the bright blue sky hanging high above him.
Slowly, Percy forces himself upwards, pressing both arms behind him to get there. His left arm is incredibly sore, he finds. Quickly, Percy hauls it before him, finding a long, dark scar running straight up from his wrist to the crook of elbow. Oddly enough, it's the glance down at his arm that causes him to observe his dress. Dawning his body is nothing more than a thin blanket-like drape. Loosely, he recognizes the style from old textbooks Annabeth and Chiron had shared with him. His feet are covered by strappy sandals. It reminds him, all too closely, of remnants of the ancient world.
Percy curls his fingers into the warm sand as he looks around. Before him lay the edges of the ocean, pushing up onto the beach. Conveniently, the wet ground from the tides has avoided him, as the water soaks around him in a protective circle. To his right lay a pile of rocks and boulders that crowd around the sea, complete with seaweed stuck to the bottom and thick lines of erosion stopping at only the highest parts where the water has reached. To his left, he spots a forest in the distance, but much closer lies the remnants of an old shipwreck, dry pieces of rotten masts and oars laying sprawled out on the beach, ready to be burnt.
Atop the highest piece of driftwood rests an owl. Its body is a mottle of brown and white feathers, a splotchy pattern that continues all the way up to its head. Surrounding the bird's eyes are pure white feathers, with a solid brown guiding the underneath and the above. The head was slightly upturned, the bird peering down upon Percy like its presence alone stood high above him. He remembers the breed as the one that shone brightly on the symbols for Annabeth's cabin. She had told him stories of the little owl, the very species of Athena's sacred animal.
As much as he believes it could simply be a normal bird on a coincidentally timed visit, Percy finds himself gazing into its eyes. It's uncomfortable initially. The creature doesn't seem to blink; it's a quality that all owls have, but it doesn't make it any more natural to a mortal like himself. Percy hasn't stopped blinking since he first cracked open his eyes. The color of the irises, though, is what convinces him that it's none other than the goddess herself in disguise. The owl's aren't just yellow, but they're golden, dripping with the shine of ichor. It flows through the eyes like a river, quick and rippled. Percy ducks his head, clearing his throat down towards his shoulder, and looks back up to the owl. "Athena?" he calls, words rough and scratchy. "Is that you?"
The goddess makes quick work of her hidden form, suddenly morphing into the goddess he knows well. Her helmet reflects the bright beams of the sun Percy's been trying to avoid; she holds a spear tightly at her side. She takes a few steps forward, extending her empty hand down towards Percy's collapsed figure. "You call me quickly for a boy with brains of seaweed," she remarks.
Percy scoffs. The comment alone is nearly enough to make him slap her hand away, and maybe he would have, if he was in a better position to defend himself. Percy pulls himself to his feet, dusting off the sand that sticks uncomfortably to his skin. "Thanks, I guess," he mutters. Percy sighs as he rests his hands on his hips. He looks away from Athena and out towards the ocean, squinting his eyes as he tries to recognize the landscape. "Why am I here?" he asks.
Athena blinks at him. She tilts her head to the side. "Why do you ask?"
Percy glances back up to her, snorting. She doesn't hold a smug nor prideful expression on her face. Her eyebrows just barely curl together at the center of her forehead. From this angle, he'd nearly say she borders on the edge of looking concerned. "I'm sure we both know what happened," he explains. Percy removes his left hand from its resting place and holds it out between them. Athena bites the inside of her lip as she looks at the damage. "No offense, but I should be Cerberus's chew toy right now. I don't exactly think this is the Underworld."
Athena hums. "You'd be correct," she answers vaguely, sticking the end of her spear into the sand. The goddess turns, gazing out over the water. Her posture no longer faces Percy, but she doesn't step away, avoiding blocking him out completely. She elaborates, "It wasn't your time, Perseus. The Fates- they were not ready to cut your string." Athena's shoulders are strong, but they block Percy's view of her face. He can't exactly place her emotions through her stoic tone of voice.
Still, he swallows, following her eyes out to the horizon. "I..." he trails, searching for the words. His eyes look back down to his injury. It's there. He went through with the attempt, and yet, he stands alive on a beach beside the Goddess of Wisdom herself. "I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here," he tells her.
"Some things don't need to be understood. They just need to happen," Athena counters. She sighs slowly, letting the air gently pass through her lips before she turns back around, facing Percy with a sad smile. "You were a good demigod, Percy. There was a time where I despised you, but I know better than most what you've given to the world, and what it's failed to give back to you." As Percy's head falls, avoiding her piercing yet sympathetic gaze, Athena sets a firm hand atop his shoulder. "You were good to my daughter. You protected her and you let her go. I could not, under good conscience, let you die by your own hands. Not after the life you've lived," she explains.
Against his will, Percy's shoulders begin to shake. He feels Athena tighten her grip, but all it helps is keeping him standing. It does nothing to stop the tremors or the tears that begin to well up in his eyes. He sniffles, balled-up fists rubbing at the stream that works its way down his cheeks. "I don't get it," he whispers, broken and distraught.
Athena slides her hand from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. The pressure feels almost maternal, comforting in a way that Percy hasn't quite felt since the moment he turned on the television and saw a burning mess of jet fuel and wreckage. "You hadn't a reason to live before. I want to give you one now." Gently, she wraps her fingers around the base of his head until she has enough grip to guide his eyes up. She allows him to look over the island, the stony walkway he can see at the top of the farthest hills, the rocky grass that starts just a few feet from the edge of the sand. "We are in Ancient Greece. Ithaca, to be exact."
"What?" he gasps, his head snapping in her direction. Athena doesn't flinch, but Percy still wriggles out from her hold. "How? You- you made me time travel?" Percy blinks wildly. His jaw falls open and closed a few times, trembling as he realizes he has no words to compensate for this situation. He's fought monsters since he was a child, seen death and wars, walked through the depths of hell, and still, he had never anticipated time travel being a true possibility. "If we're in the past, how do you know who I am?" he asks.
Dropping her hand at her side, Athena doesn't look at Percy. She continues to monitor the land, just as she had done to the ocean. "Time is a fickle thing, Percy," she says quietly. She steps forward, beckoning him to follow with a wave of her hand. "It takes much energy, but us Gods, we can- we can go back and revisit times of the past." The strain in her voice is clear. She briefly glances down towards her spear as they approach the shipwreck.
"Is that not painful?" Percy asks, watching her dig her hand underneath the broken wood. "To see those who are no longer there?"
Athena hums. "Of course, it is. And yet," she pauses, standing back up to her full height, "some things must be painful in order to be felt." She reaches forward, her hands meeting underneath Percy's ear. When she pulls away, she flicks the air underneath, but the feeling is still felt within his skin. Percy reaches up. His fingers clash against a thin metal bar pierced within his earlobe, connected to a small seashell that dangles below. Behind his ear lies a small, feathery stick. "This is the only time you will speak to your version of me, the one that you know. It is quite uncommon to exist in the past. The Athena that knows Perseus Jackson will not greet you again."
Percy looks up at her. His fingers twist around until he's holding the shell like a prized possession between his fingers. "You've done all that just to bring me here?" he asks. His question goes without answer as Athena continues to avoid looking upon him. Percy swallows down the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he tells her.
She gives him a curt nod and gestures towards the footpath before them. "This path will take you around the coast. Use the time to think. Eventually, you'll be drawn towards the city. I'm sure you can find your way from there," she explains. The Goddess gives him a gentle nudge on the back, forcing him to stumble upon the guided way. "Have you brushed up on your Greek lately?"
"What do you think?" Percy snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. The only place knowing Greek had been useful was in a world where the people around him also knew it, which wasn't a common scene. "Not since Camp."
Athena chuckles. "Well, the luck I wish you will be needed, then." At Percy's nervous huff, she smiles. "Do not fret. It will come to you naturally." She turns back towards the shore. Her hand tightens around the spear, and Percy knows that in that moment, he's mere seconds away from saying goodbye to the only person who connects him to his own world. "Be careful, too. There are people important to me here. I expect you to treat them as you would any child of mine," she warns.
Percy smiles, gently, and nods towards her. "Only my best to warriors of the mind," he promises. It pulls a gentle laugh from her throat, and the sound tugs at the corners of his mouth. He raises a hand up to wave, just a brief sign of an open palm. "Goodbye, Athena."
"Goodbye, Percy," she returns. "May this life treat you better than the last."
Athena quickly shifts back into the small brown owl he had spotted when he first looked around. She flies just twenty feet into the air, wings wide and outstretched, when her body zips away. In a flash, one that causes Percy to cover his eyes completely, Athena is gone from the bright day sky. Percy sighs. He touches the earring she had given him and turns towards the path, starting his steps to a brand-new world.