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Atlas, for lack of a better word, was concerned. When the Manticore had contacted him saying that he was in the possession of a powerful demigod, He had presumed that it would be nothing more than a strong son of Ares or maybe a talented Daughter of Apollo. Surely it would be nothing more than that. After all, it was unlikely that any of the truly powerful demigods were so unskilled that they would be captured by a lesser monster. Perhaps it was a child of Demeter or Dionysus, they could be strong with the right training. He was not expecting the Child of the prophecy (Not Zeus’ girl, it would never be her). He definitely didn’t expect Poseidon’s son to look like a small version of his lord.
Atlas had heard rumours of course, every creature worth its ichor had. Hearing rumours and seeing in real life where to different things however. The boys’ eyes, a bright gold that seemed to flow like a molten stream, were filled with concealed rage as he looked up Castellan from his position under the sky. Elsewise, his face was a blank mask of calm and contemplation. He was like a predator trapped behind the walls of a flimsy cage, watching its captors for the slightest moment of weakness. His hair was long, down to his shoulders and falling out of the loose bun it had been braided into. The boy’s orange shirt was in tatters exposing the patchwork of scars across his body that told tales of a hard upbringing. One in particular stood out to him as he watched the boy. A long stripe of white on bronze skin stretching from his left lower jaw to his right hip, as if someone had tried to cleave him in half.
The hum of divinity was loud around the Sea Prince. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the cavern. Castellan could barely look at the boy without feeling faint, and the humans couldn’t come within 100 ft without feeling the need to turn around. Atlas briefly wondered how the demigods at the camp stood being sound the boy for so long (they couldn’t stand it most of the time, they were just really good at pretending everything was ok). Even he himself, a Titan who had stood in the presence of Kronos on a regular during the golden age was feeling the effects of the boys presence.
Artemis was brought before them in chains. The Goddess of the hunt reduced to a powerless prisoner while her brother and those foolhardy demigods attempted a rescue mission. She was a powerful bargaining chip, even if Perseus refused to relinquish his hold on the sky to her. It was entertaining to say the least, to watch the Goddess who was usually so hostile towards males almost beg the boy to let her take his place. Atlas was curious as to the boys’ actions. He owed no loyalty to the Huntress (He did, just as he owed loyalty to her brother and his other family) yet he was willing to spare her the burden of the sky, something that was surely taking its tole as he came to the 5th day of his entrapment. His hair was streaked through with white creating an almost slivery look that contrasted with the shifting sands contained within his eyes. The boy’s face was still a mask of calm, eyes staring off into the distance as if he was seeing something else entirely (speaking to something someone else entirely).
The Goddess had taken to talking to him. Softly whispered words and gentle hymns. Songs of healing and strength taught to her by her brother and song of the ocean taught to her by her uncle. They were as much of a blessing as she could give given her currant state. She felt weak and useless (a horrible feeling she never wished to experience again), a bystander to the torture of an innocent (well, innocent in their world, mortals may disagree). This was the son of her favourite uncle, the boy who had been raised more divine than mortal, the boy who had been one of the few to look at her brother with an absence of fear. He was the boy who reminded her so much of a younger Apollo, forced to grow up before his time and given a destiny that was as cruel as it was unkind. This was the boy who had been cursed (blessed) with the appearance of their Grandfather. This was the boy who would see Olympus preserved or raised. It was then, in those four days of reflection, that Artemis came to a decision. This boy was one of hers. She would welcome him as one of her own and protect him as an older sibling should. After all, Poseidon had always been more of a father to her and her brother than the Lord of Sky had.
It was only when the questers arrived, (two battered Demigods, one hunter, and a Satyr) that Perseus broke out of his clam. The weight of the sky was beginning to take its toll. His shoulders were on fire and his knees had lost feeling. His hands were burning, and his neck felt like someone had taken a knife to it (again). And there was Thalia, willing him to release his burden and fight. Offering to take his place for a moment so that He and his sister (for Artemis was his sister as much as Lady Amphitrite was his mother) could put the Titan general back in his place. Who was he to refuse this offer, the offer to fight alongside his sister, to truly unleash after so long being contained (the sea hated being restrained).
Perseus, Atlas noted, fought like a demon. NO. He fought like his grandfather. The unrestrained brutality that was somehow still graceful and fluid. It was like the rolling currants of the sea or the flowing sands of time. If he tried (he didn’t have to try hard), Atlas could almost see Perseus with as different weapon in a different time. He knew the fight was lost before it started, The Goddess alone would have proved a challenge, but with the help of the boy and his own Daughter (her precious little Zoë) putting up much of fight would be night impossible. His lord would forgive him. He had brought him time to reform and had gained an insight to the Sea Gods child. Yes, this was a battle he could afford to lose.
Kronos looked on as his Grandchild held a burden fit for a Titan. He could see the tole it was taking on his mortal body, his divinity quick and eager to compensate. It would not be long before the boy became more. Whether that be a God or something else remained to be seen.
Kronos first became aware of his youngest Grandson (Di Angelo was the oldest regardless of His sons tricks) when Castellan gave one of his many monthly reports. The boy had seemed hesitant at first to disclose the information, but some gentle prodding on the Titan Kings part (Read: threats) had the boy revealing all.
It was almost painful to cast his gaze upon Perseus. Not because of his growing divinity as was the case with others, but because of the resemblance he bore to himself and his favourite son. It was like looking in a mirror when viewing Perseus. A mirror that reflected a younger, better version of himself.
As the boy aged, so did his resemblance to Kronos. As the boy adventured and lived his life, Kronos’s curiosity and intrigue grew. It was more than looks that linked them now. Perseus fought like him, had the same effect on a room that he used to. He could see the present and future through his dreams, and sometimes the boy could slow the speed of an opponent so that he may win the battle (He wondered if the boy was aware he could do that). Yes, the boy drew a remarkable resemblance to him, but he was also his father’s child. Perseus was kind in ways that Kronos could not be. He was a prince instead of a king, changing the expectations placed on him. Perseus could afford to be merciful; he could afford to debate morality (not that he did), he could afford to care for those outside of his family. He was lucky in that way Kronos mused.
Should the titans win the war, Kronos was willing to offer the boy a place as a prince. His Grandson was starting to worm his way into the long dead heart of the Titan king. IT was a dangerous thing to care in war, but Perseus and Kronos lived for Danger.