Work Text:
Gold-Stained
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all
There are many things you swore to never tell anyone. What you… did to Poseidon was one of them.
You had taken his very own trident and stabbed him. Over and over and over until he begged for mercy, and even then, you did not stop. Not until he surrendered, not until he swore to uplift the storm that kept you away from the ones you loved most.
How will you sleep at night? He asks as ichor stains the water gold. It seeps into the cracks of the stone, your clothes, your hair, your skin— it stains. Stains, stains, stains, your hands are always stained with blood, even that of a god’s.
You do not look at him. Only at your gold-stained hands. Next to my wife.
He coughs and more ichor splatters onto the rock.
For a long time, you believed crimson would be the color to haunt you the most. The blood of your men, your people, your friends.
You never thought gold would haunt your nightmares far more often.
—
YOU MONSTER! Poseidon had screamed as you brought the trident down once again.
(You monster. You monster. Monster. Monster. The man-made monster. Always the monster, aren’t you? How long until you get them hurt? How long until you get them killed?)
No.
(Yes.)
(How much longer can you lie to yourself, King of Ithaca? King with the gold-stained hands?)
—
Some days, most days, it is bearable. Enough so that you can ignore it. Today is not one of those days. Perhaps that is why you tell Perseus about your gold-stained hands, about the screams of the Sea God that echo in your head when it is silent, about the weight that lingers above your head each and every waking moment.
(The weight that only gets heavier each and every time you look at Percy and, deep down, beneath the fear and denial and grief, you know.)
It is the middle of the night. Percy, now six years old, is asleep—as he always is when you have conversations such as this. You are still sitting next to his bed, unmoving.
(You cannot bring yourself to look at him and see the similarities between him and his father.)
Perseus is near the door, like he so often is. He’s messing with some things scattered around the room, rearranging them as he pleases. You stare at the floor. One minute passes. Then two. Then three. Then—
“Why are you being so quiet?” Perseus says with a small laugh. “It’s strange not hearing—” You look up. His smile falls immediately, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong.”
It is not a question. It is a demand. Perseus’ tone is stern, regal, likely the tone he used when ruling his kingdom. The one that he slips into when something is very, very wrong.
Something is very wrong with you, so perhaps it is fitting.
“Odysseus?”
You should say something. You should open your mouth and confess your sins, force out the words no matter how painful.
You do not.
From where he is standing by the door, Perseus walks over, hesitantly sitting next to you. He makes sure to keep some distance between the two of you. He knows about Caly— her. He knows about her. And he likely thinks that is the reason for your silence.
You almost wish it was.
“Odysseus, please,” he urges gently. “Tell me what is wrong.”
You should say it delicately. Prepare him for the brutality of your actions. You should be gentle and slow about it. Instead—
“I tortured Poseidon.”
Quiet. You do not look him in the eyes. You cannot bring yourself to do so.
Perseus’ voice is barely above a whisper. “…what?”
“Before I made it to Ithaca.” You can barely force out the words. “I encountered Poseidon. He threatened to destroy Ithaca. He threatened to hurt my family.”
(“I’ll take your son and gouge his eyes, that is unless you choose to die!”)
Perseus does not say anything. You do not know if that unsettles you more than if he did.
“There was a fight.” Not exactly a fight. But you do not feel like calling it what it was.
(You don’t know what it was.)
“At some point, I was standing, and he wasn’t.” Your voice grows weaker and you have to force it to stay audible. “His trident was lying in front of me. He refused to lower the storm that blocked me from Ithaca. And I—”
Your voice cuts out. Perseus does not need to hear more.
“You attacked him,” he states plainly. “With his own trident. While he was down.”
Yes, you cannot bring yourself to say. Yes.
More unbearable silence.
“Well.” Perseus says, then stops. “That’s… quite the confession.” He shifts a bit. The silence seems to drag on for a long time before he continues. “I don’t care.”
You are caught off guard. Your head snaps up to face him. “What?”
“I don’t care,” Perseus repeats, head tilted. “Did you expect something else?”
“Well, I—”
You don’t know what you expected. All you knew was that you needed to tell someone, and the only person you could speak to about such a thing is Perseus. You had worries, worries that he would be horrified, that he would be nervous about having you around Percy (You both know about his heritage. One of you has accepted it. The other has not.), that he would reject you as a friend.
You glance back up at him. His expression is not blank, nor angry, nor afraid. It is kind.
And, for some reason, that only causes more distress.
“You’re not upset?” You say. “Or concerned, or worried, or—”
“I’m not.” Perseus interrupts.
You study him for what seems like hours.
“You’re not.” You mutter, disbelieving. “You’re actually serious.”
“Of course I am. Have I ever lied to you?”
No. He hasn’t. Never to you.
“I tortured a god ,” you repeat, “with his own symbol of power.”
“You did.”
“He wasn’t the first.”
“He wasn’t.”
“I’ve killed hundreds.”
“True.”
“Why do you never care?” Your voice slowly turns desperate. “Why are you never worried or scared? Why do you never look afraid? Why do you always look at me so fondly even when you know what I’ve done?”
Perseus is quiet. Then, he slowly reaches his arm out, giving you time to refuse it. You do not. He wraps his arms around you in a tight hug—but it doesn’t feel suffocating.
“Because you’re Odysseus,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. “He who loves. Οδυσσέας. κολλητέ μου. φως μου.”
You do not say anything, only staring at him in shock. He laughs quietly, pulling you closer to him. “I know that you don’t believe what I’m saying,” he says, leaning his head on yours. “And that’s fine. Because I’ll say it over and over again until you do.”
For a couple moments, you can only sit there and think of what he said, over and over and over. Then, slowly, you lean against him.
Neither of you move until the following morning. And for the first time in years, you do not worry about stains of gold.