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Estelle was five. No matter what her mom or dad or teachers said, she wasn’t too young. She knew things.
Mom had told her stories of the Greek gods and monsters. She knew they were real. She didn’t have to see them because mom had told her and she believed mom.
She was nine, and trying to ignore her classmates mocking her, saying her faith was just a bunch of ancient made up tales. They weren’t. She knew because sometimes she saw blurry figures. Monsters, mom had told her. She stayed away, and the gods kept her safe.
She knew they were looking after her, because once, on a school field trip, she’d fallen from a dingy ferry into the sea. The waves had swept her back aboard, and while the news called it a miracle wave pattern, Estelle knew better.
Poseidon, or Perseus. She knew both myths. She wanted it to be Perseus, for he was far closer to her and much more of a relatable figure, if it was true he’d really grown up in the modern world.
Mom had said that the hero turned god had once been mortal, forced to abandon his family and unborn sister. Estelle found it sad- had she had a little sibling, she’d have hated to leave. She’d have been distraught to have an older brother that had been torn from her.
She turned eleven, and learnt her belief was called Hellenic Polytheism, or Paganism. It was a religion, just like Christianity or Buddhism, and others also believed. Her friends talked about Santa, and the Easter Bunny, things they’d grown out of and realized were just childhood novelties. Her faith was a religion, not a fable, and she wouldn’t outgrow it.
When her mom died, she prayed to Hades and Persephone to grant her solace, placing a drachma in her cold hand. She knew they’d protect her, making sure her mom had the best, just like she had done for her. That day was one of the worst storms of the century, and ridiculous as it was, Estelle pretended that there was a god out there crying with her.
Her dad tried. He really did, but it wasn’t enough. They struggled, only just scraping by from his meagre salary. Estelle suspected someone was helping them, for every month, cheques would appear in the living room- marked only with the symbol of a compass and wave. She didn’t tell her dad, didn’t have to, since she was certain he knew.
When she was younger, she read a story that told her of guardian angels sent to look over mortals. Perhaps they had a guardian of their own, though she was inclined to think that it was a god rather than an angel. They could assist their favoured mortals, after all.
Still, the world is a cruel place. Estelle fought for her place, burying herself in studies that left no time for her old fantasies. In our world, making a mark is difficult, and it took all of her. The Greek myths never really left her, though- she studied classics in university, and followed a career in them through adulthood.
What did leave was her unwavering hope.
At seventeen, she’d fallen into student debt. No mysterious money arrived, nor the warm touch of a protector. She’d prayed, and the flame went dark only a few minutes after it’d been lit. (She had no way to know that the god she was praying to had been mourning that night, crying for a lover long gone.)
When she’d been twenty three, Estelle was evicted from her apartment. No gods came to save her. (One of them had wanted to, but couldn’t, bound by ancient laws and a threat on the girl he wanted to help. He wouldn’t risk her safety.)
She was nearing her late thirties when she got back on track, found a new job, and started a nonprofit organization for historical restoration. She’d done it on her own, with no mystical deities or magic helping her out, as this was her own path where she stood against the hurricane on her own feet.
Two days before her forty eighth birthday, her dad had passed away. Unlike her mom, he’d lived to an old age, and died fulfilled. The empty half of the shared grave was finally complete, her parents side by side in death just as they had in life.
Shortly after Estelle had been born, the two of them had written a book together. The story of a divorce, and two siblings forced apart to different sides of the family. The sister had always reminded her of herself, a bit, and she’d once dreamed of having a brother as caring and determined as the one she read about.
The two kids had been reunited. If she had a long lost brother, they’d never found each other.
The last line of the last chapter had been a beautiful piece of prose. Those who we love cannot leave us, no matter the distance, for we will always hold them in our hearts.
The quote was engraved on the tombstone, and Estelle had spent countless evenings tracing her finger over the stone, eyes wet and salty with unshed tears.
Ten years later, she had stood on the shore of the Atlantic. She couldn’t have told you why she'd come, only that it felt right, with the wind whipping her hair and sea salt in her face.
She wondered, vaguely, what she was living for. What she wanted. Since that day, she would visit the spot by the ocean every year, yearning to know why she felt the pull to the sea when she’d been raised in a landlocked state.
She found her purpose. Her name was a well known one, quoted in research papers and speeches around the world for her revolutionary work recovering the ancient world in a way the modern day could understand. She lived a long, full life. Not an easy one, by any means, but one that she was proud of.
Estelle Blofis died on December 1st, and was buried by the seashore. She lived to be ninety two, an age her brother would never reach.
Perseus Jackson attended the funeral, a small affair, for despite her fame, the girl had never aimed to be well known. He wore a suit, tails brushing the ground with his navy coloured tie rumpled. One of the guests swore they saw him, a handsome young man with silky hair and graceful movements, but the others claimed that he’d imagined it.
Like he had been in her life, Percy stayed unseen at his sister’s funeral.
The old poets say a god's grief can move mountains, and they weren’t wrong. However, that day, the immortal had mourned like a human would -raw, vulnerable, heartfelt- and perhaps that was even more powerful.