Chapter Text
It’s eerie. How nothing comes as a true surprise.
The explanation of her battle reflexes. The natural affinity for Ancient Greek. English never truly felt right for her. The way it manipulates her tongue and the shape of her lips. The sounds it forces her to procure. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Though of course, voicing as such was a lost cause. How could she have known her mind and body were carved in a different image? For another means?
She stares down at the broken Minotaur horn resting in her hands. The end of it is jagged, ruthlessly snapped from its source. Invoking unimaginable pain. With a trembling hand she traces its ridges from the base to the pointed tip. Supposedly it’s a reward. A spoils of war.
To Percy it’s a reminder of her failure. Yes, in the end she managed to slay the beast. Skewering it with its own body. Yet the victory falls hollow before her ultimate loss.
Percy’s hand tightens against the horn as a pulse of agitation pings in her chest. She knows her mother is not dead. Knows it just as well as she knows her name is Percy Jackson. That flash of light while in the Minotaur’s hold did not signify death. Death is not bright. Not vibrant. Not magical. It is cold. Hollow. And entirely human.
No, what happened to her mother was not death. Thanatos, her mind whispers as though recalling an old friend. She shakes her head minutely as she replays the scene of her mother’s demise over and over again.
Death may not have taken her. But she was stolen. Someone took her just before death had the chance to. And who could intercept a god if not another god? The question, Percy muses as she bites the inside of her cheek, is who…and why?
Why would a god want her mother?
The answer lies acrid on her tongue.
Leverage.
But why? Why would a god require leverage over her? To her understanding, since her short arrival at Camp, there is a clear hierarchy. And demigods most certainly fall below gods.
Well, Percy adjusts the horn in her hands until the sharp tip is pointed outward, threatening any who approach, it doesn’t matter who or why. Percy will find out. She has to.
Because no matter what she will save her mother. Her mother is all she has in this world. The addition of the Greek gods means nothing in a world without Sally Jackson.
She doesn’t see her dad here helping in any way. No matter how much she wishes he would.
She pushes down the feelings of a familiar hurt. A small part of her pushes back against the notion, retaliating. Arguing she knows it’s not that simple for the gods. Exasperated especially by the modern age.
But how could she know that? How could she know that for sure? She’s never been a god.
A nearby chuckle startles her, pulling her gaze away from where it’d been fixated on the lethal point of the minotaur’s horn.
She casts her gaze upward to land on a scarred face. Physically scarred, a thin harsh line marring the right side of a youthful face. Just mercifully missing the eye, running below it down to the boy’s jaw. Yet it’s clear he carries scars much deeper than the visible one pronounced on his skin.
His eyes mirror the sentiment. Stormy blue eyes akin to a split open sky. Booming in thunderous fury before it prepares to unleash torrential downpours to drown all that lie below.
He himself appears to be doing so. Drowning. Drowning in grief, pain, and wave after wave of building resentment.
He’s smiling at her. All open and charming. But Percy cannot ignore the way the sunlight causes a glimmer to bounce of his bared teeth. To most anyone the smile would appear warm and welcoming. But Percy’s heart warns her it is much closer to a grimace of one losing the patience and fortitude to continue to bare the weight of unwanted, untethered, massive vats of pain.
His eyes flicker down to her hold on the horn momentarily before he finds her eyes again. The boyish grin remains firmly, and perhaps carefully placed, upon his face, “You intending to gut someone with that?”
Percy doesn’t answer. She simply stares at the puzzle before her. He can’t be much older than eighteen. Perhaps nineteen. Freshly released from Apollo’s protection.
He doesn’t falter from her lack of response. If anything his smile broadens. He offers a hand that has been calloused from years of dutifully wielding the hilt of a sword, “Name’s Luke, Luke Castellan.”
He swipes his tongue along the top row of his teeth as he suddenly hesitates in continuing. Eventually, however, a weight appears to settle on his shoulders as he bites out, “Son of Hermes.”
The name stirs something in Percy’s mind that she can’t place. A man with a staff leading a line of shadow-like beings through rough terrain. Then the image of a similar boyish grin on a face hidden by a winged hat. A voice filled with giddiness as it eggs on competition.
Yes, Percy thinks, son of Hermes indeed you are Luke Castellan.
Just why she feels so strongly of the the thought, not even she can explain. Yet it remains, as solid as Mount Olympos.
A small twitch alights along Luke’s jaw as her unrelenting continued measure of silence appears to finally be getting to him. Cracking away at the gentle warm facade, “And you are?”
Ah, she chastizes herself, classic Percy. Making herself a fool in front of another stranger. Well, he was bound to come to the same conclusion on his own anyways.
In a move that is almost painful to carry out, Percy uncurls a hand from the minotaur horn. She meets his offered hand. The hand of a warrior, she recognizes easily.
She grasps it firmly as she exchanges pleasantries, “Percy Jackson, daughter of Sally Jackson.”
That pulls the first genuine smile from the boy before her. He grins at her as she shakes their hands together. Interest laces his voice, “Not claiming the unknown godly parent, huh?”
Percy shrugs half-heartedly.
Luke’s grin remains as his hand falls away, releasing hers, “I respect it.”
It’s a bit of an odd comment perhaps. Yet, not unexpected. Not unexpected in the slightest.
Luke moves with casual ease as he clasps a hand against her shoulder and steers her off the stairs of the Big House and further into the heart of camp.
They pass several campers doing an array of activities. Volleyball, archery, climbing a wall that spews lava, the crossing of swords, and more.
Their eyes follow her as she passes, many lingering on the horn still holds within her hands. The looks vary. Some shocked. Some curious. And a few irritated. Tinged with envy.
Percy pays them no mind. She’s given up on the idea of friends long ago. Grover is the closest she’s ever had to a genuine friend. And turns out he was a satyr simply carrying out his job of retrieving a half-blood.
She pretends it doesn’t sting.
Soon they’re upon the cabins. All different. Resembling the different nature of the gods. Most are bustling. Filled with children of various ages. Though most tend to be older than Percy’s age.
Luke gestures towards the buildings, “There’s one for each Olympian.”
She hears the words, counts that yes there are only twelve structures total, yet it doesn’t erase the shock. It’s evident even as she speaks, “Are there…temples somewhere for the other gods? Such as Hestia? Plouton?”
Luke blinks, confusion washing over his features, “Pluton?”
The explanation comes instinctually, “Haides”, a cool chill fills the air. Percy shifts her feet uneasily, “I meant Haides.”
Luke eyes her somewhat warily before answering her inquiry, “…No. We do not have anything for the other gods.”
Mistake. Percy thinks. Major major mistake.
Luke falls back into the rhythm of the usual speech for the newcomer tours, “All the cabins are filled except for Artemis’, Hera’s, and Poseidon and Zeus’.”
The Poseidon and Zeus aspect feels fundamentally wrong. But the lack of the listing of one particular name centers her attention, “And Athene, of course.”
Luke shakes his head, “While it has the least of us by far, there are still some.”
Percy frowns sharply as her chest begins to ache, “But Athene is a maiden goddess. She wouldn’t have demigod children.”
The words ‘she doesn’t’ are just barely swallowed back from leaving her lips.
Luke shrugs half-heartedly, “To my understanding there is nothing physical. So I guess her maiden status withstands. They’re more,” his lips twist, unsure, “thought children I suppose.”
In an almost trance-like state Percy walks toward the cabin. Athene’s cabin. Filled with Athene’s children. It makes no sense.
She doesn’t quite make it to the front door as a girl emerges from it and walks directly towards Percy, blocking her path.
The girl is around Percy’s age. Tan and muscular. Face angular and rather androgynous. Blond hair situated away from her face in a ponytail.
Gray eyes pierce into Percy as they look down on her. The girl has a good couple inches on her. The gaze understandably lacks any familiarity. Yet for some reason Percy still expects it. Still desperately searches for it. She knows these eyes. But these eyes do not know her.
Luke’s voice breaks the confrontation, “Speaking of! Percy, meet Annabeth. A child of Athena.”
He winks at her as he nudges her arm lightly, “Told you they were real.”
It’s said jokingly. And at a lower volume than the previous sentence of introduction. But Annabeth hears it all the same.
She stiffens. Her shoulders hunch as though readying herself to have to lash out. Hurt flashes across her face. Though she is quick to mask it. A tiredness cloaks her as her lips thin into a displeased line, “Yeah well, I don’t know why.” The line of displeasure starts to twist into a scowl, “Why we exist.”
For some reason Percy gets the feeling Annabeth isn’t talking about the factor of Athene being a maiden goddess.
Luke moves swiftly, placing a gentle comforting hand upon Annabeth’s shoulder, “Hey, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“
Luke abruptly cuts himself off as Annabeth shrugs off the offered hand of comfort. Her eyes shimmer with tears as she murmurs, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll never be good enough. Cause we’ll never be her.”
She mumbles with a deep seated anger and hatred, “The Athenide.”
Luke sighs as he attempts to appeal to the bitter child before him, “Annabeth, I know your feelings. And believe me, I get it. But you really shouldn’t speak badly of our own god.”
Annabeth huffs irritably, crossing her arms, “If she’s our god then where is she?” Her voice rises as emotion sinks into it thickly, “Where is the Athenide! Goddess of Demigods!”
Annabeth scoffs, “You’d think for a goddess of loyalty she’d stay loyal to us. Would stick around”.
Luke pulls away from Annabeth. Any garnered sympathy or empathy erased by her comments, “You know the story. She didn’t choose to leave us. She was forced to.”
Percy watches the interaction with rapt attention. Has ever since that word was uttered.
Athenide. The Athenide.
It hums with energy. Terribly terribly familiar. As though Percy is incredibly intimate with it despite never hearing the word before today.
The Athenide. Goddess of Demigods. Goddess of Loyalty.
It feels right. Almost too right.
But, but she’s missing? How can a goddess go missing?
Percy interjects before she can stop herself, “Who’s the Athenide?”
Luke shoots a glare in Annabeth’s direction and demands more than suggests, “Let’s move away from the cabin. Better not to discuss this where we could be overheard.”
So Percy follows Luke and Annabeth to the outskirts of the camp’s woods. Mind screaming of how wrong it is. All of it. Everything.
And set. Set on the idea that she can fix it.
She can bring the Athenide back. Just like she’s going to bring back her mother. For mothers and daughters do not deserve to be separated.
Not even ones that are part of a family as messy as the gods.