'There was a guy in a Greek tunic and sandals crouching alone in a massive stone room. The ceiling was open to the night sky, but the walls were twenty feet high and polished marble, completely smooth. Scattered around the room were wooden crates. Some were cracked and tipped over, as if they'd been flung in there. Bronze tools spilled out of one—a compass, a saw, and a bunch of other things. The boy huddled in the corner, shivering from cold and fear. Fear for his father. He was splattered in mud.
His legs, arms, and face, were scraped up as if he'd been dragged here along with the boxes. Then the double oak doors moaned open. Two guards in bronze armor marched in, holding an old man between them. They flung him to the floor in a battered heap. "Father!" The boy ran to him. The man's robes were in tatters. His hair was streaked with gray, and his beard was long and curly. His nose had been broken. His lips were bloody. The boy took the old man's head in his arms. "What did they do to you?" then he yelled at the guards. "I'll kill you!"
"There will be no killing today," a voice said. The guards moved aside. Behind them stood a tall man in white robes. He wore a thin circlet of gold on his head. His beard was pointed like a spear blade. His eyes glittered cruelly. "You helped the Athenian kill my Minotaur, Daedalus. You turned my own daughter against me." "You did that yourself, Your Majesty," the old man croaked. A guard planted a kick in the old man's ribs. He groaned in agony. The young boy cried, "Stop!"
"You love your maze so much," the king said, "I have decided to let you stay here. This will be your workshop. Make me new wonders. Amuse me. Every maze needs a monster. You will be mine!"
"I don't fear you," the old man groaned. The king smiled coldly. He locked his eyes on the boy. "But a man cares about his son, eh? Displease me, old man, and the next time my guards inflict a punishment, it will be on him!"
The king swept out of the room with his guards, and the doors slammed shut, leaving the boy and his father alone in the darkness. "What shall we do?" the boy moaned. "Father, they will kill you!" The old man swallowed with difficulty. He tried to smile, but it was a gruesome sight with his bloody mouth. "Take heart, my son." He gazed up at the stars. "I—I will find a way." A bar lowered across the doors with a fatal BOOM.
*Time Skip*
The prison looked more like a workshop now. Tables were littered with measuring instruments. A forge burned red hot in the corner. The boy was stoking the bellows. A weird funnel device was attached to the forge's chimney, trapping the smoke and heat and channeling it through a pipe into the floor, next to a big bronze manhole cover. It was daytime. The sky above was blue, but the walls of the maze cast deep shadows across the workshop. Somehow that made the maze seem like even a crueler place.
The old man looked sickly. He was terribly thin, his hands raw and red from working. White hair covered his eyes, and his tunic was smudged with grease. He was bent over a table, working on some kind of long metal patchwork—like a swath of chain mail. He picked up a delicate curl of bronze and fitted it into place.
"Done," he announced. "It's done." He picked up his project-metal wings constructed from thousands of interlocking bronze feathers. There were two sets. One still lay on the table. Daedalus stretched the frame, and the wings expanded twenty feet. The craftsmanship was amazing.
Metal feathers caught the light and flashed thirty different shades of gold. The boy left the bellows and ran over to see. He grinned, despite the fact that he was grimy and sweaty. "Father, you're a genius!" The old man smiled. "Tell me something I don't know, Icarus. Now hurry. It will take at least an hour to attach them. Come."
"You first," Icarus said. The old man protested, but Icarus insisted. "You made them, Father. You should get the honor of wearing them first." The boy attached a leather harness to his father's chest, like climbing gear, with straps that ran from his shoulders to his wrists. Then he began fastening on the wings, using a metal canister that looked like an enormous hot-glue gun.
"The wax compound should hold for several hours," Daedalus said nervously as his son worked. "But we must let it set first. And we would do well to avoid flying too high or too low. The sea would wet the wax seals—"
"And the sun's heat would loosen them," the boy finished. "Yes, Father. We've been through this a million times!"
"One cannot be too careful."
"I have complete faith in your inventions, Father! No one has ever been as smart as you." The old man's eyes shone. It was obvious he loved his son more than anything in the world. "Now I will do your wings, and give mine a chance to set properly. Come!" It was slow going. The old man's hands fumbled with the straps. He had a hard time keeping the wings in position while he sealed them. His own metal wings seemed to weigh him down, getting in his way while he tried to work. "Too slow," the old man muttered. "I am too slow."
"Take your time, Father," the boy said. "The guards aren't due until—" BOOM! The workshop doors shuddered. Daedalus had barred them from the inside with a wooden brace, but still they shook on their hinges. "Hurry!" Icarus said. BOOM! BOOM! Something heavy was slamming into the doors. The brace held, but a crack appeared in the left door. Daedalus worked furiously.
A drop of hot wax spilled onto Icarus's shoulder. The boy winced but did not cry out. When his left wing was sealed into the straps, Daedalus began working on the right. "We must have more time," Daedalus murmured. "They are too early! We need more time for the seal to hold." "It'll be fine," Icarus said, as his father finished the right wing. "Help me with the manhole—" CRASH!
The doors splintered and the head of a bronze battering ram emerged through the breach. Axes cleared the debris, and two armed guards entered the room, followed by the king with the golden crown and the spear- shaped beard. "Well, well," the king said with a cruel smile. "Going somewhere?"
Daedalus and his son froze, their metal wings glimmering on their backs.
"We're leaving, Minos," the old man said. King Minos chuckled.
"I was curious to see how far you'd get on this little project before I dashed your hopes. I must say I'm impressed." The king admired their wings. "You look like metal chickens," he decided. "Perhaps we should pluck you and make a soup." The guards laughed stupidly. "Metal chickens," one repeated. "Soup."
"Shut up," the king said. Then he turned again to Daedalus. "You let my daughter escape, old man. You drove my wife to madness. You killed my monster and made me the laughingstock of the Mediterranean. You will never escape me!"
Icarus grabbed the wax gun and sprayed it at the king, who stepped back in surprise. The guards rushed forward, but each got a stream of hot wax in his face. "The vent!" Icarus yelled to his father. "Get them!" King Minos raged.
Together, the old man and his son pried open the manhole cover, and a column of hot air blasted out of the ground. The king watched, incredulous, as the inventor and son shot into the sky on their bronze wings, carried by the updraft. "Shoot them!" the king yelled, but his guards had brought no bows. One threw his sword in desperation, but Daedalus and Icarus were already out of reach. They wheeled above the maze and the king's palace, then zoomed across the city of Knossos and out past the rocky shores of Crete.
Icarus laughed. "Free, Father! You did it." The boy spread his wings to their full limit and soared away on the wind. "Wait!" Daedalus called. "Be careful!" But Icarus was already out over the open sea, heading north and delighting in their good luck. He soared up and scared an eagle out of its flight path, then plummeted toward the sea like he was born to fly, pulling out of a nosedive at the last second. His sandals skimmed the waves. "Stop that!" Daedalus called. But the wind carried his voice away.
His son was drunk on his own freedom. The old man struggled to catch up, gliding clumsily after his son. They were miles from Crete, over deep sea, when Icarus looked back and saw his father's worried expression. Icarus smiled. "Don't worry, Father! You're a genius! I trust your handiwork—" The first metal feather shook loose from his wings and fluttered away. Then another. Icarus wabbled in midair. Suddenly he was shedding bronze feathers, which twirled away from him like a flock of frightened birds.
"Icarus!" his father cried. "Glide! Extend the wings. Stay as still as possible!" But Icarus flapped his arms, desperately trying to reassert control. The left wing went first—ripping away from the straps. "Father!" Icarus cried. And then he fell, the wings stripped away until he was just a boy in a climbing harness and a white tunic, his arms extended in a useless attempt to glide.
*Time Skip*
The old man Daedalus was hunched over a worktable, wrestling with some kind of navigational instrument, like a huge compass. He looked years older than when I'd last seen him. He was stooped and his hands were gnarled. He cursed in Ancient Greek and squinted as if he couldn't see his work, even though it was a sunny day. "Uncle!" a voice called. A smiling boy came bounding up the steps, carrying a wooden box.
"Hello, Perdix," the old man said, though his tone sounded cold. "Done with your projects already?" "Yes, Uncle. They were easy!" Daedalus scowled. "Easy? The problem of moving water uphill without a pump was easy?" "Oh, yes! Look!" The boy dumped his box and rummaged through the scrolls. He came up with a strip of papyrus and showed the old inventor some diagrams and notes. Daedalus nodded grudgingly. "I see. Not bad." "The king loved it!" Perdix said. "He said I might be even smarter than you!"
"Did he now?"
"But I don't believe that. I'm so glad Mother sent me to study with you! I want to know everything you do."
"Yes," Daedalus muttered. "So when I die, you can take my place, eh?" The boys' eyes widened. "Oh no, Uncle! But I've been thinking…why does a man have to die, anyway?"
The inventor scowled. "It is the way of things, lad. Everything dies but the gods."
"But why?" the boy insisted. "If you could capture the animus, the soul in another form…well, you've told me about your automatons, Uncle. Bulls, eagles, dragons, horses of bronze. Why not a bronze form for a man?" "No, my boy," Daedalus said sharply. "You are naïve. Such a thing is impossible."
"I don't think so," Perdix insisted. "With the use of a little magic—"
"Magic? Bah!"
"Yes, Uncle! Magic and mechanics together—with a little work, one could make a body that would look exactly human, only better. I've made some notes." He handed the old man a thick scroll. Daedalus unfurled it. He read for a long time. His eyes narrowed. He glanced at the boy, then closed the scroll and cleared his throat. "It would never work, my boy. When you're older, you'll see." "Can I fix that astrolabe, then, Uncle? Are your joints swelling up again?" The old man's jaw clenched. "No. Thank you. Now why don't you run along?"
Perdix didn't seem to notice the old man's anger. He snatched a bronze beetle from his mound of stuff and ran to the edge of the tower. A low sill ringed the rim, coming just up to the boy's knees. The wind was wound up the beetle and tossed it into the sky. It spread its wings and hummed away. Perdix laughed with delight. "Smarter than me," Daedalus mumbled, too soft for the boy to hear.
"Is it true that your son died flying, Uncle? I heard you made him enormous wings, but they failed." Daedalus's hands clenched.
"Take my place," he muttered. The wind whipped around the boy, tugging at his clothes, making his hair ripple. "I would like to fly," Perdix said. "I'd make my own wings that wouldn't fail. Do you think I could?"
The two- headed god Janus shimmered in the air next to Daedalus, smiling as he tossed a silver key from hand to hand. Choose, he whispered to the old inventor. Choose. Daedalus picked up another one of the boy's metal bags. The inventor's old eyes were red with anger.
"Perdix," he called. "Catch." He tossed the bronze beetle toward the boy. Delighted, Perdix tried to catch it, but the throw was too long. The beetle sailed into the sky, and Perdix reached a little too far. The wind caught him. Somehow he managed to grab the rim of the tower with his fingers as he fell. "Uncle!" he screamed. "Help me!"
The old man's face was a mask. He did not move from his spot. "Go on, Perdix," Daedalus said softly. "May your own wings. Be quick about it."
"Uncle!" the boy cried as he lost his grip. He tumbled toward the sea. There was a moment of deadly silence. The god Janus flickered and disappeared. Then thunder shook the sky. A woman's stern voice spoke from above, " You will pay the price for that, Daedalus." Daedalus scowled up at the heavens. "I have always honored you, Mother. I have sacrificed everything to follow your way."
"Yet the boy had my blessing as well. And you have killed him. For that, you must pay."
"I have paid and paid!" Daedalus growled. "I've lost everything. I'll suffer in the Underworld, no doubt. But in the meantime…"
He picked up the boy's scroll, studied it for a moment, and slipped it into his sleeve." You do not understand, Athena said coldly. You will pay now and forever. Suddenly Daedalus collapsed in agony. A searing pain closed around his neck like a molten-hot collar—cutting off his breath, making everything go black as he fell into blissful unconsciousness.'
All that was processed by his intelligent brain in seconds. He couldn't believe that after millennia he remembered each and every detail of his prison, home, creation, and workshop. The flashback, the memories were in the recesses of his mind for a reason. He wished that he could have had Hera wipe that memory clean. But he couldn't as the gods didn't know he was alive, nor could they. It would be disastrous. Oh how he wished he could apologize to Perdix and reconcile with his late Icarus.
'No, these thoughts would just hurt me even more, I can't meet them again, Minos would make sure that I'd go to to the Fields of Punishment.' Those were his thoughts as he walked into the Marriott,
'Remembering this does nothing to help me. Remembering my bout of insanity won't bring Perdix back, and it won't wash me of this deed.' With that final thought he touched the Delta symbol and entered his greatest creation.
Athena
There was yet another war on the horizon, not even a year after the last one. It was really astounding, that the first Olympian war and the first Gigantomachy were centuries apart, yet the 2nd Olympian war and the 2nd Gigantomachy were only 10-11 months apart. As the goddess of wisdom she couldn't help but notice the statistics of the matter. It had to have been planned, and for it to work out the way it did then it must have been implemented before the Pact of The Big Three, but before WW2 ended.
She was correct of course, Hazel Levesque had aided in the revival of Alcyoneus, bane of Hades. She however couldn't blame the girl, no she blamed the mother, the one who allowed herself to be influenced by Gaea. The one who caused the death of her daughter, the one that started the whole situation, Marie Levesque.
However Athena shouldn't talk as she wasn't much better. She greatly regretted what she did but it could not be reversed, nor could she apologize for what she had said. Especially with her schizophrenia half time.
'Annabeth had been riding the subway back from the Upper East Side after visiting Percy's mom. During those long months when Percy was missing, Annabeth made the trip at least once a week—partly to give Sally Jackson and her husband Paul an update on the search, and partly because Annabeth and Sally needed to lift each other's spirits and convince one another that Percy would be fine.
The spring had been especially hard. By then, Annabeth had reason to hope Percy was alive, since Hera's plan seemed to involve sending him to the Roman side, but she couldn't be sure where he was. Jason had remembered his old camp's location more or less, but all the Greeks' magic—even that of the campers of Hecate's cabin—couldn't confirm that Percy was there, or anywhere. He seemed to have disappeared from the planet. Rachel the Oracle had tried to read the future, and while she couldn't see much, she'd been certain that Leo needed to finish the Argo II before they could contact the Romans.
Nevertheless, Annabeth had spent every spare moment scouring all sources for any rumors of Percy. She had talked to nature spirits, read legends about Rome, dug for clues on Daedalus's notebook, and spent hundreds of golden drachmas on Iris-messages to every friendly spirit, demigod, or monster she'd ever met, all with no luck.
That particular afternoon, coming back from Sally's, Annabeth had felt even more drained than usual. She and Sally had first cried and then attempted to pull themselves together, but their nerves were frayed. Finally Annabeth took the Lexington Avenue subway down to Grand Central.
There were other ways to get back to her high school dorm from the Upper East Side, but Annabeth liked going through Grand Central Terminal. The beautiful design and the vast open space reminded her of Mount Olympus. Grand buildings made her feel better—maybe because being in a place so permanent made her feel more permanent.
She had just passed Sweet on America, the candy shop where Percy's mom used to work, and was thinking about going inside to buy some blue candy for old times' sake, when she saw Athena studying the subway map on the wall.
"Mother!" Annabeth couldn't believe it. She hadn't seen her mom in months—not since Zeus had closed the gates of Olympus and forbidden all communication with demigods.
Many times, Annabeth had tried to call on her mom anyway, pleading for guidance, sending up burnt offerings with every meal at camp. She'd had no response. Now here was Athena, dressed in jeans and hiking boots and a red flannel shirt, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She held a backpack and a walking stick like she was prepared for a long journey.
"I must return home," Athena murmured, studying the map. "The way is complex. I wish Odysseus were here. He would understand."
"Mom!" Annabeth said. "Athena!"
The goddess turned. She seemed to look right through Annabeth with no recognition.
"That was my name," the goddess said dreamily. "Before they sacked my city, took my identity, made me this." She looked at her clothes in disgust. "I must return home."
Annabeth stepped back in shock. "You're…you're Minerva?"
"Don't call me that!" The goddess's gray eyes flared with anger. "I used to carry a spear and a shield. I held victory in the palm of my hand. I was so much more than this."
"Mom." Annabeth's voice trembled. "It's me, Annabeth. Your daughter."
"My daughter…" Athena repeated. "Yes, my children will avenge me. They must destroy the Romans. Horrible, dishonorable, copycat Romans. Hera argued that we must keep the two camps apart. I said, No, let them fight. Let my children destroy the usurpers."
Annabeth's heartbeat thumped in her ears. "You wanted that? But you're wise. You understand warfare better than any—"
"Once!" the goddess said. "Replaced. Sacked. Looted like a trophy and carted off—away from my beloved homeland. I lost so much. I swore I would never forgive. Neither would my children." She focused more closely on Annabeth. "You are my daughter?"
"Yes."
The goddess fished something from the pocket of her shirt—an old-fashioned subway token—and pressed it into Annabeth's hand.
"Follow the Mark of Athena," the goddess said. "Avenge me."
Annabeth had looked at the coin. As she watched, it changed from a New York subway token to an ancient silver drachma, the kind used by Athenians. It showed an owl, Athena's sacred animal, with an olive branch on one side and a Greek inscription on the other.
The Mark of Athena.
At the time, Annabeth had had no idea what it meant. She didn't understand why her mom was acting like this. Minerva or not, she shouldn't be so confused.
"Mom…" She tried to make her tone as reasonable as possible. "Percy is missing. I need your help." She had started to explain Hera's plan for bringing the camps together to battle Gaea and the giants, but the goddess stamped her walking stick against the marble floor.
"Never!" she said. "Anyone who helps Rome must perish. If you would join them, you are no child of mine. You have already failed me."
"Mother!"
"I care nothing about this Percy. If he has gone over to the Romans, let him perish. Kill him. Kill all the Romans. Find the Mark, follow it to its source. Witness how Rome has disgraced me, and pledge your vengeance."
"Athena isn't the goddess of revenge." Annabeth's nails bit into her palms. The silver coin seemed to grow warmer in her hand. "Percy is everything to me."
"And revenge is everything to me," the goddess snarled. "Which of us is wiser?"
"Something is wrong with you. What's happened?"
"Rome happened!" the goddess said bitterly. "See what they have done, making a Roman of me. They wish me to be their goddess? Then let them taste their own evil. Kill them, child."
"No!"
"Then you are nothing." The goddess turned to the subway map. Her expression softened, becoming confused and unfocused. "If I could find the route…the way home, then perhaps— But, no. Avenge me or leave me. You are no child of mine."
Annabeth's eyes stung. She thought of a thousand horrible things she wanted to say, but she couldn't. She had turned and fled.'
Her Roman counterpart had done that, and just because of that injustice she hated Minerva that much more. She couldn't help it, ever since they upstarts had stolen her statue, the Athena Parthenos, she had gone crazy. Sending her children to their deaths in a futile attempt to avenge her and her lost identity. Minerva had gone insane.