Join my discord ( discord . gg / f4QKRSekFS) [No spaces] to interact with fellow readers, ask me questions, and pester me about updates :)

Etymology & Historical Notes

Thrall = A term to be used interchangeably with slave/serf. Commonly used in Viking/Norse/Scandinavian speech during the time period.

Kennings = Figures of speech that replace nouns in a roundabout way, often used in Viking speech. Kind of like baby riddles. (Examples: Worm-Eaters = Birds, Battle-Sweat = Blood, Spear-din = battle, ect.)

Sea-Steed = A kenning used to describe Viking longships.

Quern = A grain grinding tool used in antiquity, consisting of an upper stone with a handle(s), a central funnel to add grain, and a lower stone. Grain would be dropped in the funnel and fall between the stones. Then the upper stone would be rotated, thus grinding the grain. This was a job typically done by female thralls/slaves/servants.

Helheim/Hel = The Nordic realm of the dead.

Trygve = A name derived from the old Norse word 'Tryggr' meaning true/trustworthy.

Halvard = A name derived from the old Norse words 'hallr' (rock) and 'varðr' (guardian) meaning Rock Guardian or Rock defender

Vikingr = Old Norse form of the word 'Viking'

Bjornar = A name derived from the old Norse words 'bjǫrn' (bear) and 'herr' (army) or 'arr' (warrior) meaning bear army or bear warrior(s)

Blood-Eagle = A form of torture/execution in which the victim's back is sliced open and their lungs are pulled out of their back to imitate the wings of an eagle. Whether this was actually practiced or not is up for debate, but I'm rolling with it because it's gnarly as fuck and I dig it. :)

Stone = Unit of weight (1 stone = 14 lbs = 6.3 ish kg)

Aegir = Norse god of the Sea, Storms, Alcohol, and Banquets (At least in PJO universe [taken from wiki]. I think it might be a bit different in reality but I'm using the PJO version for consistency with canon.)

Perseus Thrall-Born – Odin's Rest, 880 CE

If Perseus could have requested one thing from the gods in that moment, he would have asked them for walls. He wouldn't've asked for his mother back, nor even for his freedom. No, he would've dropped to his knees before Odin himself, and with as much humility as he could muster, he would've asked for walls. Begged for them. Traded his soul and more for them. Such were the biting winds of winter, that his greatest desire had been reduced to something as silly as a good set of walls.

Were he a jarl's son, such thoughts would never have crossed his mind. His life would have been nothing but shiny axes and glorious sea-steeds, not hard labor and freezing winds. Alas, those were the foolish daydreams of a boy who could only wish for a better life. His mother had been a thrall – a woman from a far land she'd called Greece – and because she'd been a thrall, so too was he. Doomed to spend his days at the quern, grinding grain into flour until his muscles were aflame. As a thrall, his life was befitting of his status. His status was one unbefitting of life.

With his mother gone, taken by illness just two winters ago, he had been left with nothing but his name. Perseus Thrall-Born. Itself both a title and a mark of his very existence. He was a slave both in name and in life. A slave he would be even as his soul reached Helheim. He owned nothing, not even the tunic on his back. Not even his own life. In truth, he was little more than his labor.

The winds picked up at the sound of his bitter thoughts, almost as if they'd been reading his mind. His meager garb did nothing to fight the chill, and once again his body reminded him of the devastating cold. Shivers wracked his malnourished form. For the millionth time, Perseus wished that he had a bearskin to wear while he worked. Moreover, he wished that the quern had some gods-damned walls around it.

Fighting against the chatter of his own teeth, he shoved such errant thoughts aside. They were too distracting. Too dangerous. It had been entire minutes since he'd last turned the grindstone, and the overseer was sure to be nearing the end of his rounds soon. If the overseer returned and found Perseus in the midst of a daydream, he would deliver a lashing that Perseus' back would never be able to forget. Almost able to hear the crack of the whip already, Perseus got back to work. With a single grunt of exertion, he managed to get the grindstone turning again. Grain crunched inside the quern. Chills ravaged his body once more. Life as a thrall dragged on.

Some time passed uneventfully, though Perseus couldn't tell exactly how much. On days such as this, where the sun was blotted by clouds of grey and heavy snowflakes blanketed the landscape, the only way to measure time was through the numbness spreading in his bones. It wasn't an exact science by any stretch of the imagination, but it was enough. Right now, his tingling fingers and burning lungs told him that he'd been working for a great many hours. The last time he'd seen the overseer, there had been a tiny bit of warmth still hiding inside him. Now that heat was gone, which meant the master would return soon. It meant that in no time, Perseus would be sent to bed with a few scraps of bread, a vicious beating, and the not so comforting knowledge that tomorrow would bring more of the same.

Almost as if Perseus had summoned the slave master with his thoughts alone, the sound of crunching snow arose behind him. His tired arms rotated the quern for the infinitieth time, his concentration redoubled, and he prepared himself for another meeting with the steely overseer. It wasn't until the footsteps grew closer that he realized it wasn't the overseer at all. What he'd first thought was the lumbering gait of the burly overseer was actually the footsteps of several smaller people melded into one. Boys then, Perseus guessed. They'd probably come to mock the thralls as they worked. He prayed to the gods he was wrong.

"Thrall!" One of the boys shouted, and Perseus knew his hopes were for naught.

He sank into the rock he was using as a seat, praying desperately that they would leave him be if he pretended not to hear them. Nothing good ever came of interacting with the children of the clans' freed men. They were entitled, churlish, and altogether too wrapped up in their own delusions of grandeur to do anything but cause trouble. If he was lucky, his feigned ignorance to their presence would be enough to deter them. But Perseus was born a thrall. Abandoned by his father at birth and by his mother at just eight years old. By definition he had been born unlucky.

"Thrall! At the quern!" A different boy said, determined to get a rise out of Perseus. "My friend was speaking to you. Show some respect and face your better."

It took all his effort, but Perseus was just able to manage withholding a sigh. Reluctantly, he let go of the quern's handle, allowing the contraption to come to a grinding halt. He turned to face the boys, already counting the ways this could go wrong. There were six of them, each dressed in linen and leather, with lavish furs draped over top. These weren't just the sons of freed men, Perseus realized. These were sons of noblemen. The children of courageous warriors, feared berserkers, and beloved jarls. To make matters worse, they were headed by a boy that anyone in Odin's Rest would instantly recognize. Trygve Halvardsson, the only child of King Halvard himself. Perseus would have to tread extra carefully around these ones.

"My sincerest apologies," Perseus answered, forcing himself to bite back the insults at the tip of his tongue. "I was simply engrossed in my work, milords."

"A mistake you wouldn't dare to make again, I would hope." One of the boys mocked.

Perseus merely tipped his head in agreement. He was worried that if he spoke to the boys any more than he had to, he'd end up saying something detrimental to his own health. Then again, based on the looks the boys were sharing, his silence wasn't much better. It was obvious that his refusal to worship them with the same reverence as their parents did not sit well with the boys.

"Why're you doing a woman's work?" Trygve asked, likely deciding it had been too long since he'd last heard himself speak. "You should be out in the fields, doing your fair share to feed the clan."

Perseus shrugged, deciding it best not to point out the hypocrisy in that statement.

"I'm merely doing as I was ordered… milord." The last part was tacked on only as an afterthought, prompted by the glares of the Vikingr-prince's cronies.

His slip-up, though corrected quickly, was still enough to garner a few mumbles from the boys. Trygve looked back at his friends, and when he looked back, he suddenly looked uncertain of himself. Perseus realized that for Trygve, this had quickly become a matter of pride. Of honor. A slave had failed to address him properly. If Trygve didn't cow the thrall daring enough to forego honorifics, his peers would think him weak. For the son of the king, there was no turning back now. Perseus didn't like what that meant for him.

"You know, I think I've figured out why you've been assigned to the quern," Trygve said, closing the distance between them, "You're too weak to do a man's work. A woman hiding in a boy's body."

The prince looked back at his friends, who had all started to snicker when they heard his jibe. Perseus, for all that he understood his place as a thrall, was starting to think that allowing himself to be goaded into a fight wasn't such a bad idea after all. He may have feared the slave master and Trygve's father both, but he also loathed bullies. Those who thought themselves above him just because he'd been born under dire circumstances. Life as a thrall had been able to humble him beyond measure, but no amount of labor would ever be able to rid him of his temper. And yet, even as the tidal force of his rage threatened to bubble over, he still somehow managed to reign it in for the sake of his own life, if for nothing else.

"Perhaps you're right." Perseus muttered through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps I'm right, milord." Trygve corrected.

Though the words were bitter on his tongue, Perseus echoed the boy-prince. After all, he had little choice in the matter. For Trygve this was about pride, but for Perseus, defiance could mean death. After he acquiesced, Trygve's friends nodded, pleased by his compliance. Unfortunately, it seemed that brow-beating Perseus into submission wasn't enough for him.

"I bet you'll never be strong enough to work the fields," Trygve continued, circling Perseus with a puffed chest. "You see, I recognize you, thrall-born. You're not even a Norseman like the rest of these slaves. No, you're the son of that Greek whore, destined to-"

Whatever else Trygve went on to say, Perseus didn't hear it. All he could hear was the sound of crashing waves as his rage took over his senses. Insults against himself, his name, and his humanity he could stomach, albeit with the iron taste of a bitten tongue, but insults against his mother? Against the darling woman who'd given him her food, her clothes, her everything to make life as a thrall bearable for him? The woman whose devotion to her son had driven her to illness? To death? Those insults would not stand. Could not stand. Perseus wouldn't let them.

With a hearty battle-cry, Perseus made the single best mistake of his life, and launched himself at the son of the king. To his credit, Trygve was quick to respond to the sudden attack. Somehow, he managed to duck under the first of Perseus' punches and back out of reach from the rest, avoiding the blows with a fair amount of skill for a boy his age. All around them, Trygve's friends cheered him on, eager to see Perseus embarrassed. What they didn't count on, however, was the sheer magnitude of Perseus' wrath. Trygve was treating this like a game. Like a spar. For Perseus, this was war.

It was because of that small difference in their approaches that Trygve was unable to avoid Perseus' next attack. Hate fueled punches and kicks he had been prepared for, but an all-out bull rush with reckless abandon? Trygve didn't stand a chance against someone with so little to lose. And so, beaten by his ego, Trygve was helpless to stop Perseus' blind charge. Despite his best efforts, Trygve was tackled and slammed into the snow underfoot with an audible oomph.

Trygve's friends gasped at the dramatic turn of events, but none moved to intervene. It might've been fear holding them back, or perhaps it was just shock, but either way, Perseus took advantage of their stupor. While they stood idly by, he began an unwavering assault. He delivered punch after punch into the face of the downed prince, sprinkling in a few vicious elbows just for good measure. He hoped that each blow would give the noble born boy a tiny taste of what the life of a thrall was like.

Trygve was helpless beneath him. Any advantages he'd had on his feet – courtesy of the training afforded to him by right as a boy destined to be king – had been lost when Perseus had brought him to the ground. His hands, raised helplessly in a meager attempt to ward off the major strikes, did little to stop Perseus' rage. It wasn't long before his nose was leaking blood, his eyes were beginning to swell shut, and the clearing echoed with the sounds of his cries.

Perseus reveled in the damage he was causing. He delighted in being on the delivering end of a beating for the first time in his life. With each blow, his grin widened. Adrenaline poured through his system, filling him with a high unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He tried to ride it out, but just when his anger had begun to fade, just when his mother's honor was almost avenged, he felt a hand on his collar. A powerful grip he recognized all too well. The hand ripped him from Trygve's battered form, hoisted him into the air, and twirled him around, forcing him to come face to face with the cruel eyes of the thrall overseer.

"You realize what you've done?" The man snarled. "You've just earned yourself the right to face the blood eagle, thrall."

Perseus' eyes widened. He knew by attacking Trygve he was welcoming punishment. Beatings and lashings unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Probably even death. But the blood eagle? Gods… He could think of no worse way to die. The thought alone made him regret losing his temper for a moment, but one glance at the sniveling son of Halvard on the ground, and Perseus was calmed. If he was going to die, at least he would do so in glorious fashion after delivering a thrashing that Odin himself would be proud to have delivered.

"Well then," Perseus hissed. "If I'm going to die, you'd best get it over with."

The overseer chuckled darkly.

"Oh, no boy. I wish it could be me that wields the blade, but that honor is not mine," The slave master said. "No, that right belongs to one man alone."

"You don't mean…?"

"I do." He answered with an evil grin. "I'm taking you to see King Halvard. He'll decide whether you're worth dulling our steel. If he deems you worthy of his time, he'll kill you himself. If not…"

The overseer dragged a finger across his throat, and Perseus had no doubt that the man wanted nothing more than to kill him right then and there. He trembled a bit at the thought, even despite how much he pretended he was ready to face death. When he saw the satisfied sneer on the overseer's face though... Perseus forced himself to swallow his fear. If he was to die today, he was not going to give the slave master, Trygve, or anyone the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

Perseus Thrall-Born – Odin's Rest, 880 CE

The trek to the longhouse was a short one, but to Perseus it felt like eons. Like all things though, even eternity came to an end. Eventually the trio found themselves coming to a stop outside the home of the king. Still dangling from the slave master's arms like a sack of meat, Perseus could do little but pray as he was lugged through the doors and into the long house.

He had never been in the longhouse before – that was a right afforded only to freed men – so despite the circumstances, he found his eyes scanning the place curiously. The central chamber was a massive banquet hall, filled with heavy tables and roaring fires. Seated around the room were some of the Bjornar Clan's most esteemed warriors, marked by their warm looking furs and the beautiful weapons at their hips. All of them seemed to have their eyes on Perseus, but that wasn't even the worst of it. Seated in a massive wooden chair at the end of the room was a man as large as bear, and like all his loyal followers, King Halvard had eyes only for the thrall being brought before him.

"Knute, why do you interrupt our council? And to bring a slave before us no less?" The king asked in a booming voice.

The overseer – or Knute, as Perseus had just learned – decided, as he often did, that violence was the best answer. Rather than actually speaking to the king, Knute simply tossed Perseus to the ground at King Halvard's feet. Perseus landed in a heap, sprawled on the freezing floor as if he were a dog at his master's feet. As if he were less than human. For a moment, he considered laying there and accepting defeat. He almost gave in to those weak thoughts, but a voice he didn't recognize spoke in his mind, telling him that he had to live, and to live he would need to show he was strong. He decided to take the voice's advice. Swallowing his doubts, Perseus rose, and with confidence he didn't know he had he looked directly into the eyes of the king.

Halvard scowled down at him, and as Perseus stared back, he could see why this man was king above all the other jarls. Like Trygve, Halvard boasted the typical hardy look of a Nordic warrior, along with a head of fiery hair and broad shoulders to boot. What Halvard had that Trygve lacked, however, was a solid seven feet in height, what must've been twenty-nine stone in weight, and a pair of powerful eyes that exuded an aura of authority that was as overpowering as Thor's lightning.

Despite the way those eyes made him want to curl up into a ball and submit to Halvard's dominance, Perseus held his ground. Halvard was equally unswayed, and so the two stared at one another, unmoving and unrelenting even in the heavy silence. Perseus couldn't help but feel, even despite his fear, that the entire situation was quite comical. A man who dwarfed trees locked in a glaring match with a scrawny, undersized slave boy who was so malnourished, frozen, and terrified that he could barely keep on his own two feet.

It seemed that the king shared Perseus' sense of humor, because after some time had passed, Halvard started to chuckle. It began as a soft tumbling, like a pebble skittering across a sheet of rock, but it quickly evolved into a booming laugh as deafening as a rockslide. As he guffawed, the king clapped a single massive hand – easily large enough to crush a grown man's skull – on Perseus' shoulder. It wasn't intended to do any harm, but the king's strength was so great and his hand so heavy that Perseus was nearly sent to the ground by the touch anyway.

"By Odin, I like this one," The king said, addressing the confused onlookers. "He's got the gall of Loki himself! Tell me, Knute, what did the boy do? I would hate to have to kill a thrall as brave as he."

"I'm sure your opinion of the boy will change swiftly, my lord." Knute replied, before turning to the doors of the long house and shouting, "Trygve, forget your pride and come show your father what the thrall has done."

A wave of mutterings swept over the haul, all wondering what could have happened to the young prince. Perseus, for his part, was shocked to realize that Trygve had been waiting outside, too embarrassed to even show his face. Though, as the boy entered, and an eruption of gasps shook the room, he figured he couldn't blame him. Trygve's nose, once powerful and unsullied, was now crooked and ugly. His lip was split, and even now still leaked blood down his crimson-stained front. Barely restrained tears hung at the corners of his half-swollen-shut eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched helplessly at the air by his side. Though he knew what Trygve's appearance likely meant for him, Perseus couldn't help but be a bit proud of the damage he'd done.

"Trygve," Halvard called, the first to break through the silence, "Come to me."

Trygve obeyed his father's command and marched his way to the throne, sniffling all the way. Once he reached him, Halvard went about cleaning the boy as a mother would. He dipped a linen sleeve in his mead, using the liquid to wipe the blood from his son's face. Then, with a tenderness that should've been impossible coming from a man so massive, Halvard straightened out his son's broken nose. Trygve squirmed in pain, but Halvard just gently shushed the boy until the whimpers stopped.

It was an overwhelmingly calm, overwhelmingly intimate moment between a father and his son. One that had all the men in the hall looking everywhere but their king, pretending not to see the soft side of their harder-than-steel leader. Perseus on the other hand, watched on with a deep pang in his gut. It wasn't because he was afraid of what Halvard would do after seeing his brutalized son. No, it was because Halvard's fussing was painfully similar to that of his own late mother.

"A broken nose, a split lip, and a wounded pride." Halvard assessed when Trygve's tears had dried. "Do you mean to tell me that this bony thing did all this to you?"

Trygve didn't speak, but he did manage to give his father a small, nearly imperceptible nod. While Trygve's eyes were filled with shame, Halvard's told a different story. Perseus saw unconditional love there, along with burgeoning pride, and something else he couldn't quite place.

"Perhaps we have something to discuss after all." Halvard began, turning to Perseus now. "What is your name, boy?"

"Perseus Thrall-Born, milord." He answered easily.

"No father?" Halvard asked, noting the lack of a family name.

Perseus shook his head.

"No. Just my mother an-… Just me, sir."

"A shame. A boy should never have to grow up alone." Halvard said, and though it sounded dry and uncaring, Perseus had the sneaking suspicion that the king felt genuinely sorry for his loss. "Tell me, young Perseus, why you saw fit to strike my son."

For a moment Perseus thought about lying. Making up some crazy story that would better justify his actions. A tale for the ages that would save his skin. But one look at Halvard, and he knew that would be a mistake. This was a man who valued honor and integrity over words and wind.

"He… He insulted my mother, my lord. I couldn't let that stand so I…" He nodded towards Trygve. "I did that."

His bold claim was met with an uproar around the room. Some men called for his head, claiming that nobody should live to tell of the time they assaulted the prince of the Bjornar clan. Others argued that putting a boy to death was a bit harsh, especially considering fighting was as much a part of Norse culture as drinking was. The bravest of the men even dared to say that Perseus should face no punishment, saying that the only person at fault for Trygve's beating was Trygve for not fighting better. And yet, in all the shouting, the only person who did not speak their mind was the only person whose voice truly mattered. King Halvard himself.

"That's enough." The king eventually hollered, raising a single meaty fist in a call for silence.

Even engrossed in their shouting as they were, no man was stupid enough to challenge Halvard. Their yells died out like flames before a tidal wave, and once again silence dominated the banquet hall. Once again, all eyes turned to Perseus. He fidgeted where he stood, watching nervously as Halvard leaned back on his throne, an unreadable expression on his face. Perseus gulped. Hard.

"How old are you, Perseus?" Halvard asked softly. "Seven? Eight?"

"This is my tenth winter, my lord." It was supposed to come out confidently but ended up as more of a squeak.

"Ah, a bit small for your age." The king said, eyeing him up and down once more. "It matters not though. This is Trygve's ninth winter… It seems you two are of an age."

"Respectfully… Of an age for what, sir?"

Halvard's face spread into a toothy grin.

"Why, to be brothers of course! I'd take you on as my ward, Perseus. If you'd have it, that is."

"I'd-" Perseus went to say, but that was as far as he got before the room erupted.

"But father!" Trygve cried.

"Your ward?" An ugly man covered in tattoos asked incredulously.

"You mean to take the boy in?" Knute shouted. "He's a thrall! Filth! Halvard you can't seriously mean to-"

That had not been the right thing to say. Before Knute was finished speaking, Halvard was already in motion. Faster than anyone – let alone a man as large as Halvard – should've been able to move, the king shot out of his throne. He bolted past Perseus, barely giving the thrall a second thought as he rushed the overseer. With one powerful hand, the gargantuan king snatched Knute by the throat and lifted him clean off the floor. Perseus' jaw dropped, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was as if every wild fantasy he'd never dared to believe could come true had been brought to life. The man who made his life a living Hel was being manhandled like he was the thrall. Like he was the defenseless little boy. Like he was nothing at all.

"I can't?" Halvard asked, voice low and menacing. "The last I checked, Knute, I was the king of this clan, and you were just a thrall-watcher. My word here is law, and my axe is the people's justice. You should remember that the next time you think to tell me what I can and cannot do… If you dare to oppose me so boldly again, you will taste my axe as if you were one of those Saxon dogs, understood?"

Knute, whose face was already turning a sickly shade of blue, hardly had a chance to answer. Through his gurgles, he just barely managed to croak out an affirmative. Still Halvard choked him, until finally he seemed satisfied and discarded the man as if he were a wet rag. Knute tumbled to the ground with a mighty thump. He didn't move from the spot, instead laying there, blue in the face, gasping for air, and rubbing his bruised neck with fear-filled eyes. If Perseus had been given the choice, he would've opted to watch Knute suffer like that for the rest of his life.

"By no means do I intend to challenge you as Knute did," one of the gathered men began when Knute's sputters finally died down, "but I must ask. Surely you understand that such a thing is… Unorthodox?"

Halvard, who'd only just made it back to his throne, let out a small sigh. It didn't seem to be one of anger, but rather of disappointment. As if he couldn't believe that his own men were so shortsighted. The thing was, the more he thought about it, the more Perseus found himself on the same side as the confused Vikingr leaders. Halvard's offer just didn't make any sense.

"It is not without precedent for thralls to become freed men, Jørn. Many times, thralls have earned their freedom through acts of valor or even bought it through their labor."

"That's true, but to my memory none of those thralls ever went from slave to king's ward before. Especially not after assaulting a prince. Of all the young boys itching for a chance at your tutelage, why bestow such an honor upon the boy who brutalized your son? A boy who most men would not hesitate to put to death?"

"It seems that you have not been listening to the proceedings, old friend. This thrall, no, this young man," Halvard said, pointing to Perseus emphatically now, "Has demonstrated today all the traits we value most. He has shown honor and loyalty in defending his mother's memory. He has shown strength by besting my boy in combat. And most importantly, he has shown courage by facing me, Knute, and the rest of you lot without so much as a single tear. If there is anyone who would refute that this boy is all that I've said, speak now, or hold your tongues all the way to Valhalla."

Perseus watched the room. Not a single man dared to speak out against the king.

"Think on this," Halvard continued, noting he'd grabbed their attention, "Every day the Saxons grow bolder. Every day, they push harder trying to regain what he have rightfully earned through steel and blood. A time will come where we will need men with courage and loyalty. With strength and honor. If Perseus could become one of those men, I will not have him wasting away in the gods-damned fields. So, again I ask you, Perseus… How would you like to be my ward?"

Perseus thought about the king's offer. If he declined, he would return to the life that had brought him nothing but pain and suffering for years. He would return to the life that had killed his mother. If he accepted, he would become the disciple of the king. A man who in the last fifteen minutes had shown to be a loving father, a skilled leader, and a formidable warrior rolled into one bear-sized man. The only downside to the whole thing was Trygve, but Perseus would rather spend every day at war with the brat than another minute at work in the fields. The decision, if you could even call it that, was an easy one.

"I accept your offer." Perseus said. "I will become your ward."

Halvard smiled down at him knowingly, as if he'd expected nothing less.

"Then it is time you shed your shackles. Welcome to the Bjornar clan proper, Perseus Thrall-Born. You're one of us now."

Alex Jackson – Olympus, 2017 CE

To put it simply, Alex Jackson was not having a good day. It had started off on a sour note when Chiron had IMd him – at six in the morning, of all times – to tell him that another camper had disappeared in the night. That made it the ninth camper to leave this year, and the thirty-first since the seven had put Gaea to rest six years ago. The mass exodus of demigods from Camp Half-Blood for seemingly no reason at all was getting worse, and Alex didn't like it one bit. It reminded him far too much of the time leading up to the titan war. Not days he was keen to relive any time soon.

As if that wasn't enough to put a damper on his mood, the gods had also decided to summon him and Annabeth to Olympus. Someone less cynical than him might've dared to hope that the Olympians wanted to discuss the vanishing demigods, but Alex wasn't so naïve. When it came to turning a blind eye to important issues, the Olympians took the gold medal. Whatever it was they wanted, it was almost certain to be equal parts life-threating and utterly pointless.

The cherry on top of his bad day sundae was the fact that Annabeth was running late. He of course understood that she was busy, what with needing to earn her keep at the fancy architecture firm she'd scored a job at, but he also knew the gods didn't appreciate tardiness from their 'esteemed guests'. Plus, Alex really hated being on Olympus. Annabeth had done a wonderful job with the rebuild – the place truly was beautiful even by godly standards – but she'd almost done too well. The entire city was littered with memorials to the veterans of the titan and giant wars, which made traversing the streets rather miserable. While honoring the fallen was touching in theory, in practice there was nothing that hurt worse than staring at statues of all the people that had died because he wasn't strong enough to save them. In truth, he wished Annabeth would've-

"Alex!" a familiar voice called, ripping him from his depressing train of thought.

He turned, and as foul as his mood had been only moments ago, he couldn't help but smile wide when he saw her. Her blonde curls were windblown and unkempt, probably from rushing to Olympus after work. There were dark rings under her eyes – she stayed up all night to finish her newest project – and a coffee stain stood out on the left breast of her work outfit. In other words, she looked absolutely perfect.

"Annabeth. Hey." He greeted lovingly.

With a smile, he scooped her into a massive hug, twirling her around once before setting her down and giving her a quick peck. It was chaste, barely even a kiss at all, but it was enough to brighten his otherwise dark day a thousand times over.

"Sorry I'm late," Annabeth apologized, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the throne room as she spoke. "I had this big presentation at work today and then Bekah wanted me to stay after to-"

"Relax," Alex said, giving her hand a small squeeze of reassurance as he trailed her, "You're here now. That's what matters. Let's just get all this over with so we can head home."

"I don't know if we're going to be so lucky, Alex. The gods don't usually summon us just to play catch up. Chances are wherever we're headed after this, it's not home."

Alex pouted.

"Why can't you just let a man dream?"

"Dream all you want," Annabeth replied with a small smile, "Just, y'know… Dream smaller."

Alex opened his mouth to retort but was never given the chance. As the pair rounded the corner, he was cut off by Annabeth's hand shooting to his shoulder, just barely keeping him from walking headfirst into the throne room doors. The massive slabs of imperial gold – which were inlayed with intricate depictions of Olympus' crowning moments – loomed over him, making him feel annoyingly small. Then, once the doors had their fill of mocking his tininess, they silently swung open of their own accord, revealing the crown jewel of Olympus. The throne room itself.

Ornate pillars of marble and gold reached skyward, lofting a domed ceiling high overhead. A hole in the center of the dome allowed moonlight to sneak through, bathing the entire chamber in an ethereal light. Of course, as with the previous throne room, the most impressive sight was the thrones themselves. Twelve seats that had stood tall for millennia, along with two added only just recently. Each catered to their owner, and each equally magnificent. Truly, the heart of Olympus was a sight to behold.

Alex and Annabeth shared a look, before as one, they marched to the center of the U-Shaped assembly of gods. Fourteen of the most powerful beings on the planet looked down on them, each of their faces more unreadable than the last. Alex bowed to each of them – though his enthusiasm for such formalities dwindled with each bend of his waist – before finally coming to a stop before the king himself. Though his younger self would've shuddered at the thought, Alex swallowed every last rebellious urge in his body and bowed one last time.

"Demigods." Zeus greeted, voice booming as always.

"Lord Zeus," Annabeth – always the more tactful of the two – answered, "It's a pleasure, as always."

Just for the record, it totally wasn't.

"Unfortunately, it isn't so, my daughter." Athena replied, speaking for the gathered Olympians in Zeus' stead. "We've summoned you here under dire circumstances."

Alex blinked. Dire circumstances? If it had come from a god like Apollo, he might've taken it lightly, but from Athena? The goddess of wisdom always chose her words carefully. If she was speaking in such a manner, maybe this wouldn't be as trivial as he thought.

"What is it then? What mess of yours needs cleaning?" Alex asked.

He hadn't meant to come across so disrespectfully, but hey, old habits die hard. Impertinence was in his blood after all. Thankfully, Zeus – who'd looked rather affronted by Alex's outburst – didn't get a chance to make his ire known. Poseidon, as he so often did, jumped in just before Zeus' bolt hand got too itchy.

"It is not a mess of ours, but rather of mine alone, Alex. There are beings in my realm that are toying with things they do not understand."

"Meaning?" Alex asked, much more invested now that he knew his father was so involved.

"Meaning that someone or something is actively mining for ore in the deepest recesses of the Mariana trench. I've tried on numerous occasions to discover the culprits, but whoever they are, they sense my godly presence and slink away before I arrive each time."

"Like when the Telekhines were using Hephaestus' forge during the Titan War?" Annabeth said.

"Exactly." Poseidon answered. "Only what they're mining for could end up being infinitely more dangerous than even my father's scythe… It's a mineral that not even us Olympians fully understand, called Marianic Blackstone. It is a remnant from the time of the primordials, and as such, imbued with powerful properties and capabilities waiting to be exploited. It has been harvested before, and every time it has fallen into the hands of the wrong people, they manage to find a new and more twisted way to use it for evil. We cannot allow such a thing to happen again."

"Sounds like it." Alex agreed. "So, what's the plan then? You want Annabeth and I to head down there and-"

"Absolutely not!" Poseidon interrupted, sounding uncharacteristically panicked. "I've already sent an obscene number of Atlantean soldiers down there, and not a single detachment has returned. Whatever is waiting for you at the bottom of the trench, it is far too dangerous for the two of you to face alone."

"With all due respect, Lord Poseidon, Alex and I are capable of a lot." Annabeth defended.

"All of us know of your capabilities, Annabeth." Athena cut in. "It is not your abilities that concern us, but rather the risk of the mission itself. For you to travel with Alex, he would need to put a protective barrier around you with his own abilities, would he not?"

The two shared a look, before nodding.

"And what happens when Alex becomes distracted by whatever dangerous foe awaits you two? Or chaos forbid he is knocked unconscious? You would be crushed by the pressure long before you could even think about drowning. No, it is too dangerous for someone who is not of the sea as Alex is. You cannot go, and as Poseidon said, it is not safe for Alex alone either."

"So if you're not sending us, why bring it up at all? In fact, why are we even here?" Alex asked, thoroughly confused now.

"Because, while the original mission is too dangerous, we've managed to come up with a different solution." Athena answered.

"There's no we about it." Mr.D grumbled from his throne. "The six of us with any sense were hoping to take our chances on you two. It sure as shit isn't as risky as sending the two of you to-"

"That's enough, Dionysus." Zeus interrupted, but the damage was already done.

"It isn't as risky as sending us where?" Annabeth demanded.

The question was met with deafening silence. Alex looked to each of the Olympians, but for the first time in history, it seemed that none were eager to take the spotlight. Then, after what seemed like ages, one goddess finally found the courage to say what the others could not.

"Alaska." Hestia murmured. "We want to send you to Alaska."

Alex blinked.

"Alaska? Why? What could Alaska possibly have to do with this 'marinara blackstone'?"

"Mariana." Annabeth corrected, through a thinly veiled snicker.

"Nothing at all, and yet far too much." Zeus answered, paying Annabeth's correction no mind. "It's not the land itself, but who lives there and their connection to the blackstone that is so important. Somewhere in Cordova, though none of us can say where exactly, you will find a partially immortal demigod son of Aegir. He is the only being born of the sea that is both powerful enough to aid Alex in his quest, and mortal enough to go undetected by the culprits. As much as we would rather he stays in that hellscape, it seems we need his help."

"What Zeus has neglected to mention," Poseidon tacked on, "is just how dangerous the bastard is. Other than Kronos and Gaea, I cannot think of another being alive who has slaughtered more of our children – Greek and Roman alike – as quickly and in as great a number as he did. He was so effective that our Greek and Roman children put aside their differences to face him and his forces, and still it wasn't enough. By the beginning years of the tenth century, it grew so bad that we Olympians were forced to intervene. We ended up locking him in a chamber of ice and casting his prison adrift, sending it as far north as the seas would allow. Unfortunately, when Olympus moved from Europe to the United States-"

"His prison moved to Alaska, where you could no longer watch over his prison yourselves." Annabeth finished, already seeing where this was going.

"Indeed." Zeus agreed. "In the 1960s, a foolish daughter of Bacchus accidentally set him free. Now he lives unchained, unageing, and entirely unchecked. We're unsure where his loyalties lie, but we know this much. He is dangerous beyond measure. We recommend you don't take him lightly."

"So, let me get this straight. You want us to go to Alaska – a place you guys won't even go by the way – and find a guy that you locked away for almost a thousand years? And not only that, but he just so happens to be a crazy Viking who kills Greek and Roman demigods for fun? All that, just so I can drag said psycho along to be my only support on an equally dangerous mission?" Alex asked incredulously.

"Like Dionysus said, this was not a decision that we came to easily." Athena replied. "Nevertheless, it is the only option we have. The two of you must travel to Alaska, find the son of Aegir, and convince him to help you. There is too much at stake to take a safer approach. The two of you must go, and you cannot fail."

"Right. Awesome." Alex deadpanned. "Alright, anything else we need to know? Like, y'know, his name? Anything that might keep him from trying to kill us? Maybe even his social security number, just to be safe?"

"His name is Perseus Thrall-Born. As for your other questions, well, we haven't a clue. A millennium, even spent in ice, is enough to change any man. You're walking into an enigma not even we understand." Hestia answered, voice gentle and calming as always.

"Regardless of what happens, remember this." Zeus added, "Convincing Thrall-Born is important, but your survival is paramount. If your options are to come back empty-handed or to battle, choose the former. We'd rather you two return with your lives and risk a solo journey to the trench than have you risk a fight with him. Your deaths will just leave us empty handed."

"I'm glad you have such faith in us…" Alex joked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "So, when do we leave?"

AN:

And done. I hope the format wasn't too confusing. I'm a bit nervous about the way it will work out having these two stories going at once, so please let me know if it seemed okay for this chapter. Aside from that, I don't have much to say except that I hope you enjoyed. So, until next time,

Peace