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Notes and Etymology

Jörmungandr – The child of Loki and the giantess Angrboða, Jörmungandr is a massive sea serpent said to be large enough to encircle the world and bite its own tail. In Norse Myth, Jörmungandr is destined to kill (and be slain by) Thor during Ragnarök.

The Northern Lights in Norse Myth – In some (but not all) Norse Myths, the Northern Lights were said to be the reflection of light off the armor of Valkyries. Some myths instead attribute the lights to the Bifrost. I will be referencing the former of the two representations.

Glacial Ice – The ice in glaciers that appears in a brilliant blue color rather than white.

Kólga – As the daughter of Aegir and his wife, the sea goddess Ran, Kólga is one of the nine Billow Maidens (Deities representative of the waves). Kólga roughly translates to 'cool wave(s)' and as such, is representative of cool waves in Norse Myth.

Galdhøpiggen – The tallest mountain in Norway, Galdhøpiggen stands at 8,100 ft (2,469 m) in height. For reference, this makes Galdhøpiggen about 5.5 times the height of the Empire State building. Climbing this mountain isn't viewed as particularly difficult by mountaineers, but I will be taking some liberties in that regard to aid the story.

Jötunn/Jötnar – The Jötnar are the inhabitants of Jötunheimr. They are most commonly recognized/portrayed as frost giants in media, despite the most apt translation of the term being 'devourer(s)' rather than 'giant(s)'. Most Jötnar were actually "normal" sized (though they could grow to be giants). Interestingly, many of the gods were at least partially Jötunn, including Aegir, who is full Jötunn. I will be taking liberties with the representation of the Jötnar in this story, creating a depiction that falls a bit more in line with the stereotypical (and admittedly inaccurate) portrayal that is most recognizable. However, as always, I will be putting my own spin on things, and will extend their depth beyond the too often used "big blue guys bad" depiction.

Perseus Thrall-Born – ?, ? CE

Percy had an odd relationship with sleep. Most nights he avoided it like the plague, and it was only through sheer exhaustion that he could get himself to close his eyes. It was the dreams which kept him awake. The visions of a disastrous raid with screaming men and flaming arrows. The medicine woman, Kára, had provided him with a slew of tonics, charms, and other odd remedies to ward off the nightmares, but each of them had failed in turn. By now, he had grown accustomed to closing his eyes in the mortal realm, only to open them to a stormy sea in the plane of dreams. It was a surprise then when, for the first time in ages, he awoke in the dream world to the delightful sound of silence.

He found himself not in a boat, surrounded by Vikingr raiders, but in a mead hall. Odder than the blissful peace of the dream, was the nature of the hall itself. It wasn't constructed of wood or stone, but rather of the hollowed-out skeleton of a whale large enough to rival Jörmungandr himself. Stark white bones rose from the ground like towering pillars of marble, each rib as thick as seven men standing abreast. Between the ribs, a wall of aethereal light – not unlike the light of the Valkyrie's armor glimmering in the night sky – stood between the hall and what lay beyond. Past the mystical barrier, a coral reef extended far beyond the reach of his vision, disappearing into the darkness of the ocean deep.

The hall itself was dominated by an enormous table carved from the seabed itself. Chairs made of coral lined the table on both sides, providing enough seating for a small army to feast in the lap of luxury. Beneath his feet, a carpet of dried kelp blanketed the cool sea floor. Overhead, delicate bone chandeliers were aglow with the dazzling light of blazing green fires. At the end of the hall, a throne large enough to seat a giant stood atop a raised dais. The sheer size of the seat filled the room with the overwhelming presence of whatever man had been deemed worthy to sit in it.

There was a woman leaning against the throne, and if it weren't for the pure impossibility of the hall itself, he might've been shocked by her appearance. She was tall, at least ten feet or so, with skin the color of glacial ice. She wore a dress made of ice and snow that clung to her figure like a suffocating veil of mist and seafoam. Higher up, frozen blue eyes peered out at him from beneath a wreath of auburn hair. The finishing touch on her chilling appearance was her smile, itself more akin to an icicle lined roof-edge than any normal being's grin.

"It's quite impressive, isn't it?" The giantess asked. Her voice was like shattering glass.

"It's big," He offered, looking to the skeleton walls once more. "And bony. Is it yours?"

She shook her head.

"It's our father's." she told him. "He's quite proud of it."

"Wait, 'our father's'?" he echoed. "Surely you don't mean-"

"He's been waiting for you for quite some time. It'd be best not to keep him waiting."

Without another word, the girl stooped below a doorway much too short for her and disappeared from sight. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should follow. Ultimately, he decided to take the more reckless route. While his instincts told him only danger could be found in the wake of giants, his curiosity reigned supreme. His mere presence here was an enigma, and her words had only enticed him further. Shrugging off any doubt, Percy left the massive hall and went after his mysterious hostess.

Catching up to the woman proved to be more of a challenge than he'd initially expected. Her long strides and total unwillingness to accommodate his tininess meant that his escort was more of a manhunt. He found himself chasing the trailing tail of her dress through a series of corridors – each equal parts skeleton and mysticism just as the central hall had been – for so long that even his hard-earned endurance couldn't hold out. Fortunately, he managed to catch up to her just in time to reach their destination in tandem, even despite his ragged breaths.

The new chamber, much like the mead hall, was a place built for giants. Where it differed was in its décor. Rather than a banquet table and an oversized throne, the room was lined with enormous vats and barrels. The air reeked of honey, and the lighting was far more gloomy than the rest of the sea fortress had been. It reminded Percy of the alehouse back at Odin's rest, where Östen Ice-Runner brewed the towns mead and sang songs of long dead Vikingr heroes to anyone who would listen.

At the opposite end of the room, a lone man stood with his back to them. The man was even larger than the girl – standing at what looked to be an impressive sixteen feet or so – and he shared her odd complexion. He was hunched over a cauldron made from twinkling volcanic glass and stirring its contents with a spoon of solid gold. On his back, an axe large enough to fell an entire forest dared anyone to interfere with his labor. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the man to whom the throne belonged, the king of the underwater fortress and, if the girl was to be trusted, his father.

"Father, I've brought him to you as requested." The girl announced.

Slowly, the giant turned to face them. He revealed first a face-swallowing beard, then hard eyes, and then finally the true extent of his burly frame. Without a cauldron to stoop over, the man revealed what was really a solid twenty feet of kingly aura. Despite that, it wasn't his size, nor his impressive beard which truly garnered Percy's attention. Instead, it was the dark hair – as black as the space between the stars –atop his head, and his eyes, as deep a blue as the ocean on a stormy day. The features struck Percy not because they were a foreign sight, but because they were a painfully familiar one. They struck him because he had seen them so many times before. He had seen them in the face of his own reflection.

"Thank you, Kólga." The man said in a rumbling tone. "Now, go and keep your mother occupied. I fear she will not be merciful if she crosses paths with our guest."

Kólga inclined her head in some small semblance of a bow.

"Of course, father."

And with that, Kólga took her leave. Percy shouted his thanks to her as she left, but all that earned him was a frigid laugh and a mischievous smile as she tromped out of sight. With her gone, the room grew ten degrees warmer and thirty degrees more awkward. Percy and the supersized brew master were alone. Percy and his prospective father were alone. He wasn't entirely sure if he should be thrilled or terrified.

"You must have questions for me." The giant began. "Speak."

"You called her Kólga," Percy began, speaking slowly so as to let his mind keep pace. "and she called you father. That makes you Aegir. And if she speaks true, that makes me your son. But then that means I must be dreaming, because-"

"Odin calls it spirit walking." Aegir interrupted. "The body remains at rest, but the soul lingers in the plane of the living. Like wetted clay to your mortal hands, your spirit is putty to immortals such as myself. I have summoned you here so that we may speak, and so that your true journey may begin in full."

Percy blinked.

"You mean to say that I'm not only imagining this? That you're actually Aegir. As in the god himself? Lord of the seas? Brewer of meads and storms alike?"

"Most times I prefer the term giant to god, but yes, I am who you say."

"And you've brought me here because I'm your son? Because I have some sort of unfulfilled destiny?"

The giant grimaced.

"It is disconcerting that your mother has not prepared you for this day. It was always our intention that the truth be revealed to you on the day of your twelfth winter, and yet you speak like a boy whose only just had the blindfold lifted from his eyes."

"Whatever it was, she never got the chance to tell me. She passed when I was only eight."

Aegir frowned at that, only this was an expression not of annoyance, but of what appeared to be genuine sadness. With heavy footsteps, the behemoth of a deity lumbered toward Percy. A foot dropped off his height with each footfall, and with each breath his skin lost some of its hue. By the time he reached Percy, he was a manageable six foot four with perfectly tanned skin, indifferentiable from the average Vikingr save for his suffocating aura. He was 'human' just in time to place a single comforting hand on Percy's shoulder.

"It pains me to hear of your mother's passing. She was a good woman."

"She was the best." Percy corrected, inexplicably enraged by the god's grief. "Good enough for a god, apparently. And yet, not good enough for you to save her. Not good enough for you to lift even a single finger in her defense when they took to her with a whip. Not good enough to grant her freedom, or even to watch over her and know that the woman you had a child with died seven years ago. How dare you tell me about my mother when you abandoned her to a life of servitude?"

That, apparently, was not the right thing to say.

"Watch your tongue, boy." Aegir snarled. "I may be your father, but I am still a god. I will not be lectured by a child, especially one who speaks of things he does not understand."

Percy crossed his arms in the face of the man's fury. Father or not, god or not, he was never one to back down in the face of intimidation. His quick temper, it seemed, was his birthright, and who was he to deny his ancestry?

"Then make me understand. Or find someone else to do your bidding." He spat.

Aegir ran a frustrated hand over his face. Though his eyes shone with barely restrained fury of his own, the deity managed to regain his composure. Perhaps the only difference between father and son was millennia of practice in self-restraint.

"Odin sees many things. Knows many things. He has long since been plagued by visions of a future yet come to pass. A future where wicked enemies drive our beloved children from England. Our sons are put to the sword and our daughters are subjugated for the rest of their mortal lives. In turn, Odin has seen visions of a key to an alternate future. Of a boy who can turn the tide from destruction to salvation. He saw visions of you."

"Of… Of me?"

"Yes. You. Twenty winters ago, Odin summoned all the immortal world under his control to Asgard. There he foretold that you, a son of Aegir born from a mortal woman of pure heart, would be the one to liberate our pantheon from the encroaching darkness. We spent years searching for the woman who would deliver our peace-bringer unto us, and when we found her among the thralls of Odin's Rest, we struck an accord of sorts."

"What could you have possibly offered my mother to make her agree to such madness?"

"To understand that, you must first understand her plight." Aegir began. "Your mother dreamed of having a child, but for the longest time her dreams eluded her. She sought to know why. Her quest brought her from the foothills of Greece to the wider world. She traveled first to the sands of Cairo, then to the bank of the river Tiber, and finally to the fields of England in search of her answer. It was there, among the warring Saxons and Norsemen, that she was captured and made a thrall. It was there I found her and offered her what mortal men could not give her. I granted her motherhood, and in return she provided us a warrior destined to close the rift between the Norse and our enemies."

"The Saxons?" Percy asked with a frown. "They're as weak as they are pretentious. You can't mean to say that Odin fears them."

"There are worse things in Midgard than mortals and their castles of stone and clay." Aegir warned. "Enemies are gathering in the shadows. Soon they will take to the field, and with them they will bring horror and death unlike anything anyone, divine or mortal, has ever seen before."

Percy's felt his mouth dry. Suddenly, it was impossible to swallow, and each breath was a spoon full of shattered glass. Visions of a stormy night flashed in his mind. Brief flashes of black powder and burning lungs and a smiling man beneath a crown of gold. Small glimpses of a larger whole that he'd seen a thousand times over. The same vivid nightmare he'd been reliving every night until this one. The nightmare that was starting to feel more and more like a prophecy with each waking scream.

"Ah, so you understand more than you let on," Aegir appraised. "Know this, Perseus. What you see in your dreams is only the beginning. There are things even Odin does not understand looming on the horizon. It is because of this uncertainty, this devastation lying in wait, that I have bought you here to me. At long last, it is time you begun your journey. The world of the gods will be your testing grounds, and from the other side you will emerge the most important piece in a game yet to be played."

"And what of the life I lead now?"

Aegir shrugged.

"You will be allowed to return to it in time."

"And before then? Trygve and Liv will not take my absence easily. There will be questions. Halvard will never hear the end of it from the jarls. They will think me a turncloak gone to share their secrets with the enemy."

Aegir squeezed his shoulder. Hard.

"Fret not over the squabbling of the undivine. At Odin's behest Loki has lain a layer of glamour thick enough to cloud a god's thoughts over Halvard's mind. He believes that he is choosing to send you away. He will explain your absence to all those with questions."

Percy shook his head.

"Perhaps the jarls will be assuaged by your deceptions, but Trygve and Liv will not. They are not ones to take simple answers to complicated questions lying down. They will demand the truth if I am to leave Odin's Rest without them."

"It matters not what they demand. You will keep them in the dark no matter how they plea. It is integral to our plans that the true nature of your absence remains a secret to all but you and the gods. It is the only way to ensure our kind see the turn of the millennium."

"And if I refuse to keep your secrets?"

Aegir's eyes narrowed.

"You do not get to refuse. You will stay your lips and do as you are bidden, or else you will see your friends at the business end of an executioner's axe."

Percy grimaced. It seemed the gods had him backed into a corner. Aegir painted a picture of a dire future should he not cooperate, and the weight in his words implied divine retribution should he ignore their demands. It mattered not whether Aegir's motives were pure. To refuse the demands of the gods would be to court an early demise. Percy didn't fear death, but he did fear what his death would reap. For better or worse, circumstance had dictated his future.

"Alright, fine. I will do as you say." Percy agreed. "Just tell me where to begin."

Liv Frodadóttir – Odin's Rest, 885 CE

In all Liv's time at Odin's Rest, Halvard had been nothing if not consistent. He was always a loving father to Trygve. Always a strong and fair king. Always a brilliant tactician. Always a prudent and patient politician. In essence, the man was everything you could ask of a king, a general, and a father. Of all the things Halvard was, the one thing he'd never been was a fool. It was that which raised the question. If Halvard was so wise, just what the hell was he thinking?

Liv could see – hidden somewhere deep beneath the veil of Halvard's idiocy – a small semblance of a good idea. Sending Percy to Norway in search of allies was a brilliant idea in and of itself. It was not only a chance to further their cause, but to allow Percy a responsibility beyond training. When Liv had first caught wind of the plan, she'd been overjoyed. When Trygve had revealed to her the finer details, she'd gone from overjoyed to incensed in seconds.

Apparently, the great buffoon of a man that the Bjornar called king wanted to send Percy to Norway alone. A barebones crew of rowers – barely fit to sail down a river – was scheduled to deliver Percy to the shores of Norway. From there, the crew was tasked with returning to Odin's Rest, leaving Percy at the mercy of both the clans and wilderness of their ancestral homeland.

Liv wasn't entirely sure what had inspired such foolishness in Halvard. Percy was fifteen, an inexperienced sailor, and entirely lacking in diplomatic ability. Both the sea and the jarls of Norway were unforgiving, and if the former didn't end up killing Percy, the latter most certainly would. His green crew and his smart mouth would make sure of that. To send Percy in such conditions was a veritable death sentence, and everyone seemed to know it but Halvard.

The jarls, much to Liv's dismay, had accepted the decision without argument. Many still resented Percy for taking a position they coveted for their own sons, and so relished the idea of sending him to his death. Others were simply unwilling to risk both their careers and their lives over the fate of one former thrall, and so held their tongues, effectively dooming Percy to pay the price for Halvard's foolhardy decision.

Liv's only solace throughout the whole ordeal had been in the fact that she wasn't alone in her anger. While the jarls were moving forward without question, Trygve had shown to be as upset about the matter as she was. He spent every waking moment at war with his father, trying desperately to argue away Halvard's decision. Inexplicably, Halvard had refused to cave to Trygve's pleas, despite his own self-admitted inability to deny his son anything.

With Trygve failing, and Liv lacking the sway in Odin's Rest to cause any change, the two had turned to the only other person who could put a stop to Halvard's plan; Percy himself. Unfortunately, Percy was just as stubborn as Halvard. No matter how they begged and pleaded, he remained insistent that he follow through with Halvard's plan. Together, Halvard and Percy had constructed a wall of pig-headedness so thick that not even she and Trygve together could topple it.

Like a true lunatic – one who was entirely undeterred by the feeling of failure – Liv was not quite ready to give up. Sure, arguing their case had failed a dozen times over already, but she would never forgive herself if Percy died and she hadn't tried a thirteenth time. Trygve was of a similar mind and so, with Percy's ship scheduled to depart in only a few hours, they had come together for one last effort.

Together, the two marched their way to the docks of Odin's Rest. It was there they found Percy and Halvard, both watching on in silence as the crew loaded the last of the supplies onto the ship. Just the sight of them set Liv's soul ablaze with righteous fury. Trygve's face told her he was feeling much the same. They were not subtle in their approach, and it wasn't long before the sources of their ire took notice of their arrival.

Halvard was the first to turn and face them. His face, normally alive with pride and affection when in Trygve's presence, was twisted into an ugly frown. Percy's face lacked the same contempt, but his eyes showed what his expression could not. He didn't want them there either. He didn't want to hear what they had to say. Liv wasn't sure where all these foul emotions stemmed from, but she knew one thing for certain. The distance between them – marked by only a few planks of wood underfoot – was as vast as any ocean.

"If you've come to spew more of the same rot that you've been springing on us the past few days, I'd suggest leaving without a word." Halvard warned them. "I have grown tired of your baseless concerns, and so too has Percy."

Percy shuffled nervously at Halvard's side. The first sign that something was off.

"Father, you must see reason. No matter how you envision this ending, the reality is simple. If you send Percy to Norway on that ship with that crew, they will die. If you send Percy to Norway and throw him to the clans, he will die. By doing this, you're doing nothing but killing my brother, and when that happens… When that happens, you'll have lost two sons, not one."

"Watch your tongue, boy." Halvard snapped. "I may be your father, but I am still a king. I will not be lectured by a child, especially one who speaks of things he does not understand."

Percy stiffened at that. Something about the scolding had struck a chord in him. Slowly, like he was walking over a thinly frozen lake, he positioned himself between Trygve and Halvard. Placating hands warded off the enraged king, and suddenly Percy was on their side for the first time in what felt like far too long.

"They're just worried, that's all." Percy said. "The crew is almost finished bringing our supplies aboard. Why don't you oversee the rest of the loading while I deal with Trygve and Liv?"

For a moment, Halvard looked ready to argue, but then something in him changed. Like a new man had taken his place, Halvard's posture straightened, his brow smoothened, and his eyes glazed over. Again, Liv couldn't shake the feeling that something greater was at work here. Something she didn't understand. Something that she didn't like one bit.

"A great idea, Percy. Do with them what you will. I will finish up here." Halvard intoned.

With Halvard appeased, the trio was free to roam. Percy led them away from the ship, taking them as far from Halvard as they could without leaving the docks entirely. He took them to a quiet, secluded place. It was a small patch of dock nestled between the ocean and a stack of barrels that had gone untouched for years now. Percy sat down at the edge of the water without so much as a word, letting his boots dangle over the waves as he ignored them. Liv looked to Trygve, who merely shrugged before joining Percy at the water's edge. Seeing no other options, Liv followed suit.

"So…" Liv began as she lowered herself to Percy's side. "You're going to 'deal with us', are you?

Percy rolled his eyes.

"I only meant that I would talk with you. You know that. You both know I would never do anything to harm you."

Trygve made a show of rubbing a welt on his forehead. A wound courtesy of his most recent sparring session with Percy. Percy had the decency to look embarrassed.

"I would never do anything to harm you permanently." he quickly amended.

"And yet you're running off to get yourself killed." Liv pointed out. "Do you truly believe that your dying won't hurt us, Percy? Or do you just not care if you die? All of us know that you have days where you struggle. Days where you feel like you don't belong at Odin's Rest, or even in this plane, but those few days are no reason to throw away the many."

Percy ducked his head. His gaze was locked on the water below. He was unwilling to face them.

"You two misunderstand. I don't want to go, I have to. I understand the risks. I understand that my death would pain you. It doesn't matter. I'm going anyway. You just need to trust that I will return…" he took a shuddering breath. "There is room in this world for faith, and I am asking only that you place yours with me."

Liv's hand ghosted over his. She almost grabbed it, but some invisible force stopped her. She lowered her palm back to the rough wood. Her head was spinning, but she forged on.

"You're asking us for too much, Percy. We can't just have blind faith."

Percy looked up to meet her gaze; one eyebrow raised in defiance.

"Is that not what we do with the gods? Have you ever seen a god? Spoken to one? We never see them, and yet we spend our whole lives believing in them. Listening to their teachings as if they speak only in absolute truths. Why can't you trust me in the same way? I'm more real to you than any god, and yet you believe more in them than you do in me."

"Percy, I love you, but you're not a god." Trygve pointed out. "Not even half of one."

Percy let out a bark of laughter.

"You'd be surprised."

Liv blinked. They were getting nowhere fast. A change of direction was needed, or else their efforts were doomed to fail… Again.

"Look, Percy, you have to give us something. Anything… Tell us… Tell us why you even want to do this for Halvard?"

"What do you mean? The Saxons are advancing. We need as many allies as we can get and-"

"We know why my father wants you to do it." Trygve cut in. "We want to know why you want to go."

Percy dipped a booted toe in the water. Ripples spread out like rings in a tree before a gentle wave wiped the slate clean.

"I've been having this dream since I was twelve." He began. He spoke slowly. Like he was pained. Like the memories were laced with poison. "It's more of a nightmare really. In it, I'm leading this raid against the Saxons and they have these… These things. Barrels of powdered death that kill every last one of my men before ending with me. I'm not sure it's just a nightmare anymore. I think it's a premonition. And I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stop it."

"And what, you think doing this for my father will prove that you are?" Trygve asked.

"No, I think this will prove that I'm not. I think that I'm going to come back and I'm going to be just as terrified of the future as I am right now." Percy's eyes met Liv's again, and his gaze pierced her soul. "But someone once told me that things will change. That they must change. I'm hoping that they were right, and that when I come back, I won't be afraid anymore."

Liv's stomach churned. She hated it with every fiber of her being, but she could see the plea in Percy's eyes. She knew what he was asking, and she knew she didn't want to give it. She cared about him, maybe more than she'd ever cared about anyone that wasn't family, and because she cared she wanted him to stay. But because she cared, she knew what he needed her to say.

"Do you need this, Percy?"

Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"I think I do."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly her eyes were threatening to shed unwanted tears and her throat was bone dry. At a loss, she did all she could do. She pressed a soft, short-lived kiss to his cheek, hoping the crimson hue of her flesh wouldn't shine too bright. Then, when she finally found her voice again, she pulled back and whispered, "Don't die."

"Wouldn't dream of it." he joked.

She rolled her eyes and then she stood. With calloused hands she wiped the wood from her clothes and gave him one last forlorn glance. Percy smiled a gentle smile up at her, and she fought back the fear, regret, and despair clinging to her heart. Tears stung at her eyes and, with a head held far higher than her spirits, she walked away. She didn't turn back, but she knew that somewhere behind her, in the distance, the two brothers were saying what could very well be their last goodbyes.

Perseus Thrall-Born – Galdhøpiggen, 885 CE

The mountains of Norway were unlike anything Percy had ever experienced before. In his mind, he had always likened them to the hills of Odin's Rest, only bigger. He had imagined their winds like the winters in the slave fields, only colder. The truth was, 'bigger' and 'colder' did the mountains no justice. They were true behemoths. Tall enough to taste the clouds and thick enough to swallow entire cities. Largest among them was Galdhøpiggen, a beast of a thing said to be the foothold of the Jötunn on Midgard. A beast of a thing that Percy was fated to scale.

The climb began easily enough. Near the bottom, the mountain toyed with your mind. It threw thin snows and gentle inclines at you until you believed the task an easy one. For the first two thousand feet, the mountain let you believe you were a conqueror. In the next two thousand, the mountain told you that it was a mighty foe, but you were mightier. It was then, when you were halfway between the earth and the stars, that the mountain buried you beneath the truth of the climb.

At four thousand feet, the blood coursing through your veins congealed into slurry. At five thousand feet, your muscles began to ache so badly you wanted nothing more than to fling yourself from the mountain face. At six thousand feet, the freezing winds were stronger than the breaths of a three-lunged giant. At seven thousand feet, the air was thin, the rock was cold, and the climber was nothing but a mindless drone, enslaved to the cardinal rule of the mountain. Keep moving or die. Climb. Or die.

It was that one rule which kept him going. That one rule that had driven him eight-thousand feet above level ground. He was close now. Only fifty feet separated him from the summit. A small number that paled in comparison to its true gravity. Fifty feet was so simple. So easy. So doable. It said nothing about the exhaustion in his limbs, the cramping in his fingers, or the ice-water in his veins. It said nothing about the reality of that last push. This, when he had all but reached the peak, was where his journey truly began.

Down below, pointed spires of ice and stone laid in wait, eager to catch his fall. They craved his lifeblood. Hungered for it. One misplaced hand, one faulty grip, and his life would feed the stones for centuries. One slip and he'd fail to reach his destiny. The parting words of Aegir echoed in his mind. 'If you fall, Perseus, you will take your people with you.' His hands were numb, his entire being bone-tired, and his mind yearned to accept gravity's embrace, but Aegir's words drove him when he himself could not. His people drove him. He locked the world away and focused on the next step. There was nothing else. The climb was everything.

Reaching the peak was nothing like Percy had envisioned it would be. He'd imagined standing atop Galdhøpiggen like a god amongst men, shouting his conquest to all the world. He'd imagined, for the first time, being above everyone instead of below them. The reality was much less dignified than that. Much more human than god.

By the time Percy tugged himself over the summit's edge, he lacked the energy to gloat. All the strength left in his bones was enough only to roll to safety and kiss the earth below. It didn't matter that the peak tasted of sweat and stone. It didn't matter that the mountain's lips were as cold as an ice fisher's rod. All that mattered was that the ground was flat. Even. Safe.

As he gathered his breath, Percy rolled to his back and looked skyward. Where he'd expected stars and shimmering cosmos, he saw only a thick azure fog. The veil of mist – itself dense enough to blind Odin's all-seeing eyes – enshrouded the entirety of the mountain summit. Despite the voice in his mind begging for him to rest, Percy forced himself to stand and investigate the phenomenon.

By the time he'd clambered to his feet, the mist had closed in. Where once there had been a mountain peak, there was now only blue. He could see his hands before him and feel the snow beneath his feet, but everywhere else there was only the fog. If not for the thin air that he knew belonged to Galdhøpiggen, he would've thought himself transferred to a different plane entirely.

"It has been far too long since I have met one of your kind, demigod." A voice like crashing boulders called through the fog.

The haze parted before the thundering voice. Lingering clouds of blue cowered along the edges of the mountain, revealing the peak – and not an inch more – to Percy's eyes once again. With his vision restored, Percy was able to face the only other being who'd dared to scale the frozen mountain.

The man wasn't so much man as he was giant. He stood at least twenty feet tall, with skin as blue as the midday sky and a beard as white as fresh-fallen snow. Runic tattoos that glowed with mystic light adorned his arms and unclad chest, giving his flesh the appearance of a tidepool glistening beneath the pale light of a waning moon. His eyes were the strangest part of him. In fact, they were barely eyes at all. Just empty fields of midnight where pupil, iris, and sclera should've been.

"You know what I am?" Percy asked. "How? Who are you?"

The giant hummed in thought. The rumbling in his chest was enough to set the entire mountain shaking. Somewhere beyond the mist, the sound of an avalanche's opening throes echoed up the mountainside. Percy swallowed. If the gods had recruited any other of his kin, they were buried now. Whatever was next, it was up to him alone to face it.

"To explain who I am would take longer than your mortal form could tether you to this plane. To comprehend my name alone would take eons. Like myself, it is a piece of history long forgotten by gods and men. To gain even a glimmer of understanding you would have to linger on this mountain peak until long after the fire of your soul has withered and died."

The giant hoisted his massive club – which up until now had been resting at his side – and leaned it against one burly shoulder. His nighttime eyes seemed to brighten with the action.

"What I am is a simpler question, and the only one that matters to you. I am a Jötunn. One of the first to grace the frigid lands of Jötunheimr. It is my eternal duty to guard the base of Yggdrasil and shield the other realms from the beasts of Midgard. Only those who have proven themselves worthy of the climb may dare to scale the World Tree."

Percy looked all around them, trying with all his might to peer through the thick fog. He saw no tree. Only more of the same nothingness. His father had told him that everything would become clear once he reached the summit. So far, he'd only learned that ancient giants were tasked with guarding invisible world-trees. Not much in the way of epiphanous realizations.

"And what exactly must I do to prove myself worthy?"

"Is it not obvious demigod? Have mortals gotten thicker in the last three centuries? To face the World Tree, you must first face me."

Percy eyed the giant up and down. He had enough muscle to uproot Yggdrasil, and his posture alone spoke of limitless experience and skill. Percy seriously doubted anyone had been able to 'prove their worth' in some time. Still, the same purpose that had driven him up the mountain is what lifted his axe from his belt. He could not afford to fail. If he failed, Odin's Rest would burn. Asgard would crumble to dust. Liv and Trygve would become whispers among the thousands of voices of a slain people. His family would become memories cast into eternal silence. He swallowed his fear and shrugged his shield onto his arm.

"You are brave for a mortal." The giant assessed. "Which god is it that sired you?"

"My father is Aegir, but my bravery is my own."

The giant grinned.

"You have the blood of the Jötnar? That explains much. For the sake of our kinship I will grant you a clean death."

As the words left the giant's lips, the chance for turning back was wiped away. The giant lumbered toward Percy with long strides, forcing him to face his fears or suffer the consequences. He took a shuddering breath, gathered his nerves, and made himself face this thing as he would any other opponent.

He watched the Jötunn approach. Watched for a pattern in his strides, a signal from his blank eyes, or a twitch in his corded muscles. As astute as he was, he still saw no sign of an attack until the giant's club was raised high overhead. The weapon closed in faster than a falling star and for a moment, panic took him. Then, just before he could be squashed, instinct did for him what his mind could not.

A swift roll carried him out of reach of the attack. As the club slammed into the ground, Percy tumbled between the giant's legs. He sprang to his feet, on the offensive in an instant. He swung his axe at the achilles of the giant's left leg, hoping to cripple the bastard, but all he earned for his efforts was a tiny cut and a rumbling laugh.

"Did you truly think I could be harmed by mortal steel? Perhaps the gods have chosen poorly. Or perhaps the only plan they have for you is your death."

Percy paid the giant's words no heed. Right now, he was far too busy imagining ways to slay an enemy who was nearly four times his height, a hundred times his strength, and durable enough to absorb the sharpest steel with his flesh alone. Unfortunately, he could see no real options, which left only one. The sole option he'd been afforded his entire life. Fight or die.

The battle – if it could even be called that – was an endless string of defeats for both sides. The Jötunn, for all his speed and strength, still couldn't land a blow against his smaller foe. Each swing of his club served only to maim the air, as Percy was able to narrowly avoid each attack. Percy's speed and agility were equally fruitless in the face of the giant's might. No matter how often he positioned himself properly and capitalized on openings, each attack fell flat. His axe – quite literally – couldn't cut it.

Fighting the giant was like fighting the mountain itself, only when Percy had been climbing, there had always been a small chance of victory. In the face of an unconquerable opponent, Percy began to succumb to his own exhaustion. Adrenaline was a powerful thing, but even the blood of the berserker could not maintain a warrior forever. Eventually his feet slowed, his mind faded, and his once beautiful evasions became desperate dives for safety. It was in that desperate state, when each passing second was another step towards death, that Percy made the most unbelievably stupid, infinitely dangerous mistake of his life. He didn't dodge an attack. He tried to block it.

Somewhere deep within his fatigued mind it had seemed like a good idea. What were shields for if not for blocking? The issue with that logic – and the issue he failed to consider – is that there was no shield that could withstand a blow from a club the size of a tree. It was that failure that nearly cost him everything.

When the club struck home, it wasn't Percy's skill nor his strength that saved him. It was pure, unfettered luck. The giant, perhaps thrown off by his opponent's apparent death wish, only managed to land a glancing blow. It was that which saved Percy's life, though it didn't save much else.

The strike, even weakened as it was, still hit Percy's shield with enough force to crumple entire armies. His shield – always the trustiest part of his ensemble – stood no chance against the Jötunn's strength. It shattered into a million tiny splinters, shooting needles of wood in every direction. His arm was nearly obliterated alongside the shield itself. He felt the bones in a few fingers crumble, and though his arm survived, the white-hot agony in his shoulder told him that socket and arm had parted ways.

Percy fell to the earth, axe flying far beyond his grasp at he clutched his dangling limb. The giant stood overhead, staring down at him with a look that toed the line between respect and pity. Even through his pain, Percy felt his anger flare. He loathed when people looked at him like that. When they looked at him like for all his efforts, he still wasn't enough. Like he wasn't worthy.

"You have fought well, demigod." The Jötunn declared. "Better than any have managed in generations. Still, talent is no substitute for experience… I pray you find purpose in Valhalla."

The Jötunn raised his club skyward. As the wood rose up and up, time began to slow. The club began its descent, moving at a crawl. Percy's mind flashed with countless images all at once. He saw the face of Aegir. Of Halvard. Of Liv, Trygve, and his mother. He saw dozens of faces he'd never seen before, yet he recognized them like he recognized the feeling of an axe in his hand. The club inched toward him as the visions flickered by, drawing closer and closer until only a blink remained between him and death. It was then, when he could smell the wood and taste his own bile, that he finally moved.

He had never done anything so fast in his life as he did then. Acting on instinct alone, Percy log-rolled out of the club's path. He felt the impact next to him. Heard the stone cratering from the force. Without a thought, Percy reached out and grabbed hold of the club. He ignored the pain and impossibility of it all, and with all his strength he began to pull. He levered his body against the earth, yanking up and back like he was trying to lift the world itself.

The giant, unable to believe his attack had missed, stood dumbfounded for a half-second too long. His grip remained tight on the club as Percy used the weapon as a lever. His grip remained tight as he was lifted from the ground and brought in an arc over Percy's fallen form. His grip remained as he was tossed from the summit of the mountain and into the open air. It wasn't until he was impaled by the spires below that his grip finally failed. The Jötunn was swallowed by the hungry mountain's gnashing teeth.

Percy stared at the splattered remains of his foe. His mind was fuzzy and his whole body felt like it was on fire. He couldn't believe his own strength. Couldn't believe what he'd done with only an arm and a half. He couldn't believe that somehow a thrall from the fields of Odin's Rest had thrown a giant from his very own mountaintop. Was this the strength of a demigod, or had the gods granted him favor? Had they interfered to protect their pawn, or had he proven himself worthy all on his own? The answers terrified him more than he cared to admit.

When he rose to his feet again, the mysterious mist was gone. In its place, the moon and stars greeted him. As the light of the heavens cascaded down, a new adversary shimmered into existence. A tree root thicker than the entirety of Odin's Rest's mead hall jutted out from the mountain. Attached to it, the body of the mighty Yggdrasil extended so far that its leaves mingled with the cosmos. This was his destiny, Percy knew. The climb beyond the climb.

"The gods have chosen well." The giant's voice rumbled in his mind. "When you reach Asgard, remember what they have forgotten. It is only with time that beings lose their greatest virtues."

"Right." Percy grumbled. "Whatever the fuck that means."

The silent voice from the dead giant didn't bother to respond. Taking that as a sign of good faith, Percy did what was natural. He gritted his teeth, slammed his shoulder into the root of Yggdrasil, and forced his arm back into its socket. His screams of pain were loud enough to wake the dead, but only the mountain heard him.

When his cries died, there was only the climb once more. He was exhausted, wracked with pain, and wishing he were dead. It didn't matter. He raised a hand and grabbed gnarled bark. The tree was nothing but another obstacle. One that he would overcome. And when he stood atop Yggdrasil, a new man reborn from his labor, he would storm the halls of Asgard and demand an audience with Odin himself. Gods have mercy on any who stood in his way.

Perseus Thrall-Born – Camp Half-Blood, 2017 CE

Perseus Thrall-Born had never been a particularly patient man. In his youth, a great many of his days had been torn asunder in the noble pursuit of avoiding boredom. His time encased in ice had honed his temperament to an even finer edge, and with Marianic Blackstone once again being harvested to serve a wicked master, his yearning for action had only intensified. He spent every waking moment plotting. Imagining all the sick and twisted ways that the 'Alchemist' would pay for his most unholy sin. The vivid daydreams gave him the peace reality could not.

Alex – whom the campers had silently elected to serve as their representative in dealing with Percy – was constantly preaching patience. He insisted that the nature spirits were better surveillance than anything the NSA could conjure up, but Percy saw that claim as dubious at best. In his experience, the world's worst acts were planned not in valleys filled with beautiful nymphs and grazing satyrs, but in ornate palaces where the vile words of powerful men were sacrosanct. If the camp wanted to find the man in charge, they would not find him in nature, but in the middle of all the filth. Still, Alex had earned Percy's trust and so, despite his misgivings, Percy remained.

His lodgings, unlike the work being done by the camp, had proven to be a boon in the face of his boredom. The counselors had unanimously decided that Chiron and Percy sleeping beneath the same roof was a recipe for Ragnarök come early, and the camp had found the idea of Percy staying in one of the cabins equally reprehensible. They claimed it was because they feared reprisal from the gods, but Percy knew it was no god they feared, only half of one. Still, he hadn't argued the point. He wanted no part of the Greek Gods and their temples of self-worship.

Alex – ever the hero – had come up with a solution that fit everyone's needs. As a gesture of 'Greek Hospitality' he had offered Percy a room in a cave-turned-compound. It was nearby but isolated. Cozy but undesired. The perfect place to stow a nightmare come to life. The campers wouldn't have to see him, and he wouldn't have to see the campers. Their work together could be done like a mute doubles tennis team. Together, but in silence.

While seclusion had been the goal, the Greeks had made one small slip-up in that regard. They had either forgotten or simply not cared to mention that the cave they'd so generously offered to him already had an occupant; one Rachel Elizabeth Dare. She was the Oracle of Delphi, Alex had told him, and equal parts eccentric and unafraid of axe wielding Vikingrs. In his two weeks of staying with the girl, Percy had found both things to be truer than true.

On most days Rachel stuck to the wing of the cave Percy had quickly deemed 'pointless'. It was there you could find the arcade, the movie theater, the art studio, and the room that was literally just an Olympus themed bouncy castle. When Rachel was there, Percy was free to move about the rest of the cave in peace. There were no incessant questions from a curious mortal, no odd requests to settle her internal philosophical debates, and certainly no chance of being assaulted by an unwanted prophecy.

While Rachel bided her time in the 'pointless' wing waiting for someone who needed their death prophesied, Percy decided to use the cave's substantial facilities for his own purposes. There was a pool for practicing his hydro-kinesis, a gym for exercising, and an open training area for everything else. In short, he had been indulging himself in his oldest hobby: obsessively practicing until his fingers bled. The best part of it all was that he was able to do it away from gawking Greeks and fuming centaurs. Or at least, that's what it was usually like. Sometimes, he was graced with unwanted guests. Like now for example.

"Do you always train shirtless? Or is that just for my sake?" His hostess asked from the edge of the room.

Percy frowned. He liked Rachel well enough, but what she was implying was laughable at best. She was pretty, sure, but his taste in women was far more dangerous than rich girls who could see through glamour.

"Not usually." He admitted. "But it's hotter than all hell at this camp, and apparently your cave isn't immune to that fact."

Rachel quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

"It's the end of autumn." She pointed out. "Most people are putting on sweaters, not taking them off."

"Most people haven't been living in Alaska for half a century."

Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Oh, relax with the snippy attitude. I'm not hitting on you." She told him, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm the Oracle. I'm not allowed to have any relationships. I promise my interest in your shirtlessness is purely artistic."

"You're talking about my tattoos?" He asked. Rachel nodded. "What is it about them that you find so interesting?"

Rachel shrugged, a wispy smile working its way onto her face.

"I don't know yet. That's why I want to talk about them. Training is boring, prophecies are boring, arcades are boring. The art people choose to mark themselves with forever? That's interesting."

Despite her forward way of asking, Percy found himself smiling at her not-so-veiled request. In a way, she reminded him of himself a long time ago. When he'd first been learning to fight, he'd become obsessed. If he wasn't training, he was watching others train. Studying every aspect of the craft from every pair of eyes he could. He imagined art was much the same for Rachel and so, as an ode to his former self, he decided to humor her.

"Alright, but specifically which tattoos are you curious about? Because I have enough ink to make an octopus jealous."

"Tell me about all of them." Rachel said, eyes alight with excitement. "Start with the ones on your arms. The ones that look like writing. What do they mean?"

Percy glanced down at his arms, where some of his oldest tattoos stood out against his skin. They circled around his arms from shoulder to wrist like coiling snakes. Each series of runes was a different name. Each series of runes felt heavier than if the world itself were perched atop his flesh.

"They're names."

"Not a literal translation." Rachel said in the tonal equivalent of a face palm. "What do they mean to you? That's the part of art that makes it art."

"Would you believe me if I said they were the names of all the demigods I've killed. Like a scoreboard of some sort?"

Rachel snorted.

"From what I hear, you would run out of skin long before you ran out of names. Come on. Tell me. What are they really?"

At first, he didn't answer her. For all that she was pushy and fanatical about it, Rachel was right. Like most that bothered to decorate their skin with memories, his tattoos had important meanings to him. Meanings that were better off left unsaid. They revealed much about who he used to be, who he was now, and everything in between. To tell her would be to peel back a layer of himself that had been locked away since the first face beyond the ice, Anna, had died. It would be foolish to reveal such things to a stranger except, as he noted earlier, Rachel was far from dangerous. As long as he kept things simple, the worst she could do was peg him as an overly sentimental psycho-killer.

"They're reminders." He eventually told her. "Each name belongs to someone who died because of one of my failings. I am the one who made them ghosts. It's only fair they haunt me now."

To her credit, Rachel didn't look phased in the slightest. She just nodded her head, filing away the information in whatever part of the brain stored useless tattoo facts, before pushing forward.

"And the one on your chest? Symbols of your favored gods?"

Percy didn't have to look. The image of a sword and spear crossing behind a shield had long since been burned into the back of his eyelids. It was their sigil. Each one third of a whole. Only now, he was the only one who remained. A triumvirate dismantled by time and ice.

"I have no favored gods. The symbols are a placeholder for my oldest friends. Close to my heart, just as they were in life."

Rachel hummed, unfaltering in her step as she moved behind him. He heard her footsteps stop, and then a single cool finger started tracing an icy path across his back. The tattoo she was feeling now, unlike the rest, was modern. The others were from his former life, made with fading ink and long withered tools. This one was done after the ice. A complex mural that covered his entire back. A mosaic of his greatest battles. Of his greatest foes. Of his most important lessons.

He felt her finger ghost over every scene. From a group of bullies to an army of Saxons to a goddess who simply refused to accept defeat. Then, finally, her frigid touch landed on his right shoulder blade. A single dainty finger lodged itself between the empty eyes of an ancient giant from a lonely mountaintop.

"So, this is your scoreboard then? Except not everyone gets a spot."

Though he couldn't see her, he could feel the intensity of her eyes burning a hole through the back of his skull. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Most of them are enemies, true, and most of those fights I won, but that's not why they're there. They are there because in our battle, win or lose, I was taught a valuable lesson."

"Did the ice give you amnesia or something?" Rachel asked. The smile in her voice was clear as day. "You have all these tattoos as reminders and memories. It seems like what you really need is a scrapbook."

Percy chuckled, though only because he knew she was joking. From anyone else, he might've taken her words for mocking, but he knew that if anyone could be appreciative of the illustrations on his flesh, it was this artist-turned-prophesier.

"A scrapbook would be far too impermanent... That giant you're touching? He once told me 'It is only with time that beings lose their greatest virtues.' These tattoos are an echo of that sentiment. They're my assurance that in my long life, I do not fall victim to the curse of time."

"And do they work?"

Percy frowned. To answer that question, he would first have to know the answer himself. Unfortunately, the only people who could help him realize the way time had changed him were either long dead, or too ashamed to face him. Luckily, before he had the chance to astound Rachel with his lack of knowledge of his own self, Alex came bursting into the training arena, a cheek-splitting grin threatening to destroy his face.

"Percy! Percy!" The son of Poseidon cried. "The nymphs found something. We need to go to-"

He stopped in his tracks when he saw them.

"Am I interrupting something or…?"

Again, Percy was left without an answer. Thankfully, Rachel was there to save the day.

"Tattoo tour." Was her simple reply. "But we can finish it another time. You guys go do your demigod stuff. I'll be painting."

The oracle didn't wait for a response. She just strolled away like nothing had happened at all, leaving the two sons of the sea in her wake.

"Someone's making friends." Alex noted with a smirk.

Percy rolled his eyes.

"There's a near infinite number of reasons why what you're suggesting is stupid." Percy told him. "Unfortunately, it's been two weeks, and I don't have enough patience left to list them all so please, just tell me… Where are we headed?"

Impossibly, Alex's grin grew even wider than it had been before.

"My home turf. Central Park. We can leave right now if you're ready."

"Ready?" Percy echoed. "I was ready before I even set foot in this gods-forsaken camp. Let's go find out what answers your precious tree nymphs have found us."

Alex Jackson – Central Park, 2017 CE

"And you're certain this dryad of yours is to be trusted?"

Alex fought to withhold a sigh.

"If you weren't going to believe what my people found, why'd you bother asking for my help in the first place? Why not go off and figure things out on your own?"

"Don't mistake my skepticism for ingratitude." Percy advised. "I'm simply facing reality. In my time, nature spirits were unhelpful at best, and I doubt they've grown fonder of humans over the centuries. The girl easily could've lied to your friend to lure us into a trap."

"'Friend' is a bit reductive. Grover's a Lord of the Wild. No nymph would lie to him. And besides, there can't be as many vindictive trees in the world as you seem to think there are."

"Spoken like someone who has never seen the world as it was. I live with a foot in both times Alex, so you can trust me when I say this. There is no group of beings alive that has more reason to hate than the nature spirits do. What humans have done to them… Were I in their shoes, I would be willing to help anyone who promised me a chance to restart the world. Who's to say the alchemist hasn't promised this dryad just that?"

As Percy spoke, Alex couldn't help but let his mind wander. His thoughts drifted to a certain huntress who, once upon a time, had pointed out to him the devastating damage caused by human innovation. It was curious that Percy reminded him of her. They were different in too many ways to count, and yet one thing seemed to unite them. At their cores, they were two people who were unwavering in their beliefs.

In a different life – one where Zoë wasn't a constellation and Percy wasn't a homicidal time traveler hellbent on destroying an enemy he'd never even met – the two might've been friends. Together, they might've formed the most effective eco-terrorist duo the world had ever seen, dedicated to returning the world to the beautiful state they had seen whither into dust.

Now that he thought about it, Alex found himself wondering if the two warriors had ever crossed paths. According to every account, the war between the Norse pantheon and the united Greeks and Romans had been a bloody one. It would only stand to reason that Percy's area of the war – the area where demigods had been slaughtered like cattle – would've drawn the attention of Olympus' most deadly fighting force.

Suddenly, Alex's mind was alight with visions of silver-clad huntresses doing battle with burly Vikings. He saw a familiar face beneath a tiara of silver. Coppery skin framed by a wreath of midnight hair. He saw a towering Viking with an axe stained red and eyes alight with hate and bloodlust. That, Alex decided, was the battle he would've liked to see.

Carried away by fantasy, Alex didn't notice Percy walking ahead. It wasn't until he turned to ask his burning question that he realized he was alone. In the distance, Percy was locked in discussion with a kind-eyed dryad, oblivious to his partner's daydreams. Shaking away the vestiges of his distracted demigod mind, Alex jogged over to the pair.

"-erwood never mentioned you would be so handsome." Alex heard the dryad saying as he approached.

That took Alex by surprise, but Percy seemed remarkably unphased.

"I hate to break it to you, but you're a bit too young for me."

The nymph crossed her arms and pouted.

"I'm a tree!" She declared indignantly. "I'm over one hundred years old."

"And I'm over one thousand. As soon as you catch up, I'll consider going 'vegan'." Percy deadpanned.

"Oh, you don't have to!" The dryad said. "If you're not a one tree kind of guy that's okay. You're cute, Grover says you're powerful, and I heard what you were saying about how humans have hurt us nature spirits. If you want to see other plants, I'm okay with that."

Alex couldn't even begin to process what he was hearing. Percy was being hit on by a tree. Oh ho, he couldn't wait to tell Annabeth. She would get a kick out of this for sure. Still, as amusing as it was, Alex felt he had to interrupt. If he didn't, he feared that Percy and his surprisingly big heart would incite a forest-nymph revolt against the mortals. Grover would probably be happy, but their mission would not.

"That aside, Eve." He cut in. "Grover mentioned you had some information that could be useful to us? Something important?"

The dryad smacked her forehead, blushing a deep green. She was probably embarrassed to seem so air-headed in front of her Nordic dream-beau.

"Oh, right! That. Okay, so, over the past few months, I've been noticing a bunch of demigods snooping around the park. At first, I thought they were from the camp, so I ignored them. Once we got word that you were looking out for suspicious activity I… Well, it took a while, but I was finally able to tail one of them and…"

"And?"

"And they're using the Door of Orpheus."

"Is that bad?" Percy asked. "I'm not so up to speed on the finer points of Greek myth."

"Worse than bad." Alex told him. "The Door of Orpheus is a direct line to the Underworld. No seeing the ferryman. No waiting in line. No sneaking past Cerberus. If demigods are using it frequently, that means that the alchemist has demigods on his side and they're not just visiting lost souls. They're looking for something."

"Or they've already found it. Something to combine with the Blackstone maybe?"

Alex felt all the blood drain from his face.

"Fuck. The rivers." He hissed. Seeing Percy's perplexed look, he started to explain. "There are five rivers in the Greek underworld. Each one is dangerous enough alone for us to be worried. I can't imagine what would happen if you mixed it with Marianic Blackstone."

"Whatever it is, I can assure you it's not good. We better get down there and talk to your death god. He needs to know about the security breach." Percy turned to their dryad informant. "Thank you, Eve. You've been a great help."

Eve grinned like it had just rained nectar and godly strength alcohol.

"Anytime you need some help, I'm your tree."

She battered her eyelashes at him. This time, her flirting did earn a smile from Percy, though Alex was unsure if it was because he was embarrassed, flattered, or simply felt pity for the poor girl. Perhaps some weird combination of the three.

"I'll keep that in mind." Percy said.

And with that they left Eve behind, beginning their short trek to the Door of Orpheus. A door Alex had never envisioned using again. And yet, as Hades drew closer, Alex was still in a cheery mood. Perhaps it was because he'd been to Tartarus, and now the Underworld felt like child's play. Or maybe it was because he had Perseus Thrall-Born at his side, and with him beside you any foe seemed conquerable. Either way, he wasn't so much afraid as he was excited for the hours to come.

"You ready to visit hell?" he asked, voice giddy even to him.

Percy looked down at him with the most wicked grin he'd ever seen.

"Absolutely. I've sent hundreds of Greeks and Romans to your underworld. It's about time I found out what it was like."

AN:

Hey all. We are finally back with another chapter. As you may have noticed, I have run out of pre-written chapters, and as such, updates are now based solely on the speed of my writing. I will do my best to keep things moving, but I must warn you that I value quality above everything else and as such, do take longer than I sometimes hope to put chapters. Nonetheless, I am committed and will publish and publish until this story is finished for all y'all, no matter how long that takes.

Only three things I really want to discuss about the chapter. First, Percy's fight with the giant. I realize Percy's victory was a bit convenient for lack of a better term, but that's kind of the feel I wanted there. I wanted Percy to question whether he really won that fight, or something greater was at work. As a bonus, now you guys have to ask yourself that question that as well. Second, Percy's scene with Rachel. I will say now this story is not Perachel. The point of that scene was to provide insight into Percy's character through what I thought was an interesting medium (the way he marks his body). His tattoos were a convenient avenue toward getting him to open up a bit in a way that seemed more casual then such a thing really is for him. That, and I really wanted him in a room with Rachel's not-put-off-or-scared-by-godly-weirdness-and-danger attitude at least once. Third and finally, the final modern scene was short, but only because I have now truly set up the action. The investigation into the alchemist and all the stuff that comes with it will be kicking off next chapter, so be ready for that.

Anyways, as always, I hope you guys enjoyed. I hope you're all doing well in your lives and all of your ventures are fruitful. Stay happy, stay healthy, and until next time,

Peace