SUMMARY: After her father's remarriage, nine-year-old Artemis's world becomes colored in shades of grey cynicism and pale hostility. Even though the rest of her family ignores and laughs away Zeus's betrayal, it's been day in and out of apathy for Artemis... Then her mother adopts a boy with startling sea-green eyes and red scratches on his wrists. Everything changes from there. Pertemis
The "family" dinner is a bland affair, but Leto makes it somehow worse. Her unsubtle attempts at conversation are as dry and flavorless as the slopping, grey wheat pasta.
The table before them is rectangular—Apollo and Percy on one side, and Artemis and Leto on the opposite. Percy stares intently at the pasta like it's a foreign substance from Mars, or like it's poisoned. After several minutes of deeply psychoanalyzing the pasta, he ends up taking a hesitant bite. The boy then smiles thinly at Leto in what Artemis assumes is a show of gratitude. Apollo, next to him, drinks fruit juice in a wine-glass ("It makes me seem more refined," he's said before), drowning the flavorless pasta in his mouth with berry punch and mango juice. The juice slides down his cheeks and makes a mess on the lace tablecloth, forcing a grimace out of Artemis. Meanwhile, Leto is smiling so widely that Artemis is sure her mother's jaw will break in two.
Whole minutes breeze by like seconds on a clock, and it's spent silent, except for soft chewing and the occasional polite chatter from Leto. Leto's read "How to Raise Orphans For Dummies" three days before Percy's arrival, and it's given her all sorts of sentence starters and questions to ask. Ice-breakers, recalls Artemis, but she thinks the name is really dumb. Every time Leto says something, Percy just freezes even more, icier than ever.
At least she's trying, thinks Artemis, looking at the table's silverware impeccably set up like it's a ballroom feast. Usually, when it's just Artemis, Apollo, and Leto, they use paper plates and eat in separate rooms.
Leto smiles, forcing as much cheeriness as she can into it, her bright white teeth glowing. "So, Percy, what grade are you in?"
"Um..." he begins, playing with the pale pasta with his fork. "Um...third-grade, ma'am."
"You don't have to call me 'ma'am,'" Leto consoles him. "And that's so great! My kids here are also going into third-grade."
"I'm actually going into fourth," interjects Artemis, her eyes solely focused on Percy's large green ones. "I'm skipping a grade."
"Oh, yes, of course," Leto says in a tone that says she's forgotten.
Apollo rolls his eyes and says loudly, "Ms. Rhea would've let me skip a grade, too, you know. Out of the both of us, I am the smarter one."
"Then why didn't she?" Artemis asks, ignoring the last bit, tilting her chin up. She has still not forgiven him for the mess of dresses on the floor, and her silver-yellow eyes narrow. "Didn't she tell you you weren't cut out for it? That you weren't mature enough?"
"She said 'next year'!"
"And she'll say it again next year, too," Artemis says simply. "And she'll repeat 'next year' again. And again. And again. Until you graduate."
"Isn't that," murmurs Percy, "kind of mean...?"
"Exactly! You should know better than that, Artemis." Leto says it brightly, trying to leech on anything she can to make Percy feel more welcome. Artemis has no doubt that Leto will bend back and forth in order to make Percy feel better. She is a people-pleaser out of principle, not out of goodwill, but at the end of the day, it doesn't even matter. It all means one thing: Percy's getting what he wants under Leto's roof.
"Sweetness," says Leto, turning to a sulking Apollo, "I'm sure Arty doesn't mean it. Right, Artemis?"
Artemis rolls her eyes at the nickname. Aside from a much-despised "Arty," Artemis doesn't have many other nicknames. There was a time her dad used to call her "moonbeam"—but that was when she was five. She barely sees Zeus now, and even if she does, "moonbeam" is gone from Zeus's vocabulary.
Whatever. It's not like she cares.
"Sorry," she mutters.
"Anyway, term starts in August." A smiling Leto turns to Percy expectedly, ignoring Artemis's half-hearted apology. "So you've got a whole two weeks to relax and have fun before then!"
Percy nods. Artemis wonders if Leto is going to sign them up for summer camp—to ship off to some random location for the next few weeks.
Leto has done that for the past three summers. She tells them it's a "growing experience" that will "expand and broaden their horizons," but Artemis knows that's just adult-talk for "I want to get rid of you two for a few weeks."
"Don't send us to Arizona again," Artemis tells Leto. She recalls being sunburned into oblivion and making beaded necklaces with ditzy five-year-olds. Apollo might love singing campfire carols under a sizzling sun, but Artemis can live without that, thank you very much—
Leto's eyes widen, her face becoming stressed. "No, Arty, we're going to stay home this summer, okay?"
"Wait," Percy says, "you guys usually go on vacation?"
Artemis thinks back to their out-of-state summer camps. She guesses it can be considered a vacation, in the loosest sense.
"It's summer camp," Apollo explains brightly. "We usually go somewhere out of state and learn survival skills—"
"—like applying sunscreen—" Leto begins with a chipper smile.
"—and hunting lizards! And setting things on fire! And living off of one pair of underwear!"
Percy's eyes widen into dinner plates.
"That was just one summer," Artemis says and sighs. "We usually don't go to outdoor camps. And we're not doing one this year."
Leto nods. "As much as I think those camps are beneficial for growing and becoming more independent, we're going to stay home and help you get situated, Percy." She seems to deliberate for a second, before she says, "As a welcome-home present, I'll get you anything you like."
Percy tenses. Then nods. "Thank you, ma'am."
Help him get situated? For the rest of August?
God. Artemis would rather suck it up and take the lizard-hunting camp.
Artemis sags into the chair, annoyed and exasperated. Unless they're going to buy her a new leather quiver—to replace her ripped brown one—she sees shopping as a waste of time. Shopping usually consists of Apollo screeching and pointing at expensive silks and luxurious brands, and Leto going along with it as best as she can. It usually works like that, when arrogance meets docility.
In that sense, Apollo is very much like their father. It's an ugly comparison, though, and Artemis has never voiced it. It feels too mean to say in words.
Artemis takes a bite out of the pasta, swallowing tightly. The more Leto buys Percy things, the more Percy will be integrated into the Phoebus household. The more he is integrated into their lives, the more sentimental Leto will get, and a sentimental Leto will keep Percy Jackson permanently. Artemis is cringing at the thought of dealing with another Apollo. She knows and hates how Leto will worship the grounds Percy walks on. Just because he is new and entertaining and not a product or forlorn reminder of Zeus.
Unconsciously sneering, the young girl takes a long breath and smoothes her features into polite neutrality. She won't stoop so low as to sabotage Percy's reputation, but she's not above slipping nasty comments about him later—anything to get him out of their home and out of their lives.
He will be gone by the end of summer, Artemis thinks, forcing all her will into that one command. Not a wish, not a prediction, but a command.
Artemis is already counting the seconds, measuring the minutes, awaiting the hours, until Percy slips.
Artemis spares a peek at Percy, who tilts his head and looks at her from across the table. He's being weird again, quiet and unable to voice what he wants as his welcome-home (Artemis cringes at the word-choice, as if this is his home now) gift, looking at her with the curiosity of a baby bird.
There is a raw, horrible emotion in her chest.
To be fair, it isn't really so much as who he is (an orphan boy with nowhere else to go), but what he represents (everything wrong with Leto) that makes her feel what she feels—
Well, it's not her fault. She can't help that she hates him.
Artemis watches as Percy finishes his pasta, setting his fork down, lightly bowing his head in a silent gratitude, wiping his mouth on his long sky-blue sleeves. Artemis softens, just a little, and thinks: Perhaps hatred is too strong a word.
Leto calls for Artemis just before bedtime. Percy Jackson is already showering, and Apollo is looking for clothing he's outgrown to act as Percy's pajamas. They've set up a mattress bed—Artemis is curious if Apollo will suck it up and sleep on the floor, or if he'll force Percy to—and they've turned Apollo's night-light on. Artemis and Apollo's bedtime is typically early, but tonight, the sky in the window is dark and still. It's nine-something, and the world outside is silent, save for crickets basking in the summer heat.
Leto calls her again, when Artemis doesn't answer: "Artemis!" Her mother's voice is pitched too-high, and there's a hint of annoyance there. Which is rather really ironic, considering it should be Artemis who is annoyed. Not her—Leto's the one who's gotten them into this mess.
"Artemis!" Again, loud but not angry.
Artemis finishes her pajamas' last button, then slowly walks down their stairs. Her stomach is upset and tight, and it's not from dinner or from anxiety. But it isn't from Leto either. Leto is harmless. Artemis isn't sure where the feeling came from.
Artemis clicks her heel on the last step. Leto is standing there, shadowing over her, bright-blue eyes jaded and tense. Artemis crosses her arms sullenly and stares.
"Artemis," she says, and the anger has died, replaced with something softer but equally frustrated. "Can we talk?"
"Aren't we talking already?" Artemis asks. It really isn't meant to be sarcastic, but it comes out like it is instead.
Leto grimaces. The shower upstairs rustles in the background. Percy has been in there for at least thirty minutes, and the noises have yet to stop. Artemis hears their water bill crying in the distance.
At least the shower's shh-shh-shh and pitter-patter of water hides this conversation. Artemis can already tell it's going to be a lecture about her "behavior" and cynicism and hatred of—
"Artemis, can you do me a favor?"
The girl blinks. Her silver-yellow eyes widen a bit, confused.
Leto takes out a piece of white paper, smooths it out. It's wrinkly and the size of a receipt, except it's clearly not. On it is a bunch of information—statistics and dates and information Artemis would expect from an encyclopedia.
The little paper's title is Percy Jackson.
There is a lot of doctor's information, normal things you'd see from a doctor's visit: height (52 inches), weight (93 pounds), disorders (ADHD and dyslexia, though Artemis isn't sure what those are), date-of-birth (August 18, 1993) and blood-type (B+). Artemis's eyes scan over the material, and her breathing calms, confused but now understanding. Then she reads more, and the words fade from doctor's statistics.
The information turns into a full-on biography about Jackson, detailing the things he's done in school to his home-life to everything in between. It's on a short piece of paper, so it's only a few paragraphs, but Artemis feels like she's reading someone's full life-story. The note is written in the most unbiased way possible, but emotions leak through.
There's a note written by one of his teachers: Mr. Brunner.
A troubled child with the best of intentions. Yancy (his elementary-school) is difficult for him, so I recommend helping him with reading/writing/math. Diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia. He is truly a sweet kid, and he had a deep loyalty with his mother. Not many friends at school, not the most outgoing of kids, shy in a way. Likes blue candy, but I'd steer clear of it until he's used to his mother's absence. Please, treat this child with the utmost care and kindness, Ms. Phoebus—
Artemis reads on, but the whole receipt iterates the same message: Troubled child. Good intentions. Learning problems. Antisocial.
Leto looks at Artemis expectedly, and it starts to unnerve Artemis as she reads things over. When she finishes, Artemis slides the note back into Leto's hands. It makes sense her mother would've done her research, but it still feels strange to show Artemis this, while Apollo is upstairs emptying out his whole closet.
Why isn't Apollo here too?
"So, Arty," Leto murmurs softly, eyes scanning the paper, tucking it close to her heart, "I need your help. I need you to make him feel welcome here."
Artemis ignores her mother's wishes, eyes flicking idly to the paper, asking, "Where was he before?"
"Before?" Leto probes.
"Before coming to stay with us. Yancy? Where's that?"
"A school in New York," Leto answers. "It's an elementary-school, middle-school, and high-school. Percy was to attend all years, but after his mother's death, his stepfather left him at an orphanage. He hasn't been to school in four months."
"Oh," Artemis says, "that's…unfortunate." Artemis wrinkles her auburn-dark brows, head swirling with a million unanswered questions and thoughts. The shower upstairs is still going, but it still feels wrong to back-talk Percy when he's only a floor away. "But why do you need my help? I'm not that social, and Percy Jackson is already obsessed with Apollo." She hates that she says the last part with a tinge of annoyance.
Leto sits down on the wooden stairs. She sighs. "I'm scared this won't work." Artemis feels guilt in her stomach, as well as the sharpest hint of joy, at the thought of Percy leaving. "I'm scared I signed all the papers and read all the books, and at the end of the day, it just…won't work. So I need your help. I need you to prepare him for school, make him some friends—"
"Apollo has plenty of those," snaps Artemis. Jealousy is not a foreign emotion to Artemis. "And don't ask me for help. I don't even want Percy Jackson here."
"Why?"
Because I don't like what you're doing, Leto. I don't like how you're adopting a different child, just because you hate your own.
"I don't know," Artemis says instead, her eyes low. Leto stares at her, her expression unreadable and grim. "I'm sorry," spills out of Artemis's mouth, and the words: "I'm tired, and I'm not sure what I'm saying. I'll try my best to help him, Leto."
Leto's strained expression lightens at Artemis's words. Leto's gullibility means she's easily manipulated by everyone around her—salesmen at the door, Artemis, Apollo, Zeus, orphan boys with bright green eyes... Artemis doesn't like lying, because she doesn't like demeaning herself in such a way, but if it gets Leto off her back, she'll do it.
"Okay, then." Leto's smile seems genuine, but Artemis is smarter than that. "Thank you, Artemis, for—"
The shower upstairs halts. Leto then smiles plainly, and she gestures to Artemis upstairs. The wooden staircase creaks before Artemis, and she quickly walks up. She ignores Apollo's "Aha!" and the sight of Percy Jackson in navy-blue, T-rex pajamas. His ruffles of dark hair are wet and drip on his face, and he smiles at the set of pajamas he's wearing, thanking Apollo quietly.
Artemis walks faster up, avoiding everything. She opens her room, checks to make sure the dresses from Zeus are still there, and then walks over to the bed. She lies there, her head indented into the grey pillow.
The stars on her ceiling glow a soft hue of green.
She thinks of Percy, thinks of Leto, thinks of Apollo, thinks of Zeus, thinks of his stupid second wife. She thinks of how everything in her life is getting flipped on its head and of how she won't have archery to distract herself with until school starts. She thinks of the long days and nights that will be spent with a stranger in their homes. Percy Jackson...because he will never be a Phoebus, never be their blood and bone, never be their equal.
If Leto thinks Percy will be a good substitute for Zeus, she is wrong. If she thinks Percy Jackson (a social outcast, a troublemaker, a boy addled with disorders and mental problems) is anything like Zeus (prideful and arrogant and with a mistress on each arm), she is wrong.
Comparing them is like comparing a papercut to death by chainsaw.
Artemis firmly sets her head on the downy pillows, taking in a deep, frantic breath of air. She closes her eyes, hoping the lull of a dreamless sleep will take her down. It's far past her bedtime, and the sky is dark, cradling a moon and stars in its inky blanket. Artemis squeezes her eyes shut, clenches her fists tight, and tries to pull her expression into neutrality. Auburn strands of hair fly across her forehead and cheeks.
My whole family is a screwed-up mess.
Her eyes flick open. Sleep feels distant and estranged, while everything to do with Percy Jackson remains front and center, ready to be examined and picked apart.
For the whole night, Artemis stays awake, her back pressed against the mattress. She doesn't get a lick of sleep, her eyes wide and dull in the darkness. It is pitch-black, save for the light of natural and artificial stars; the silence is deafening; she is alone and unmoving on the bed.
Artemis shivers. She almost feels like a ghost, trapped in a haunted household.
Funny thing is that—no matter how much Apollo likes the sunrise and the morning—he is a night-owl. He gets up later than Artemis, whether that be on school days or in summer break, and although he says that an actor needs his beauty-sleep, Artemis can just tell her brother's annoying personality drains him, just as much as it drains everyone else. Karma, Artemis thinks mildly, when she gets up brightly at six o'clock sharp while Apollo is still snoring away.
The sun pathetically peeks through the curtains, so Artemis adjusts them, making sure the navy-blue blocks out the sharp light. Apollo calls her cold-blooded because of her habits, but Artemis thinks he's just biased; she likes the cold more than the heat because it keeps her on her toes, coldness sharp and chilly while heat is just...too much.
Artemis hasn't slept yet, but she doesn't care. Drowsiness and dark circles around her eyes are things she can handle.
What she decidedly can't handle is waking up and seeing Percy Jackson silently sitting at the dinner table, swinging his feet back and forth.
His feet barely hit the ground.
There's some drool at the corner of his mouth that he wipes away. His hands fidget next to the chair's sides, and Artemis has never seen "hyperactive" categorized so perfectly before by someone.
Artemis nearly startles when she sees him there—and not where he's supposed to be. He is supposed to be in Apollo's room, snoring away.
Hearing her footsteps behind him, Percy turns around, clearly on-edge. Sea-green eyes look at her blankly.
Remembering Leto's words to her—to act more welcoming—Artemis chokes out a greeting. Then she clears her throat, trying to clear the tension in the room.
Artemis has friends—a group from archery class that she's named the "Hunters"—and a couple here and there at school, but she's still nothing like Apollo with his posse of friends. She has a social battery, and she has a hard time talking with strangers (she always feels like she needs to prove something to them, and it makes it hard for smooth conversations to flow).
"You're up early," she settles on.
"You, too," Percy responds.
She shrugs, her expression neutral and lips drawn in a thin line. Controlled. "I'm always up this early," she says. "What's your excuse? You don't seem like the early type."
Percy's cheeks flush, his skin becoming slightly reddish. He shrugs as well, but it's not as laid-back as Artemis's is. There is a tension across his shoulder-blades and something in his eyes that Artemis is too tired to analyze. When Percy doesn't reply, Artemis takes a seat on the chair across from him. The family dinner feels centuries away. Like a different lifetime almost.
"I didn't get much…" Percy begins, but with Artemis's searing gaze on him, he reiterates, "...any sleep last night."
Noticing dark, purplish circles around Percy's eyes, Artemis bites her lip.
"Apollo is a heavy snorer," Artemis says. "You'll get used to it. It is only for a few days—"
"It's not that. He doesn't snore—don't tell him he does." Percy takes a deep breath. "I dunno. I'm sorry… I just couldn't sleep. It isn't his fault."
Shadows settle over his eyes. Artemis sees them reflected in her own. As hard as it is having a stranger in her home, it must be ten times harder for Percy—who has to live with, not one but, three strangers. Pity rises in Artemis's stomach, like a floatie in an ocean.
There is a silence between them, so thick and palpable that if Artemis speaks, it'll choke her on the spot. Artemis feels awkward and heavy, slow and sluggish.
She can hear Leto and Apollo snoring away upstairs, getting their "beauty sleep" for their shopping spree today.
Meanwhile, here Percy and Artemis are.
"Do you want something to eat?" asks Artemis, remembering Leto's reminder to be kind. "Cereal?" They must have cornflakes somewhere in the pantry. "Pancakes?" She's not sure if frozen pancakes ever spoil; surely not, right? "Waffles?" Only a slightly harder, more rectangular pancake, but she does get a reaction out of Percy. "Eggs?" She only knows how to make scrambled eggs, but something tells her Percy will be too shy to complain about which type. "Come on. Anything's better than yesterday's pasta."
"The pasta wasn't bad."
Artemis attempts a smile. "Hah. Funny."
"No, seriously. I appreciate everything your mom is doing to make me feel welcome."
"It's clearly not enough," notes Artemis in a sarcastic tone. "You're still as stiff as a board, and you haven't gotten any sleep."
Percy's lips tremble, and Artemis is scared for a second that Percy will burst out crying. Then she'll have to explain—to a drowsy, annoyed Leto, no less—how she upset the little upstart. But before that can happen, Percy just shrugs a little, snapping Artemis out of her stupor.
Even though it is seven o'clock in the morning, and the sun is already fully out of the sky, and the day has begun ages ago, Percy smiles a tight-lipped smile and tells her, "I'm, um, gonna go sleep." He pulls the chair away, and he quietly walks up the curling staircase.
Percy is trying to make it seem subtle, but she knows he's "gonna go sleep" because he hates her. Artemis has been thinking of this all wrong, has been thinking the innocent orphan boy is somehow indifferent to her presence, while she is guiltily wishing him out of existence. Percy Orphan Jackson is just as antagonistic as she is, just as annoyed as she is at their circumstances. The chair she's sitting in feels as cold as ice.
Artemis sighs, feeling as though she's made a mistake, though she hasn't. Artemis has been nothing but cordial, kind, and welcoming.
Artemis settles there and makes herself some cereal out of months-old cornflakes. The yellow bits of sugary, grainy corn sit there sadly on the milk, and Artemis spins her spoon around it, agonizing over a day that'll be spent shopping around for Percy's necessities.
She takes a furious bite of her cereal, chewing loudly. It echoes in the silent house.
A/N: Hey, thank you for your patience and for reading. This story is one I've been thinking about writing for a long time, and it's definitely a story in the "real world." I've never seen anything with Artemis as a pre-teen/teenager, since she's, well, a powerful goddess. This reimagines how Artemis would act in a modern setting, as well as brings Pertemis into the equation. Rest assured though, the story is a slow-burn, and nothing will happen until they are at least teenagers. I finally settled on "Phoebus" for their last name; tell me what you think of it… I've also gotten some questions about perspective. I plan on writing from Percy's soon, but I just want to leave Sally's death kind of in the dark for now. Any guesses?
Next story that'll be updated is A Whisper of Fire and Blood, and it's about two-thirds done.