Prized Possession

1: In Chains

"In the cold clear light of day down here, everyone's a monster

That's cool with all of us

We've been past the point of help since early April" - John Darnielle

The chains clink softly together as Percy tries to stretch out his arms. He stops short at the sound, and has a couple of goes at easing his eyes open. His eyes, noticing the bright light of the morning, protest.

He groans, and rolls over onto his other side, managing to squint out at the stone wall with which he comes face to – well, to stone.

He groans again.

Memories of the days before come rushing back as the sleep falls from his eyes and he stretches out again, properly this time, ignoring the dull clunk of the chains between his ankles.

The walls exploded as the sea burst through them.

He sits up and risks a look at the window. The sun sits squarely in its frame. He winces and looks away again.

He pushed forward, and foes fell all around him.

Footsteps sound in the hallway. Maybe someone heard him adjusting to his new surroundings. And groaning a lot.

He saw the golden eyes from further off than he had any right to.

He gropes in his pocket for Riptide, the sword he depended on so much, but found nothing.

He yelled something halfway between a challenge and a battle-cry, and charged.

Percy is jolted out of his daydream by the footsteps arriving in the room. He looks around again, but is blinded by the sun for a moment, until the person stops in front of it, silhouetted. He is a little too tall to be human.

"Awake at last, Jackson?"

If someone's chest voice is deeper than their head voice, then this guy is talking with his foot voice. And, of course, his luck being what it is, it is a foot voice that Percy distinctly recognises.

"Atlas," he says. "They finally got you out from that mountain?"

Atlas stays in front of the sun, standing in the corridor between the bars of Percy's cell and the window from which the light glows, so he can't really see the titan's eyes, but he could swear they glint then.

"A suitable replacement was found," he says.

"Can't imagine anyone was as good at it as you, Atlas. You've had such a lot of practice, after all."

To his credit, Atlas doesn't lose his calm the way that most Titans seem to when dealing with Percy.

"I felt it was time to hand over to the younger generation," he says smoothly. "The moon goddess never seemed to know how to stay still, so I offered my spot as a way of helping her to learn."

"Always the giver, aren't you, Atlas? I remember you gave me the shock of my life when I found out there were people uglier than Medusa."

"Watch it Jackson. If your memory's so good, you might want to tell me the last time an attitude like that saved your life."

Percy's mind comes up blank. He knows the jokes and quips and taunts don't exactly do anything, not really, not normally. But they do help to lighten the mood and keep him moving, and here, in the titans' own fortress, what else does he have? They might not allow him to move around physically, but there's no way in Hades that he's allowing the same restrictions to apply to his mind and his tongue.

"My attitude's an old friend, Atlas, served me well over the years."

"Perhaps you're only still alive because not enough people have been paying attention to the rubbish that actually comes out of that mouth of yours."

Percy lifts up his arms so his wrists are at eye-level, before yanking them apart to make the chain between them go taut. He smiles, grimly. "Got someone's attention, didn't I?"

Atlas' eyes definitely glint this time, a sinister sparkle that lights them up, just for a moment. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards slightly, spasmodically. Percy feels himself shiver slightly. "Someone," he says, "has been wanting to speak to you every since we caught you. I think you're ready now."

Before Percy can think of an appropriately witty retort, Atlas clicks his fingers. Percy is yanked forward as a collar appears on his neck with a bronze leash, held, of course, by Atlas. Percy's hands are jerked up to his neck, joining to the leash, presumably to prevent him from attacking any monster or titan foolish, unlucky, or reckless enough to get close to him while he's out of the cell.

Percy is pulled through the door, which swings shut behind him.

Othrys certainly has its positive points, Percy has to admit. High security, for instance. He doubts very much that anyone was ever bothered by questions about whether or not they had a moment to talk about their lord and saviour, Jesus Christ, let alone things like "where did you hide all your money?" And black. Definitely black. If you liked black, then Mount Othrys was the place to go. Maybe they hold conventions for connoisseurs of black. When they aren't plotting to conquer the world, that is.

What else? Well, having spent time with Annabeth, Percy can fairly confidently say that there is a pleasing minimalist aesthetic happening here. Fairly confidently. In fact, it's minimalist in terms of human population too, as all the security comes from monsters on every black corner, who sneer and spit at Percy as Atlas drags him past them. This place would be Elysium for suicidal introverts, to be sure. Though he was reasonably certain that, other than in exceptional circumstances, suicides didn't get to Elysium.

After what seems like hours of wandering, and occasionally being dragged, around the palace, Percy decides that this place would be good for maze enthusiasts, too. He doesn't have a clue where the two of them are, so it's lucky that Atlas seems like he does. Or unlucky, as Percy is pretty certain he won't like whatever awaits at the end of their journey. He feels like Theseus in the labyrinth, so grateful not to be lost that he almost doesn't care about the inevitable Minotaur in the centre.

Eventually, they burst through a huge pair of double doors, and Percy is thrown roughly into the middle of a semicircle of thrones, almost mirror images of those on Olympus – or, those that had been on Olympus. These though, are black of course, and without any of the personal touches that might have rendered the Olympians' thrones charming if the Olympians themselves hadn't been able to blast you into ashes with a thought.

Only one throne is occupied.

Percy lies in the middle of the room for a moment, immobilised as the force of Atlas' throw brings out all the aches and pains of the days before his capture, before the very same hoists him to his feet again. He looks up at the central, occupied throne, on which sits the titan lord Kronos, who is currently busy breaking into a low chuckle as he looks at Percy.

"Tell me Perseus," comes the voice from Luke's mouth, though the voice itself is not Luke's. "Have you enjoyed the time you spent on the run? Was it worth it? All the deaths and losses you have caused and suffered since. Do you see now that it would have been better to surrender a year ago, when I took Olympus, or do you persist in your fantasy of freedom?"

Percy stands and glares at Kronos, not knowing how to reply, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.

The smile fades quickly from the titan's face as Percy stays standing.

"Do you not know how to begin a meeting with your king? Do you not know that you ought to bow or kneel to one who controls your life?"

Percy stays standing.

"Atlas."

Atlas brings the butt of his spear stinging into the back of Percy's knees. Percy falls to his knees with a cry, and as he tries to struggle to his feet again, the titan pushes down on his head, forcing him to remain kneeling.

"Do you have nothing to say, boy?" asks Kronos. "No pleas for mercy? No angry rages or accusations about me being the very worst person you've ever met? No tears? Doesn't it make you soil yourself that you are at the mercy of a king who can do whatever he wants with you?"

Percy has to admit, that was a chilling thought. On the other hand, there's just this one thing he wants to point out. "See, we humans – and half-humans – have this thing when we're still little – I guess you titans didn't get it – it's called potty training –"

He is cut off by Kronos' angry roar.

"DO NOT MOCK ME, BOY!"

The titan is standing now, glowering at the demigod kneeling before him.

"Half human, you say. The humans are all mine now, Perseus, and they want nothing of your kind."

He waves his hand and an image appears of mortals, hundreds, thousands of them, filling the picture, worshipping at temples of the titans. There are altars to all of them: Atlas, Hyperion, Oceanus, Krios, even Iapetus, Percy is almost tickled to see. The largest of all is clearly dedicated to Kronos. A man is chained to it, writhing desperately, hopelessly. Another raises a knife above his head, and calls over the baying of the crowd so that even Percy can hear, "For our King, Kronos, Lord of Time!" before bringing the knife down in a flashing arc – and the image shifts.

Now it's a montage of people, of all shapes, colours, types and sizes. "Those half-bloods are monsters," says one, as her friends nod in agreement. Others hold signs, declaring "Demigods Out!" or take up weapons to hunt for the bastards of the gods.

The image fades, and all of a sudden, Atlas lets go of Percy, who can't quite keep his balance, so teeters, and falls to the floor. He lies on his side, gasping at the things he just saw.

"Human sacrifice..."

"Oh, you didn't know?" Kronos sounds genuinely surprised. "I'll admit it's a little archaic, but it gets the crowd in the mood alright, so there's nothing like it for boosting the power of their worship."

"You're disgusting. What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm trying to prove that pretending you even half-belong to those people is foolish. They do not want you, Perseus. They want me as their king, and all they want of you is that you die and leave them alone."

"Well, I want them. I want to fight for them. I want to show them that you're not the only option. I want to show them that the reason you killed all the experts on Greek Mythology was to stop them from telling people that you're a dirty liar who's far worse than the gods ever were."

"How sweet." Kronos crouches down beside Percy and cups his chin in his hand. "But you see, they don't get you, they get me. And I, well, I think that people in this country have had quite enough of experts. And you, Perseus, I can see that you're wondering where you fit in now – well, you belong to me. You're a real feather in my cap, a prized possession now. And I don't plan on letting anyone take you from me." He smiles in an almost fatherly manner, which is honestly the creepiest thing he's done yet. And then he says "Hit him," and Atlas obliges.

Percy curls up as the spear butt hits him in the belly with force, leaving him gasping for breath. The shaft snaps off against his skin, but still leaves an impression.

"You only live because I say you do, and I only say you live because right now, at this moment in time, I feel like it. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget that. After all, times can always change." And with that, Kronos straightens up, saying "The parade's in a couple of hours. Clean up, get changed, and Atlas will bring you to Manhattan. Don't test my patience again."

He stalks out of the room, leaving Percy gently wheezing on the floor.

Percy lies there for a few moments more, catching his breath and feeling the aches of all the days he'd spent on the run spreading through his body. He feels infinitely more worn than he did when he first woke up, strain running up his arms and down his legs.

He looks up at Atlas, who seems impossibly tall from down here on the floor. "The parade?" he asks.

"One hour and fifty-nine minutes now. I don't know how he always manages to get these timings exact."

"He's the titan of time..."

"Sarcasm, Jackson."

"Oh. Sorry, the radar must be a little off today." Percy tries to think back to the last time he met an immortal with any kind of sense of humour. He struggles. Maybe Aphrodite, but that was more the kind of humour that could be found in messing around with cosmic love stories, rather than, say, sarcasm or jokes. Not that any of this is really important right now.

"But what's the parade for?" he asks Atlas, whose face morphs quickly into a confused frown.

"You don't know?"

Percy shakes his head.

"I know you've been off the grid for a while, Jackson, but I thought you could at least keep track of the dates."

Percy looks up, trying to work out what it could possibly be. "What day is it? What day is it?"

"You'll work it out. I'll show you to your room."

Drag, more like. Percy is once again pulled to his feet by the chain, and led along the twisting black corridors, past the monsters that look at him with disgust in their eyes, and past windows with views obscured by thick mist. Eventually, they stop in front of a small door – or at least, small by titan standards – and Atlas says "Your room, Jackson. In you go."

Percy steps forwards, pushing the door open. Then Atlas speaks again.

"You have an hour and three quarters, not that you should really need that long. There will be fresh clothes on the bed and a shower, though I'd advise against trying to use your powers." the chains and collar around Percy's neck vanish, though the cuffs on his wrists remain. "Oh, and Jackson? Happy Birthday, as I believe the mortals say." He shuts the door, leaving Percy stunned.

His birthday.

Seventeen years old.

Exactly one year after Kronos won the battle of Manhattan.

And now he's holding a parade to celebrate its first anniversary.

Percy feels sick. He walks quietly to the black bed in the middle of the black room and curls up on the edge of the black sheets. He tries not to vomit, scrunching up his eyes and holding back from screaming out of frustration with all his might. He won't give them the satisfaction.

Percy strips off and steps into the black en suite to have a shower.

The water runs down his body, catching in his hair and spraying off his hands. He feels the pain recede a little. Perhaps not as much as it normally would but still… maybe they'd underestimated the restraints they'd placed on his powers. He lifts up a hand to the shower nozzle to catch the water, to shape it, use it – then gasps in pain and shock and sudden weakness. The cuffs on his wrists tighten, draining him immediately. He collapses to the floor in a heap of jelly, and lies there, breathing raggedly. He feels himself suffer the loss of bladder control that he had earlier mocked Kronos for suggesting.

He lies there in the foetal position. The water pools in the nooks and crannies of his body, and his head and back rub against the walls, wiping off the condensation that gathers there from the steam. There is no sound but the relentless drumming of the water and his own occasional whimpers.

He thinks back on the last year. Fleeing from Olympus, the endless quests simply to keep the war going, to refuse to accept defeat. And then, of course, the point where it all fell apart. Where he lost control.

The water probably helps to get him back on his feet sooner than he otherwise would have done, but he still shakes, and has to press his hands to the shower cubicle's (black) plastic walls in order to stay upright. Then his legs give way for a moment and he has to press them into the corners to lend support. He stands there for a while, a statue in the shape of a saltire. Would Kronos parade him through the streets like this, a banner at the front of his armies?

He looks down at his stomach. As expected, the curse of Achilles had left him without bruises or scars, but Atlas knows how to swing a spear, and it still hurts a little.

After a while, he manages to turn the water off, and stumbles out of the shower, dripping a path along the floor back into the room the titans had given him.

And stops dead in his tracks.

The torn and dirty t-shirt and jeans that he'd been wearing before are gone, vanished without a trace. In their place there is a neat, square little pile of clothes on the corner of his bed. They're all black, of course. And there are black shoes on the floor next to them.

He's about to dress when he realises that he's still wet, so he grabs a black towel from the bathroom to dry himself off. It's been so long since he had to that the sensation of the material against his skin is strange and foreign.

He reluctantly begins to dress in the clothes provided, going from the bottom up, the black contrasting against his pale skin – he wonders how long he's been inside for – until he reaches the new shirt he's been given. On the back there are large, bright, golden letters.

"PROPERTY OF LORD KRONOS"

He throws it on the bed, away from himself, almost as a reflex, sucking his breath in.

They must be mad to think that he'd wear that.

He wonders about the possible consequences of storming around the titan stronghold with no shirt on and shouting for Atlas. They probably wouldn't be good. But then, he's furious, so he decides to do it anyway.

He bursts out into the corridor.

"ATLAS!" he shouts. "ATLAS!"

"No need to shout Jackson. I'm right here."

Percy whirls around, and sees the titan in question leaning nonchalantly against the wall. Percy also notices that he has a new spear.

"So what are you, my keeper now? My own personal guard?"

"Believe it or not, you're still considered something of a threat. It would be embarrassing were you to escape, so I am here to ensure you do not."

Percy looks at Atlas for a moment. "You've been demoted, haven't you?"

Atlas cocks his head. "Careful, Jackson."

"What, you couldn't keep a goddess captive so now you're in charge of a demigod? They really haven't been impressed with you, have they? Is there any chance of getting the army back at all?"

Atlas' jaw clenches in barely contained rage. "I would remind yourself how our roles have ended up here. I am the captor and you the captive. Since you are clearly not ready to go, what did you come out here for?"

Percy decides not to push his luck. "What kind of a joke are those clothes supposed to be?"

Atlas raises an eyebrow in question. "Show me," he says.

So Percy does. And when Atlas sees the golden words on the back, he laughs. A lot.

"Care to share?" demands Percy.

"I simply thought that Kronos had at least learned some subtlety. It appears I was wrong. Anyway, what was your question?"

"I'm not putting that on."

"Then I shall put it on you."

When the titan reaches for Percy, he swings out at him, and simultaneously snatches at the spear. Tired, weak, and shaking from the cuffs as he is, though, Atlas easily dodges. He clicks his fingers, and, in horror, Percy feels the cuffs activate again.

He falls to the floor, and throws up. At least that makes some difference to all the black. Then he collapses further, straight into the half-digested food and stomach acid he's just thrown up all over the floor.

At least there wasn't an awful lot of it; a testament to the thin meals he'd had before being captured.

He lies there, jerking as though he's been tasered.

"You already activated them? Foolish. And a little disgusting."

Atlas leans down and moves Percy out of the puddle of vomit, before wiping his face with a cloth. Then he lifts the demigod onto the bed, where he gently pulls the black shirt over his head.

With a wave of Atlas' hand, the mess on the floor is gone, and in the titan's hand are a glass of water and a plate of sandwiches.

"Eat. You'll need your strength for today."

Percy groans and tries to take the water. His arm spasms pathetically on the bed. Atlas sighs.

"Eugh. Then I will feed you myself."

And so Percy finds the titan feeding him by hand, as well as working his jaw manually. Percy can just about swallow by himself.

He refuses the third sandwich, though.

"Eat," commands Atlas.

Percy shakes his head, feeling himself growing sick again.

"Fine."

He is given one last drink of water before the titan seizes him by the elbow and props Percy up against his body.

A moment later, they are in New York.

Not that Percy can really tell of course, as they are, as far as he can see, in a basement somewhere, but it isn't Othrys (not enough black for that) and if the big parade was to be in Manhattan, then Percy can only assume that Manhattan was where he's been taken.

Atlas hauls the demigod up some stairs, along a corridor, and into some kind of changing room, with mirrors above the desks and make-up artists rushing around. Percy is dropped unceremoniously into a chair, where he slumps, as a make-up lady hurries over and starts asking questions about his appearance in the parade, which Atlas answers.

"Is this Jackson?"

"Yes."

"Goodness gosh, he doesn't look nearly so impressive as he does in all those films and posters."

There were films about him? He was almost flattered.

"He's been… tranquillised."

"Oh, really? How does Lord Kronos want him looking for the parade?"

"I think he wanted to show Jackson off as much as possible to showcase his own power, but in this state… I think we should emphasise his... defeatedness.

"I'm sorry my lord, but are you certain you have the authority to decide that?"

Atlas tenses, and the woman tries to give excuses.

"It's just, I'd hate to do anything that Lord Kronos might not think –"

"If anyone complains, direct them to me. The boy can't even stand on his own, let alone appear any kind of impressive. Do what you can."

And so the next ten minutes are spent fussing over make-up and how presentable he should be for Kronos, while Percy tries to retake control of his limbs, and Atlas loiters uncomfortably by the door.

Eventually, though, it's time. The big show is ready to start, and Percy is to take a starring role.

Atlas drags him through the rooms again and outside, blinking, into the sun. Percy, dazzled, manages to turn his head around enough to recognise the area: Inwood, right at the north end of Manhattan Island. He realises with a sinking feeling that Kronos intends to march all over the island – which, depending on their speed, could take hours. And all the while he will be helpless and weak.

This area, at least, seems quiet. Perhaps it's been cordoned off as an area for the parade to prepare. As they step out into the road (or rather, Atlas does, while Percy sort of gets dragged along for the ride) he sees his ride. Kronos is standing in a black chariot pulled by black horses, dressed in traditional (black) Greek garb, just behind a huge (black) flat-bed truck with a vast cage around its bed and two wooden posts in its centre.

He sees the column ahead of the truck stretching into the distance, already moving. Kronos' loyal army of monsters and traitors, who had helped to bring down the gods in the Battle of Manhattan.

The guards by the cage open the door as Atlas and Percy approach, and the titan makes to lift his charge in, but Percy pushes him away and falls onto the bars of the cage, which he leans on gratefully.

"No," he manages to utter. It comes out garbled, distorted by the weakness still in his mouth, but Atlas gets the message.

He hears the titan catch his breath as Percy pushes himself upright and climbs into the cage, but pays it no mind. As of right now, he is determined to make his way through this parade, this mockery of the Roman triumph, standing on his own two feet. These are his people and this is his home, for all that Kronos might claim they are not. And, of course, Percy himself knows that he isn't worthy to stand and speak for them anymore, but now, in this moment, he is all they have, an island in the titan tide.

And if he gives up, then for him, the war is truly lost.

Atlas comes and chains his arms to the posts, before getting off and closing the door behind himself.

Then the truck's engine starts.

Percy hears steps above him and realises that Atlas is standing guard on top of the cage. The spear butt clacks against the bars with every step.

They move forwards slowly down Broadway, crawling behind the hundreds of troops in front of them, and fairly soon, Percy hears the crowds. They're quiet and far off, their voices blending together to sound like waves on the shore. Their volume grows quickly, though, and gathers to an endless roar. Percy sees banners hung from balconies, flags and icons of the titans everywhere he looks. Scythes, hourglasses – but nothing that could be mistaken for a god's symbol.

And then they round a corner and see the crowds for the first time. Percy's breath is taken away as he sees them all crammed into every corner of the street that they can get to without getting in the way of the conquering army.

And as they see him, these faceless multitudes that he has sworn he will die for, they go silent, as though by entering this procession Percy has broken some unspoken ancient law. Of course, he knows that the ancient laws hold little sway over life on earth anymore. As Kronos rounds the corner behind him, they erupt again into joyous ecstasy. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy sees Atlas waving from atop the truck.

Percy's arms tremble with the effort and his legs feel ready to give way at any moment, but somehow he manages to stay standing. He refuses to cower before their gaze. He stands, staring straight back at them, though he is almost overwhelmed by the urge to collapse and curl up when they pass the first few mortals and he realises that they will be able to see his shame shining out from his back.

Then someone throws something at him. He flinches instinctively, but it still catches him on the chin and lands on the floor, where it explodes. It's a tomato, like they wanted to show their disgust and were unable to think beyond the most obvious and stupid and - he grits his teeth and tries to ignore it. The juice drips red off his chin, and the others throw things too. And most of them miss, and most of them are aimed below his head – he suspects that that is to avoid the risk of hitting Atlas on top – but they all hurt, even if not physically.

They wind their way through the city, visiting all the famous Manhattan landmarks, which all have cameras and TV crews there, documenting the spectacle. This must be one of the biggest events of the year in this strange new world that has dawned since Percy was last aware of anything other than where the next meals and threats were.

They move slowly past and through Central Park, see Trump Tower rising above 5th Avenue – looking like one of the few places that is doing well since the war ended – and eventually arrive in Times Square.

"No."

Percy's voice sounds weak and faint even to himself. He tries again. "No."

It still seems inadequate, for what can he do to save the souls strapped to stakes in the centre of the square?

He strains against the chains, and barely even registers that he is now standing without the help of the posts he has been leaning against for such a long time that his arms are no longer shaking, only numb.

He sees them then: Will, Travis, Clarisse, and there was Pollux, and others who were too far off for him to identify. All bound to a great pyre of wood, with braziers burning all around and oil being poured over it to help it burn.

What can he do?

"Atlas. ATLAS!" he calls, desperate now.

The titan looks down at him through the grid of bars that form the roof of the cage.

"Stop it. Please, stop it now! You must – please!"

"I cannot indiscriminately let loose those that Kronos has decreed must die simply because you say I must, Jackson."

What can he do?

"Please. I'll do anything. Tell Kronos that, won't you? If he lets them go, I'll do anything."

Percy realises that what he is saying is foolish and stupid, but he doesn't really care. They're his friends. How could he just stand by and watch?

Atlas hesitates, and Percy sees it in his eyes, and hope flares up in his chest for a moment. Atlas can be cruel and evil in all the ways that titans can be, and are so often, but he is a soldier first and foremost. He has a code, of a sort, and though he hates Olympus dearly, he does not endorse suffering simply for the sake of suffering.

"Please!" Percy says again.

The titan looks and the boy, standing in chains beneath him. Then he nods slightly and leaps off the truck to go and speak with his king.

Percy can't turn properly to see what passes between them, but after a moment, Atlas comes into the cage and speaks quietly to him.

"He says that he may consider some form of mercy if you perform a simple symbolic gesture for him. We will give you your sword, but you must lay it down, kiss his feet, declare the war over, your rebellion failed, and him the true king."

Those terms seem cheap enough. What do they give him that he does not already have?

"Surely he knows the demigods won't stop fighting just because I say I have?" asks Percy.

"Those are his terms, Jackson. Make your mind up quickly, your friends are ready to burn."

Of course, it is no real choice at all.

"I'll do it," he says, and hates himself for it. But he can't hate himself quite as much as he loves his friends.

Atlas nods back to Kronos and leaves the cage, and it's with relief that Percy sees guards cut Clarisse down, along with one of the other half-bloods further off. But they stop there, and as the pair who have been freed are led away from the great bonfire, he sees Hyperion appear and lift a flaming brand up high.

The other demigod the released, he sees now, is Nico. Again, he wonders when the sullen son of Hades was captured, but as Hyperion touches the fire to the wood, he forgets about anything but screaming himself hoarse in anger and grief and frustration. He sees the children and teenagers tied down struggling, but their bonds are too tight, and none of them can break free.

He is so angry at Kronos for deceiving him and at himself for believing that it really would be so simple to save them all, but he cannot bring up the words. He screams wordlessly at the flames that rise up as the sun goes gradually down, but his voice is lost in the crowd's, which might be raised in horror or in joy; he can't tell and doesn't care which. Soon, all is consumed in the inferno, though Percy can still see figures twisting in the blaze where the demigods had been held.

He weeps as the convoy starts again, and for a moment hopes that everyone is too far away to notice, but that hope is dashed as a camera swoops in to the bars and is aimed straight at his face.

He stays standing through it all, somehow.

Eventually, they reach the ruined husk that was once the Empire State Building. There's a dais built there, with steps leading up to a great throne at the top, and of course Kronos would want his parade to end here. This is where he won, after all.

They pull to a halt there, and Atlas unchains Percy, ignoring the tears still wet on his cheeks. He hands him Riptide, in sword form, and reminds him: "Lay down the sword, kiss the feet, concede the war."

Percy can only nod mutely at this point. He steps out of the cage and up to the dais, watched closely by Atlas and several guards, both mortal and monstrous.

Kronos is already waiting in his seat.

"Not yet," says Atlas. "There are some speeches to be made first."

Speeches which take too long and say too little, and what they do say is mostly barefaced lying.

Prometheus comes up and smoothly (or slimily, depending on perspective) compliments anyone and everyone more powerful than himself, while Koios and Phoebe praise the brave new world order they have established. Themis speaks of the need to be uncompromising towards law-breakers and criminals, by which she basically means anyone still worshipping the old regime.

While they're speaking, Percy thinks about turning on Atlas and the guards with Riptide. What a story that would be, one final act of defiance on the anniversary of the titan lord's greatest triumph.

But then he thinks of Nico and Clarisse, and realises that for as long as he still holds responsibility for lives other than his own, he can't do anything. If Kronos only spared them for Percy's compliance, he would not hesitate to kill them at the first sign of dissent.

He sees the two demigods he saved, or saved from one awful fate at the very least, and they don't look happy. Clarisse doesn't look at him, but Nico's angry gaze burns into Percy's retinas as their eyes meet. He realises how horribly he failed the others, and how this is no world to want to stay alive in. But what else could he do?

"Time," says Atlas, simply.

The shaking comes back to Percy's legs as he steps up towards Kronos, who smiles smugly at him.

When he reaches the throne, Percy kneels clumsily and lays his sword down at Kronos' feet. He leans forwards and brushes his lips over the feet, glaring at them all the time and wishing he could turn them to stone with his eyes as Medusa would. He is conscious of the words on his back facing the crowd. Then he stands again and makes his way to the podium where all the titans have made their speeches.

He wonders what to say as he faces the crowd who so clearly loathe him, but who will be silent for him to speak if it is expected of them by their king.

"For the last year," he says, managing not to stumble over the words or lose them in his suddenly parched mouth. "For the last year, I and the remains of the Olympian army have been fighting against the forces of Othrys." He tries to make it formal, as Kronos would probably like that. It feels like it adds some kind of legitimacy to his words. "It seems clear, looking back, that too many have died needlessly. Too much blood has been spilt. There are too many wounds that may never heal." He tries not to think about Nico and Clarisse, standing in chains at the base of the dais. "But today I bring the news that the war is over." He tries not to think of all the demigods in hiding across the country, of what they would think when they hear him give up. Of what they would think of him. "The rebellion I led has failed, and it is clear to me that now Lord Kronos is the rightful king, the greatest king, and the only king." He steps back down to Atlas, where his chains are replaced, as he tries to block out thoughts of the friends he just saw burned to death. It doesn't work.

Kronos makes a speech then, but Percy can't hear him over his own thoughts, and then when the event ends, Percy finds himself camping in the old lobby of the Empire State Building with Clarisse and Nico, and Atlas and their guards. He can't bring himself to talk to the other two demigods. As soon as he gets inside, Percy collapses again. His legs turn to jelly and he can't push himself up with his hands. All the adrenaline that somehow kept him going through the day abandons him, and he lies on the floor, shuddering silently, his eyes only dry because all of his tears have already been wept today.

But what choice did he have?