Chapter 5: In which Malcolm doesn't actually hate a party (Part 2/3)
There are paragraphs of Greek dialogue here. On Archive of Our Own, you can hover over the text to see the English translation. FanFiction . n e t doesn't allow this. To read this chapter on AO3:
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Malcolm kept an eye out for Alicia until she decided to join Zeke and Sophie's bubble engineering and science experiments. Determined not to sit at the kids' table, Malcolm was relieved they could entertain her.
Walking around some more, he ventured beyond the courtyard and happened upon a quaint pedestrian mall teeming with celebrating locals. The scene seemed like a narrower version of Boulder's Pearl Street, with a rural French whimsy. Restaurants, coffee shops, and little art galleries lined the street among stone walls vined with giant kelp. At every other window sill, vibrant sea anemones, red algae, and greenery burst out of pots. Malcolm figured there must've been regulations on how to dress up the street—or perhaps everyone had simply gotten the memo. One of the art galleries had even included paintbrushes in its foliage pots. Among an increasingly jubilant crowd, he couldn't tear his eyes away from those pots. It struck him how amused he was at such a little peculiarity.
Figuring that New Athenians deserved head-tilting little delights like that around the city (and also aiming to ease the dread of whatever Galene had implanted in him), Malcolm took out his pocket-sized notebook and jotted down some ideas. Before he forgot, he also listed Galene's book recs and quickly sketched little pictures of other fascinating artifacts he'd seen earlier: the glowing plankton, the sprawling coral, all the variations of plants, animals, fungi, and protists….
"Hello, Officer. Did you catch any fish speeding?"
It took Malcolm several moments to process that Rhode was right by him. Like, right by him.
"Yes, I'm talking to you," she said.
"Hilarious." Twiddling his pen, Malcolm waited for her next quip. He really couldn't think of what to say.
Eyeing his notebook, Rhode began to frown. "Are you working?"
"No. Well, Galene gave me some book recommendations and advice, and the festival setup and general architecture just gave me an idea for the city square."
"How flattering," said Rhode. "But that sounds like work. Network, sure, but I didn't invite you here to take notes." She shot him a disapproving look, and the notebook disappeared from his hands.
The dread that had come and gone was now replaced with panic. "Are you kidding me?" He had so many ideas in those pages!
"You can have it back tonight," said Rhode. "There's so much to do here for everyone. Don't just observe."
With an inaudible groan, he debated whether it really was impolite of him and considered how much he'd still want to have given her that present right now.
"I wanted to thank you again for that tapestry," Rhode said.
Malcolm concluded he would've potentially been a little rude if he'd kept at it, and he decidedly told himself he didn't regret the gift, but he was pissed at her nonetheless. Or for now anyway. Historically, whatever he'd thought of her had kept oscillating between appreciation and annoyance, and he was still unsure what to think about her on average—or if an average was even appropriate.
He didn't know what to respond. He hadn't exactly expected her to talk to him alone.
"No worries," he said. Without permission to talk about work, he figured he had a good enough excuse to ask: "How've you been?"
"Well," Rhode said with a nod.
He could read it off her bright green eyes that he swore seemed greener than before—perhaps a little optical illusion against all that red in her garb.
"Also busy," she said. "It takes a lot of effort to set this up. We try to switch it up every year, so it doesn't get boring."
He couldn't get how it could.
"But the food's a different story," Rhode said. "People like—"
Before she could finish her sentence, a broad-chested merman geared up in armor intruded into their bubble with merely a look at her.
Rhode's lips parted before she turned to Malcolm. "Sorry. I have to go."
"Yeah, of course."
"I'll see you later," she said with a smile before striding away.
Malcolm kept his head on a swivel—but found no signs of peril.
While practically whispering in each other's ears, Rhode and the merman looked into the distance, where a dozen or so people sat holding posters Malcolm couldn't make out. Some guests, Malcolm noticed, spared quick glances at the sitting group, but most paid them no attention.
Then a group of party-goers swam in front of him and Rhode and the merman were swallowed by the crowd. Losing all sight of everyone he knew, he was taken back to all those times he'd been the odd one out in school after school—first for his appearance, then for his neurodivergence.
To ease his jitters, Malcolm employed one of his trusty party tactics and headed for the buffet. Queuing up behind some merpeople, he followed their lead and took a green plate that he found was actually some thick disk-shaped plant. He did not, however, imitate them in taking parsley, drawn instead by grape leaves.
"More dolma! Good choice!"
A brush on his left arm and a glimpse of red told him Rhode had run into him again.
"The sea bass and the haddock are also really good," she said. "And the saganaki."
"Good to know. I might try it later," he said, opting to stick with the dolma and the watermelon. Glancing at her, he asked, "Is everything good?"
Rhode leaned in and spoke in his ear, "I personally am not a fan of the bulgur," she whispered. "But that's just me. Everything else, I'd eat."
Malcolm savored the moment.
"Noted." Lowering his voice, he said, "I was kind of referring to that situation over there."
"Nothing to worry about," Rhode said in nonchalance as she piled tabbouleh onto her plate. "I will have to see to them, though."
She put more heaps of fish onto her plate, and as she explored the options spread out before them, her eyes caught sight of something in the crowd beyond the buffet table.
"Mm!" she yelped. "You should talk to Thaumas. He runs the Atlantian Metropolis. I'll introduce you."
Each with an armful of food—Malcolm with a hill, Rhode carrying a mountain—she led him through the chattering crowd to a group of four who were laughing and goodbying by the palace buildings.
"Thaumas!" Rhode called.
"Rhódē!" rumbled a figure in a deep voice, gliding his way over. "Charoúmena genéthlia!"
Thaumas… was a merman. An unfairly hot one. And not in the good way Bae was a looker. Standing next to him and his luscious black hair and well-manicured scales felt more like stepping into the shoes of Mark Antony Flores shooting his shot during capture the flag. Not that Malcolm was, of course.
"Pánta mia efcharísti," Thaumas said, coming in with a casual hug and a pair of cheek presses, like he didn't even thinkabout it. Like it was all no biggie.
Thaumas looked like he wanted to say something to Rhode, but left it at a flash of a roguish grin—or what appeared to be that to Malcolm anyway. Rhode simply returned a smile. No scolding. No eye rolls. No scoffs.
It wasn't like either of them… winked or something. It was the extra sneaking look Thaumas gave her that Malcolm almost missed. And the way she looked back in unquestioned… acknowledgement. It was like they were hidingsomething.
Seeing one second of paragraphs' worth of exchange felt like those times he'd tried to piece together the clues behind a mystifying fact, like the first time he tried to grasp the epsilon-delta proof of the squeeze theorem. But the squeeze theorem's proof had at least put in more effort to remain elusive to him then—as compared to the theorem evident before him right now… involving some other type of squeezing.
He had no desire to know of the other proofs that existed, nor in how many ways this theorem could be proven, how many times, over how many centuries…. That Rhode and Thaumas were making a (dismal) effort to hide their… whatever… was unpleasant enough.
Pulling away from Thaumas's embrace, Rhode gestured towards Malcolm. "Íthela na sas systíso ton Malcolm. Epivlépi tin anáptyxi tis Néas Athínas. Nómiza óti boreíte na synomilísete."
They said their hellos, and once Rhode had begun to take leave, Thaumas nodded towards her plate. "Eínai aftó gia ména?" he said.
Rhode was quick to respond. "Tha boroúsate na párete to dikó sas fagitó."
Malcolm wanted to laugh. But Rhode did indeed hand Thaumas her entire plate, displaying only an amused exasperation before she said her second round of goodbyes.
Perhaps there was a reason she would do such a thing, Malcolm thought. As he started to wonder about the possibilities (maybe Thaumas had done that for her?), he again reminded himself that he didn't want to know.
Thaumas took a bite of some grilled fish. "Néa Athína, e?" he said to Malcolm.
"Naí. Eínai i mitéra mou," Malcolm said. Damn everyone who thought it'd make him anything but proud.
Thaumas shrugged. "Aftó synchoreítai." There was that cheeky grin again.
Ugh.
They ended up talking municipal business, and Malcolm learned about the oddities of marine and immortal life.
Restocking on food, they came across Triton—sorry, Lord Triton—a green-skinned, ponytailed, pearl-armored, two-tailed merman who looked as though there was moldy bread under his nose. When Thaumas bowed, Malcolm followed suit.
Conversations with Triton were as tough as Percy once told Malcolm they were. He seemed distracted and kept glancing disapprovingly at the group of people sitting on the ground, away from the festivities. Eventually, Triton swam off in the opposite direction, excusing himself with "business to attend to".
Rhode, meanwhile, was heading towards the crowd. She had two heaping plates of food on her left arm and another stack on her other arm. Behind her, her security carried an additional two piles of food.
Getting a better look at the group of non-participants, Malcolm could now see their signs, which read: "ΜΑΣ ΒΟΥΛΙΑΖΕΙ ΟΛΟΥΣ Ο ΝΕΡΟΧΥΤΗΣ" and "δέσμευση = οξύτητα".
There was something about a… commitment? Désmefsi meant commitment. Which the people equated to oxýtita: acidity.
"Ti eínai aftó?" Malcolm asked Thaumas.
Thaumas took a breath and faced him. "I Atlantis katéchei metochikó merídio se mia etaireía pou diochetévei dioxeídio ánthraka ston pythmína tis thálassas."
Malcolm could figure out the rest: The ocean, several hundred times greater in mass than the atmosphere, already acted as an efficient carbon sink; blue carbon ecosystems by coasts and at sea naturally stored a third of all CO₂ emissions generated by human activity. But capturing CO₂ in the ocean meant creating carbonic acid in seawater, which could weaken coral reefs and steal carbonate that animals needed to build their shells and skeletons.
Malcolm also pieced together that désmefsi probably also meant sequestration, leaving him quite satisfied he learned a new word.
Up ahead, Rhode happily held out the plates of food to the seated folks. "Parakaló párte to fagitó. Den boreíte na to kánete aftó me ádeio stomáchi, oúte boreíte na synechísete ti synigoría sas chorís kalí diáthesi."
Despite a man's polite insistence that they'd already eaten lunch, increasingly more eyes were trained on the plates Rhode carried. After a minute or so, a long table and a set of benches appeared between Rhode and the people, where she finally set down her mountains of food.
"Loipón, tha afíso to fagitó edó," she said. "Boreíte na meínete edó an thélete. Boreíte na symmetáschete an thélete. Boreíte na dokimásete lígo apó aftó to fagitó an thélete. Í óchi, an aftó eínai pou protimáte. Eínai epísis entáxei. Allá tha frontíso na ypárchei éna gennaiódoro kommáti apó tin toúrta genethlíon mou gia ólous. Aplós enimeróste mas eán échete kápoious diatrofikoús periorismoús."
Hearing her again suddenly made Malcolm want her to speak Greek to him. He was quite pleased she had done so (a bit anyway) a few weeks ago. But trying to keep up with his conversation with Thaumas reminded him he still had trouble with homonyms and modern words. Demigods, unfortunately, weren't hardwired to understand scientific jargon.
At that, Malcolm once again got a rise out of the reminder that while Athena kids didn't magically take up languages—a fitting skill for them, he'd argue—Aphrodite kids were blessed with their bullshit ability to understand French. Athena would've probably argued her children had to earn their fluency.
Rhode could probably speak French, too, Malcolm thought. Seemed like it from capture the flag.
And here he was, having Thaumas patiently use simpler words and phrases—even speaking English sometimes—to explain to him how ocean acidity had increased by 25% from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution to the early 21st century. How the protesters had preferred carbon sequestration in coastal ecosystems, in whatever mangroves, seagrasses, and tidal marshes mortals hadn't yet killed. How Atlantis had figured that working around mortals posed too much risk, hoping instead that the land-abled scientists they'd sent ashore would convince mortals to do their part—especially since coastal ecosystems could store something like 2 to 35 times more carbon than phytoplankton could.
Malcolm felt like an asshole for expecting the dude to trip up somewhere. But Thaumas continued to provide perspectives and advice, recommending books and quoting philosophers. He'd even acknowledged to Malcolm that Athena had played an important role in getting mortals to pay attention to ocean acidification—without any prompting at that.
Still, Malcolm had had enough—of both Thaumas and himself.
In need of a break and a desperate distraction, he did more walking and snacking, and ensconced himself in the crafts area by the art school fundraiser. Reeled in by a paint set, Malcolm stepped in between a couple of nereids and got behind an unoccupied canvas at the corner of the area. His hands longed to claim a brush.
Rhode had said not to take notes at her party? Well, he could paint them instead. Ha.
Using the least amount of effort to keep his mind off a certain merman, Malcolm decided to draw the scenery before him. He quickly sketched his notes, and trained his eyes to detect colors as they appeared, not as his mind told them they were.
He spent nearly ten minutes just observing the water that seemed like air but wasn't, and patted himself on the back for undertaking a challenging and valuable exercise in appreciating his surroundings.
Once Malcolm was satisfied enough with how to depict the water, the next challenge was to work with the paint, which claimed to be fast-drying. It took a while getting used to how differently paint worked here. Mixing colors was harder than usual, but layering was easier. With some practice on his palette, Malcolm gained control until the brush became an extension of him.
On went layers of blues, greens, and grays, with touches of white, pink, and yellow. Once the background had dried, he began painting the palace: the walls, huge doors, and coral and abalone embellishments. He captured those little intriguing delights around the courtyard: the greenery, the art, the lights; the plants and food carts; the chatter and cheer; the multicolored fish that darted around….
Malcolm drew and painted the people as a mix of passerby, adapting his images as new faces stood in the place of old ones. Then he dropped his jaw (and promptly closed it) when he noticed a couple merpeople casually ripping out seaweed decor and stuffing it in their pie holes. His lips twitched at the sight. They were definitely making it in the painting.
"That's quite impressive."
Malcolm realized he had a small audience around him. He felt like a street artist, which felt a bit like he was being exhibited in a zoo exhibit, but also a bit like teaching kids at camp.
He tried to refocus on his work before he noticed someone among the observers: a woman in an elegant white gown. On her forehead rested an ornament made of crab claws that resembled a crown. As the tale went, she was the most beautiful of all of Nereus's daughters, who themselves were more stunning than mortals, who likely were attractive enough to begin with. Malcolm wondered if such claims were worth killing Casseiopeia over—because Poseidon had apparently thought no one deserved to live had they ever had the nerve to boast they were prettier than nereids.
"Welcome to Atlantis," she said.
Malcolm bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Gods might not have shared DNA, but Rhode seemed to resemble her mother in perhaps the closest godly parent-child combo Malcolm had seen. But while Rhode's irises gleamed her blue-green hue, Amphitrite's held a steady mocha brown. Coupled with her well-known no-nonsense attitude, the pinned hair she wore in her signature net had him suspect she was more practical than her daughter.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.
"You must be one of Annabeth's brothers. Malcolm?"
"That would be correct."
Amphitrite gestured towards his artwork. "You don't have to stop painting on my account. I wanted to see the show."
Malcolm let out a nervous chuckle but did as she wished. Painting in front of a queen was a lot less nerve-racking than he'd figured it'd be.
As he colored in the seaweed-munching merfolk, she asked, "Have you enjoyed yourself so far?"
"I have! The festival seems incredible. This happens every year?"
"Rhode's birthdays started out small—just family and friends," Amphitrite said. "As she grew up, she took after her father and kept inviting more people every year. Eventually, she ended up inviting the whole of Atlantis." Amphitrite seemed to smile at the memory. "She likes to see people together. And our people came to look upon today as the happiest time of the year, so it's also become our way to celebrate all of Atlantis."
"I see. That's interesting," he said. It seemed so lame to say, but he didn't know what else to comment. "Do you have… a day?"
"In December," Amphitrite said. "To honor our warriors. Lord Poseidon holds a celebration similar to today, but not as much fun, Rhode says. I'd agree."
Malcolm huffed a laugh and tried not to react to the fact that she called her own husband by a title.
"Is it a competition?" he said.
Amphitrite smiled. "Not according to her. Not when there's a clear winner. And no one's successfully convinced Triton to make a holiday. He always says there's already enough of them to go around—which may be true—and that he can't commit to a specific date, since he so often leaves Atlantis to visit other communities. But he already does more than enough."
There was an awkward silence as Malcolm continued painting, aided by the petering out of his observers.
"Lady Amphitrite," he said, "I wanted to thank Atlantis for all the help—"
"I believe it's in the agreements to refer to the funding as Lord Poseidon's, not Atlantis's," Amphitrite said for only him to hear—and with no hint of displeasure.
Malcolm opened his mouth.
"Understand," she cut him off again. "New Athens is Lord Poseidon's business alone. Olympus is also his home, and he has business in the tellurian world. Rhode as well, somewhat. Things work differently here. Sea communities are independent. There are many who don't take kindly to what they see as interference."
"Understood."
Perhaps that was why Amphitrite and Triton seemed more active on "foreign" policy than Poseidon and Rhode, he thought. Perhaps that was also why that trade agreement Rhode was working on was so comprehensive. If regular legislation and regulations wouldn't be welcome, trade could have been their way to establish labour standards and improve environmental protection.
But the idea of an interstate trade agreement seemed laughable to him. He imagined New York needing to negotiate a deal to export pizzas, cronuts, and Manhattan Specials in return for Illinois's pizzas and pizza puffs, giardiniera and gyros, and microbrews and Mälort….
Nah, no way that'd happen; neither would exchange pizzas, and no one in their right minds would import Mälort.
"Do other sea communities not agree with what Atlantis is trying to achieve?" Malcolm asked. "Or is it a matter of pride?"
"Some are afraid we'd take advantage," Amphitrite said, "but it's truly not in our interest to betray their trust. We aim to create mutually beneficial situations. It's good in the long haul."
Malcolm nodded. "I was talking to Galene about something related to that." And now he realized that Galene hadn't ever answered his question. "It's a repeated game with an infinite number of rounds, so there'll be no incentive to cheat."
"Come again?"
Malcolm flushed. Galene would've gotten the lingo. "Parties are less likely to"—screw over each other—"behave uncooperatively when they have to deal with each other basically forever, right? Since the parties here are immortal, and punishments are probable, the math works out in favor of cooperating."
"Our perspective," Amphitrite told him, "has more to do with relationships and ethics than numbers. We know that if we have strong foundations, the numbers will follow."
Malcolm was struck once more. As with Galene, he wondered if Amphitrite truly believed that, or if the two of them were perhaps protecting the royal family's image or something. He actually couldn't tell. But he highly doubted they were that naïve.
What did it say about a society that didn't need or didn't value proper proof? That simply relied on intentions over effectiveness?
As he continued coloring the scenery that had so impressed him earlier, Malcolm evaluated the people he'd drawn and the nation they'd built, wondering if he'd portrayed them wrong. Were people here really that different from New Athenians?
"That approach has paid off historically," Amphitrite said. "For instance, Rhode demonstrated that well with the island of Rhodes. It's what makes her well positioned to lead the trade negotiations. She has a knack for it. With whatever she does, really. It's not because she's our daughter that she handles big files, and people know that…. Most people."
Malcolm halted his painting and scowled. "Do people discount Triton's skills because he's your son?"
Anphitrite smiled at him. "Not nearly as many, no."
He wondered if perceptions would've been different if it were Rhode who had been God of the Navy. She could probably do what her brother could, as her battle planning had shown. As had her casual, artful methods to defeat packs of armed groups….
"But I guess there are advantages to being underestimated?" he thought aloud. "They tend not to see your ulterior motives, so convincing others to do something actually calculated can become much easier?"
Amphitrite cocked her head as her gaze focused on a spot of nothing a foot away. "I can see how that can be true," she eventually said. She said nothing else.
But Malcolm wanted more.
"I mean—" he began. "Well, I'm assuming soft power is way more shrewd than people think, isn't it?"
He trained his eyes to spot the smallest crumbs. Yet, Amphitrite didn't budge.
"It takes a great deal of cleverness, yes," she said. "Part of that cleverness is empathy: to understand what others want and how others behave. And that's something Rhode has always excelled at."
It was odd, he thought, how much she had to say, tossing around unprompted praise about her children more so than any god he'd met did their own.
Amphitrite's attention caught on something beyond his shoulder. She wore that beaming expression Malcolm had often witnessed on his fathers' faces. Following her line of sight, he spotted Rhode speaking to a boy as she held his hand. She then hugged him before sneaking behind a couple of teenage-looking merwomen in uproarious conversation.
Amidst a wild cackle from one of the girls, Rhode threw her arms over their shoulders. "Having fun, ladies? Can I join?" she said to exclamations of "Oh, holy Poseidon!" and "Oh my gods, I love your dress!"
Just as cheerily, she complimented their earrings and then said, "I'm Rhode. What are your names?"
Amphitrite breathed out a faint laugh. "Our people can't ask for a more wonderful princess and I can't ask for a better daughter."
As opposed to the one you disowned.
Malcolm's mind screamed at him to think of something else, lest Amphitrite was able to read his mind or face.
"And what contributes most to that in their view?" he blurted.
Once more, Amphitrite glanced at Rhode, who was now asking the girls if she could take a photo of them.
"Likely her kindness," said Amphitrite. "That's what I keep hearing."
Kindness hadn't been anywhere near the top of the list of Rhode's qualities—at least not on Malcolm's list. More than kind, Rhode seemed sharp, bold, vivacious, powerful, confident, skilled…
He tried his best not to display his shock in case it would come off the wrong way. He supposed her empathy helped her conduct diplomacy to build relationships and maintain peace. Maybe that was the version people here so often saw. Maybe they didn't see the Rhode who teased Percy, who felled dozens of soldiers, who masterminded battle after battle.
Likewise, Atlantians would have been privy to more than three days' worth of observations and a week's worth of reading of publicly available content. Or, maybe, as prominent as those other qualities were already, maybe her kindness truly exceeded them. Maybe.
"And what would you say?" Malcolm dared to ask.
"Speaking as her mother, or as her colleague?" said Amphitrite.
"Would those answers be different?"
"Perhaps." Amphitrite thought for a moment. "As her mother, I'm most proud of her independence. As her colleague, her dedication."
Her answers seemed like opposites. And it seemed kindness didn't top her list either.
Malcolm somehow felt a bit comforted by her response. He didn't know if he should've been. Why the hell his opinion on Amphitrite's thoughts would even matter, he reminded himself, was beyond presumptuousness. Yet, it was refreshing to hear.
Malcolm nodded and continued painting, filling in more facial features of passerby, desperately trying to think of something to say to fill the void. But it was Amphitrite who spoke first.
"What do you plan to do with this painting?" she said.
Malcolm shrugged. "I think I'll leave it here or by the goodie bag area for someone to take if they like it. I hope that's not considered littering."
Amphitrite chuckled. "May I?"
Malcolm thought he misheard. He replayed the moment. "You want it? Are you serious?"
"Outside our public business," she said, "my husband and I curate a public gallery at the palace. Lord Poseidon takes a liking to impressionist and expressionist styles, but I'm fonder of realism. I'd like to acquire this piece and add it to the collection at the palace if that's alright with you."
"Oh! Oh, yeah, of course! Please!"
"Wonderful," she said with a smile. "I'd be willing to talk compensation."
"No. No. It's my honor."
"We do not typically accept gifts."
"I don't think I can take money either," Malcolm said. Already associated with elitism and nepotism, he didn't want bribery accusations, considering all the money laundering in high art. "Maybe this could go to the art school instead?" he suggested.
Ah, fuck. How presumptuous.
"In a restroom or someplace," he added.
Amphitrite gave him a sly look. "And why not? It might draw more eyeballs there."
They shared a laugh. Promising to bring the painting to the palace when it was done, Malcolm spent another fifteen minutes on the scenery. He didn't forget to snap several pics to show his parents.
