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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories:
F/MGen
Fandoms:
Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick RiordanPercy Jackson and the Olympians Related Fandoms - All Media TypesThe Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Relationships:
Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson (Past)Annabeth Chase Percy JacksonPercy Jackson Sally JacksonPercy Jackson TritonPercy Jackson Grover UnderwoodNico di Angelo Percy JacksonLuke Castellan Percy JacksonPercy Jackson Hazel Levesque
Characters:
Percy JacksonAnnabeth ChaseLuke CastellanSally JacksonChiron (Percy Jackson)Grover UnderwoodPoseidon (Percy Jackson)Triton (Percy Jackson)The Fates (Percy Jackson)Nico di AngeloAres (Percy Jackson)Hades (Percy Jackson)Zeus (Percy Jackson)Hazel LevesqueMnemosyne (Percy Jackson)Kronos (Percy Jackson)
Additional Tags:
Time TravelAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceDysfunctional FamilyBAMF Percy JacksonNot Canon Compliant - The Blood of OlympusAngstEmotional Hurt/ComfortAdditional Warnings in Author's NotesTime Travel Fix-ItPTSDPanic AttacksNot Canon Compliant - The Lightning ThiefThe Author Regrets EverythingThe Author Regrets NothingI Feel I've Earned Those Tags
Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of the Sing, O Muse (Of Heroes Once More) series Next Work
Collections:
The Witch's Woods, Fics that totally rip my heart out, My Heart Adores, Percy Jackson, perseus jackson, Completed stories I've read, Time Travel fics for Sol to read on her Interdimensional Travels, best of the time travel, The Greatest Percy Jackson Fics, PercyJackson, Pancakes Favourite PJO HoO KC MC and ToA Fics (AO3), Road to Nowhere Discord Recs, Rishi's Fanfic Recs, You haven't lived if you haven't read this, to escape the infernal hellscape that is life, SakurAlpha's Fic Rec of Pure how did you create this you amazing bean, Many Condensed to One, PJO, cause i had too many tabs open
Stats:
Published:2018-03-02Completed:2020-07-25Words:112485Chapters:21/21Comments:1821Kudos:5202Bookmarks:1426Hits:123460
Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan
Rynna_Aurelia
Summary:
Olympus has fallen.
The second Gigantomachy has ended far differently than the first, and in Gaea's triumph, the world has been torn apart. But the Fates have seen what ends their failed meddling have brought, look on at the dead—and undo what should never have happened the only way they possibly can.
Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, is returned to his twelve-year-old self, memories intact and determined to save everyone he can. But he is not alone.
The Moirai underestimated the strength of the Lord of Time when stealing his power, and there is something about this particular demigod brat that intrigues him. . .
Perseus Jackson came roaring to life with a violent gasp, green eyes wild. After a moment of panicked flailing and struggling to breathe, his fear-filled gaze settled upon a girl with blonde hair and stormy grey eyes, her face stern and unimpressed.
"You drool in your sleep."
Notes:
This story has been graced with art! You can find a cover for Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan here, made by the wonderful eringeosphere.
(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)
Chapter 1: Prologue
Notes:
Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, major character deaths. Rather depressing, to be honest.
Chapter Text
"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
-Dylan Thomas
Where did it go so wrong?
Dispassionately, Clotho could only muse on how the world could have come to an end such as this as her sisters cut, with only a soft snip, so many lives before they were meant to end.
Desperately, the Seven attempted to keep the battle even, all the while praying to gods who did not listen.
But for all their efforts, the Gigantes inexorably advanced, the blood of Olympus long since spilt; Gaea was awoken, and her wrath shook the world as the last bastions of humanity resisted with the last dregs of power they possessed.
Leo Valdez and his master creation were the first to fall.
Clotho watched her sister cut several threads at once with her silver scissors, exhaling something that might have been a resigned sigh in a mortal. The Argo II had been almost certainly doomed, but the Fates had foreseen it making a far larger impact on the battle—preferably with the interference of the gods. Her other sibling had held ready a longer thread for the son of Hephaestus's life, now to never be used.
She turned back to the impending end of the war, and patiently waited for her father to lead the Olympians into battle, to save both Rome and Greece.
The Fates could only but watch, watch as this end of their own unwitting making unfolded.
Gaea's wrath shook Camp Half-Blood, and she walked her own body for the first time in millennia, serene smile fixed. The demigods and their leaders did not tremble, and stood to meet the Protogenos.
In vain, Lachesis thought with a facsimile of pity. She watched her oldest sister efficiently end thousands of lives as what remained of the great training camps died screaming, returned to the Mother.
An unsatisfied parent, it would seem. Her essence dissipated from the place humans called Long Island, and began to concentrate, fury undiminished, on where the focus of the world now turned, even if the mortals remained ignorant: Athens.
At the latest hour—too late, it could be argued—the god of thunder finally roused himself, both aspects temporarily corralled. The king of the gods led Olympus into battle, unaware of the futility of his gesture.
Surprisingly, Dionysus was the first to fall. Lachesis watched as the god was felled by the twins, who then turned their attention to hunting the minor immortals. The glee of their mother quite literally rippled through Greece, ripping and tearing and grinding the land to dust.
A chain effect was predictably initiated by the death of the son of Semele. The daughter of Athena was next, killed by her mother's arch-nemesis, only for him to be killed in turn by the child's grieving mother; the goddess of wisdom soon found her end in the form of a soon twice-victorious Alcyoneus, her skill not quite effective in the new home of the counterpart of Hades as she died. But one and their child would take the other with them.
And Pallas Athena's great enemy? In certain defeat, he gave up his life, his memories, his power to the Earth Mother.
Gaea surged in response, and islands around the world were wiped off the map.
The second great Perseus roared with rage, and with four blows of his sword, defeated five combatants at once before having his attention forcibly caught by he who had been defeated twice before. He was joined by his father, and the three fought as their comrades continued to fall around them.
All the while, the earth continued to shake, and the Ring of Fire began to break.
Hephaestus let out a yell as he felt his forges' destruction—at least until a resurrected Typhon broke the god's back for the last time.
Piper McLean fell soon after at the hands of Periboia, inciting the goddess of love to a beauty of terror and war unparalleled. Although mother soon joined daughter, it was not before the Gemini traitors went first.
Clytius, Hecate's ancient and learned foe, grappled with her champion, whose tricks with the Mist failed to save her as instead of death, she was trapped in a nightmare both of and of not her making; it was to be first eternal life in the land beyond the gods, spent on her last night and the first day of Gaea.
In grief, her dragon of a boyfriend failed to either rescue or follow, his newly-gained senses were manipulated by the shadowed Gigante, who watched in grim glee as Frank Zhang began to find his way to the Underworld of his ancestors. At the same time, Jason Grace met the fate spun by Thoon on the razor edge of the Gigante king's spear, where two immortal sons of Zeus had already found their end.
Lachesis could only shake her head at the massacre, and wonder: how did it come to this?
Unabated by the blood already staining her, Gaea began to crack the world as she stretched for the first time in so long, already seeking to meet her first love and regain herself.
If she had been any being but a goddess, Atropos would have tutted. Were her sisters really so surprised at the finish the world received from their manipulation?
Anger palpably rippled through the air as the youngest son of Kronos was gradually forced to concede ground to his grandmother and would-be usurper, before at once collapsing as his final sister—the youngest, and one he had never quite cherished enough—was forced to yield permanently, her essence at last worn and gone.
In contrast, the king of the sea and his newest mortal heir triumphed at last over their foe, nearly exhausted by their efforts.
But even as they triumphed, the eldest of the Fates could only think: too little, too late.
Look behind you, son of Poseidon.
He did not.
Atropos closed her silver scissors over a dark green thread.
The youngest child of sea died with a knife in the small of the back, in the arms of his father.
Atropos watched impassively as the second son of Kronos cried out to them, uncaring of the world cracked and burning around him or the few conquered that remained. He would quickly follow after all.
She turned away from the howls of the fallen, unconcerned.
They would die soon enough, and she had more important deeds to complete with her sisters.
In their attempts to fix the world, heal Olympus, and avert the Age of Gaea's Children—it mattered not which—they had instead delivered it to the malevolent Primordial on a silver platter, as the mortals would have once said.
They had been prideful fools.
It had to be fixed—undone, to be more precise. The newly-arrived Age of the Gigantes would never allow for a hero to rise. Out of the corrupted tapestry of time they had created, a thread would have to be pulled. A seeming paradox for the Fates: for their problem to be fixed, the tapestry unwittingly woven could never be.
Time would have to be manipulated, fates be changed. The power required would, under any normal circumstance, be considered impossible. No god or goddess had the power to manipulate time.
A certain Titan, however, did. Or he once had, at least.
Atropos joined hands with her sisters, and together, reaching though the fabric of the universe, began to seek out the last of Kronos's rapidly fading essence in the corners of reality. Through a process that would be considered long enough to span generations by standards of any but their own, they collected every golden grain.
Then, and only then, at last, the Moirai pulled , and tightly—for however short a period—bound the Lord of Time's power to their own; with a long-practiced efficiency, they worked.
Clotho pulled from the dark and tangled tapestry a thread as green as the sea, far too short for their first foolish plan.
Lachesis measured out the thread, connecting it with a length from a new skein of thread, thicker and stronger than the one she previously utilized.
Atropos, last of all, with a soft, ominous snip from her golden scissors, severed the new, repaired thread from their previous corrupted work.
In unison, the three sisters began to chant in a language that sounded extraordinarily like to Ancient Greek, except not—every syllable throbbed with power, and the air itself seemed to burn as the goddesses intoned to an unseen force.
Ananke, perhaps. Or maybe Order and Chaos themselves. Even Atropos was unsure on the particulars of the ritual; but it would work, she knew. There was no other option.
Suddenly the thread began to glow, as if it had been imbued with the Titan of Time's power itself; subtle at first, it increased in intensity until almost blinding, and the heat of it soon burned the Fates' hands, forcing them to release the life-thread.
Atropos could not help but wonder; for a brief second, it had. . .But that was impossible, surely.
And then she knew. A hint of trepidation shivered through her soul, and she turned to Clotho and Lachesis, old eyes wide.
What have w—
And the world ended, not with a roar, but a whisper.
Perseus Jackson came roaring to life with a violent gasp, his green eyes wild. After a moment of panicked flailing and struggling to breathe, his fear-filled gaze settled upon a girl with blonde hair and stormy grey eyes, her face stern and unimpressed.
"You drool in your sleep."
Chapter 2: Just Whose Hallucination Is This, Anyway?
Notes:
Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, swearing, and mentions of PTSD.
Chapter Text
"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint—it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly. . .time-y wimey. . .stuff."
-The Tenth Doctor, Doctor Who
"You drool in your sleep."
Look, he hadn't wanted to hallucinate his girlfriend.
Admittedly, it was nicer than dying, but if Percy was going to be reliving his greatest hits while bleeding out on Dirt Face, then first day of camp—swirlies and grief and all—was not his top choice. If pressed, he would probably pick the underwater kiss after the Battle of Manhattan.
Or when Annabeth had called him a hero and kissed him under Mount St. Helens. Though considering how well that had ended, maybe not.
Just to be safe, Percy would go with the color Zeus turned whenever he had to deal with him as his second choice. And the taste of his mom's blue cookies.
"Uh, you there, Jackson? Percy?" Annabeth—wonderfully alive, far too good for him, Annabeth—was now looking mildly confused.
"I'm hallucinating right now," Percy told her cheerfully. "So, as my girlfriend tells me, I'm not really there for you. Makes no sense, to be honest. I'm the one making you up, shouldn't I be the one there for you?"
The blonde raised an eyebrow, her expression changing to the very familiar one of Di Immortales Why Do I Get the Crazies. Oblivious, Percy rambled on, trying to distract himself.
"But to be honest, it doesn't really matter, considering I'm probably paying a visit to the Emo One Senior right now. I can't complain, seeing as you haven't tried to kill me yet. But to be honest, I don't think you will. Or could, really."
"Oh?" Annabeth asked, eyes glittering with all the rage a young daughter of Athena could muster—which was quite a lot, by anyone's standards.
But to Percy, she just looked a bit like a cat who had just been sprayed with water; except dry, and Californian. He told her so with all the earnestness of a toddler, before elaborating as her face became consequently darker.
"You're far too girlfriend-y—for your age, that is. I don't date girls five years younger than me. Also, your knife's kinda over there if you're looking for it."
Percy entirely blamed him not realizing to shut up when Annabeth got that—particularly Annabeth at that age—on the fact that he was hallucinating.
Five minutes and one centaur extraction later, Percy was being chauffeured around Camp Half-Blood by Luke Castellan, who kept side-eyeing him as if he expected Percy to suffer a psychotic break any second.
It was pretty silly, seeing as Luke had been the one to suffer a psychotic break by most standards.
Percy felt something in his throat tighten with old grief as he was dragged through camp, but it didn't stop him from staying out of immediate sword-swinging reach while Luke blithely explained all the ways he could get killed by walking into the wrong cabin.
Gods, he had missed camp.
"And that's Zeus and Hera's cabins, absolutely do not go in there under any circumstances unless the camp's on fire, or you want to be transformed into a small mammal—you alright there, Percy? You seem quiet."
Hallucination-Luke gazed at him with genuine concern, and the young-old son of Poseidon had to resist the urge to puke at the conflict between memory and what was in front of him.
"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," he managed. Luke gave him a skeptical look, and Percy hurriedly added, "Just a lot to take in, is all. And, well, my mom."
That last one had hurt; when Hallucination-Chiron had taken him aside, quietly chastising him for pissing Not-Annabeth off despite just losing a parent, it had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to realize—he couldn't see his mother in this. And after over a year's worth of trying to save the world, Percy liked to think he deserved one last chance before he died.
Then there was the belated epiphany that people didn't take well to being called hallucinations, particularly if there was a chance he somehow was not hallucinating.
Which, quite frankly, was Tartarus-levels of terrifying, because doing the last six years of his life all over again? No thank you, Hera or Fates or whoever really hates my guts.
But at the mention of Percy's mom, Not-Luke's face turned sympathetic, his eyes dark with what Percy now knew were memories—his mother May Castellan had gone mad after trying to become the oracle, leaving him to raise himself.
"I know it's a lot, learning about being a half-blood, especially being unclaimed, losing your only real parent. . .but I'm here for you, kid, if you ever need any help," Luke offered, his genuine look of sympathy like a knife to the back, "We all are."
Percy opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out—Just what could he say to the guy that tried to end the world, then saved it at what had been the absolute last second?
He was saved when a familiar husky voice yelled from behind him, "Well! A newbie!"
The hallucination of Luke sighed, and the technically unclaimed (De-claimed? Re-unclaimed? He'd have to work on that before he finished dying of blood loss) son of Poseidon felt lost. Without Annabeth beside him, he had little idea how to handle this scenario.
What were the rules, Percy thought with a smidge of rising hysteria, of meeting either hallucinations of your friends, or just dealing with their younger versions?
"Percy, meet Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares," Luke said, resigned, distracting Percy from panicking. After a long pause thick with hope for a distraction, he grudgingly added, "Clarisse, this is Percy Jackson. Unclaimed."
Not-Clarisse grinned as her three hallucination cronies sniggered behind her. "Yeah, can see why. I wouldn't want to claim a shrimp like you either."
Before he could think, Percy took up—for him—the familiar banter. "I doubt it'll be long. I mean, you were claimed."
"Prissy, I should warn you, we have a ritual for newbies who don't know where they should go." But Not-Clarisse's eye twitched, and Not-Luke grimaced. Percy had struck a nerve.
"Clarisse—"
"Come on, I'll show you." Clarisse quickly had Percy in a headlock despite his struggling since, surprise surprise, for all of his memories, he was still a scrawny twelve-year-old up against a bulky child of Ares.
Clarisse started to drag Percy towards the bathrooms with Luke suddenly nowhere to be found. Because of course he was. Percy didn't know what he should have expected.
As Hallucination-Clarisse strode into the building, cackling imaginary cronies and unwilling Percy in tow, he could only think futilely, I won't go into those scummy johns again. I won't.
They barely got inside the building when Percy finally managed to twist and land a quick hit to the daughter of Ares's nose, allowing Percy to squirm out of her grip. He was dodging the iron grip of one of the Hallucination Four Stooges, panic rising without Riptide at his side and his enemy being relative friendlies, when Percy felt a tug in the pit of his stomach. Wait, I'm hallucinating, that shouldn't be able to—
He heard a giant explosion from inside, and a literal tidal wave shot out of the bathrooms, blasting with freezing brown water Percy, Clarisse, Luke, and—oh gods, not again—Annabeth, who stood not fifteen feet away, looking even less impressed than when Percy had woken up.
Percy, as always, was perfectly dry as he scrambled to his feet while Clarisse—now resembling an extremely pissed off warthog—rolled onto her hands and knees with a groan.
She glared up at him through strands of stringy wet hair flattened against her skull. "You're dead, Prissy Jackson. Absolutely dead."
But Percy wasn't paying attention as he crossed his arms against his stomach and struggled for even shallow breaths. He fell to his knees, everything sounding foggy and far away.
It was real. All of it.
"Percy?" Luke approached him, caution written in his stance. A very much alive and un-possessed Luke Castellan looked very concerned for Percy's well-being, while Clarisse La Rue and Annabeth Chase both looked like they wanted to use Percy for target practice.
Percy shook his head, and struggled to think. Luke wasn't meant to be this nice. Percy's subconscious wouldn't treat him that kindly. Annabeth wasn't. . .who he had known. Neither was Clarisse.
He had never, could never, use his powers like that, with the distinctive pull in his gut, if he were imagining something. And the water, the water had felt real, hadn't soaked him, bent to his command, and—
Shit.
He wasn't hallucinating while dying, because he had already died. And last Percy had checked, Elysium or Asphodel or even the Fields of Punishment weren't Clarisse trying to give him a swirlie again.
He was twelve again. Somehow.
He was twelve again. Alone. Seemingly without any immediate way out.
He was fucked. Gods, this was beyond hell. Stuck with an Annabeth who didn't know him and probably didn't like him, his mom in the Underworld, Luke trying to be an actual camp counselor, he—
He needed to get out.
And Percy Jackson, Slayer of the Minotaur, defeater of Kronos and far too many monsters to count, ran away, leaving flabbergasted campers in his wake.
Percy had been staring blankly out at the very real Long Island Sound for who even knew how long when an unfortunately real Luke Castellan found him.
Well, he considered. Might as well be sarcastic to Luke before he tried to kill him.
"Thanks for the help."
Luke shrugged, and sat down beside Percy as he stared blankly out at the water. Absentmindedly, Percy took note of the rough waves and clouds forming on the horizon. The Master Bolt had already been stolen, he knew. Luke was already the lightning thief.
He'd have to fix that again. Somehow.
Gods, what had happened? Why him?
Besides the obvious. Percy was trying very hard not to remember how painful actually dying for once had been. He was also well-aware of his Favored Punching Bag status already with the universe.
But how? And why him, and not someone clever like Annabeth, or already ingratiated with their camp like Jason?
"I figured you needed to hold your own—Clarisse does it to every new camper." Luke sounded genuinely apologetic, but it made Percy's skin crawl. "If it got out of hand, I would've stepped in. If I knew it would have. . .triggered something for you, I would have never let it get that far. I'm sorry, Percy."
At the apology, a startled Percy took a long look at Luke for the first time since his—time travel. Di Immortales, that was weird.
In contrast to the final days before he took on the Titan's spirit, Luke still looked healthy, for lack of a better word. While the scar across his face still lent him a sense of gravity, the son of Hermes no longer appeared quite so drained and frankly evil, as he had after Percy's first quest.
He looked something close to his age.
He could still be saved, Percy realized. The Greatly Annoying Prophecy never mentioned anyone specifically, and could be someone else. He just had to make sure someone like Nico wasn't forced to deal with what a dead hippie lady said almost a century ago.
He could stop it; never mind the fact Percy still had no idea what was going on, and the apocalypse had been less than an hour ago. He'd figure something out.
He could fix the war. Both of them.
"It's fine, Luke," Percy demurred, trying to act like the entire world hadn't crumbled away around him. "Everything just. . .caught up with me, that's all. What with the Minotaur, my Mom, finding out my father is a freaking Greek god. . ."
Unsurprisingly, the older teenager scowled at the last. "Believe me, Percy, you're not alone on that one; a lot of us know the feeling, never knowing your godly parent, believing them dead or scumbags that abandoned you, and even when I finally asked for help, I—"
Luke cut off, stiffening at his slip. Percy didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself; he certainly couldn't afford to be sympathetic towards Luke Castellan at this stage.
"Sorry, Percy," Luke finally said stiffly. "You don't need to know my problems on top of yours."
Percy shrugged. He was about to leave it at that, when an idea struck him.
He'd have to work quickly. Hadn't gotten off to a stellar start with Annabeth, he hadn't seen Grover yet, but he could start with something.
Luke may have talked to Kronos, but Percy could still try and sway him to see what happened.
"I don't mind, Luke—takes my mind off mine, to be honest. I don't mind listening," Percy said quickly. After the Ophiotaurus, he'd still been willing to run away with Annabeth, for gods' sakes. "I'm curious, though—are there any, I don't know, immortal rules or something keeping gods from acknowledging that we exist? I mean, I can't imagine not caring about any of my kids, even after watching so many live and die for centuries. Gotta keep an eye on Percy Junior, if you know what I mean."
The son of Hermes let out an amused huff at this, but he became thoughtful, not giving an immediate response. Finally, he gave an answer that surprised even Percy, his tone carefully neutral.
"There. . .are the Ancient Laws," Luke said grudgingly. "No one who's not an immortal knows all of the specifics, but. . .we know that th-they do govern their behavior."
"How so?" Percy asked quietly, his eyes locked on him. In front of the two, the waves surged, and a faint rumble could be heard off in the distance.
"The Ancient Laws dictate that no immortal with ichor in their veins can directly interfere in mortal or demigod affairs unless directly challenged by a hero or are in their domain," Luke recited. "No god is allowed to enter another's domain without explicit invitation, or allowed to steal another's symbol of power unless a mortal champion is sent—"
There was a brief pause; Percy internally winced, and Luke set his jaw as he looked at him, his eyes searching.
"And none of the Big Three are allowed to sire any children after World War Two," Luke concluded. "There are a ton of Laws for them to follow, but those are the biggies."
"So, the gods can't acknowledge their children?"
"—No, not unless. . .they're claiming them, or they've. . .done something pretty important." The son of Hermes was a paradox; his tone was almost wondering as he finished talking, but his blue eyes burnt with rage and his knuckles were white as he gripped a handful of grass, nearly ripping it out of the ground by the roots.
"How important?" Percy was genuinely curious on this one; in his. . .previous life—what had he gotten himself into—this one had never come up. Plus, it had been pretty clear that he, Thalia, and Nico had been special cases, especially with the wars.
"Usually, if they're actually acknowledging you outside of claiming, you've—just earned immortality," Luke's answer was halting, and it was clear he wasn't focusing on the conversation at hand. "Or," he added ruefully. "You've just committed a screw-up worthy of the ancient heroes."
At this, neither boy spoke for a time; Percy mulled over what he had learned, carefully not thinking of anything before he had woken up at the Big House for the second time. Periodically, he chanced a quick glance over at Luke, whose brow remained furrowed as he stared off into the distance.
Below the two demigods, the sea began to calm for the first time as Percy was lost in his own thoughts, jumping from one idea to another.
There were a lot of moving parts to keep in mind if he was going to come up with some sort of a plan before the Summer Solstice.
Luke finally broke the silence. "Anyway, if you ever need anything, just ask me or the Stolls; we'll be able to hook you up as long as you don't ask too many questions."
He clambered to his feet, silently making it clear the conversation was over. Percy was suddenly thankful he already knew about the camp black market; he had no desire to be pranked again while trying to borrow a toothbrush because he didn't know the ropes.
"Right, thank you, I'll probably take you up on that." Percy stood up as he spoke, suddenly desperate to be somewhere. Preferably with the sea closer. And without younger versions of people who had tried to kill him or that he had just watched die.
At the last second, though, he remembered his previous ideas, and called out, "Though, Luke, could you or the Stolls get me a notebook?"
"Um, sure. Just mind if I ask why?"
Without thinking, the demigod out of time went for the obvious answer with a secretive grin to hide his nausea. "I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
Luke let out a surprised laugh and Percy took the chance to take one last study of someone Annabeth had hero-worshipped for years. With a genuine smile smoothing away the harsh lines carved by time, and the sun catching the gold in his hair, Percy could see how half the camp had mooned after him—including Silena and Annabeth at one point, he knew.
Shut up, brain. SO do not need those images.
"Fine, fine, like you could take me in a fight anyway," Luke said with a chuckle, "Just know you can go to me or Chiron if there's something you need to talk about, right?"
Percy nodded silently, and didn't relax until Luke was out of earshot, letting out a long, heaving sigh.
This was not going to be fun.
As he finally stood up to go and refresh his memory of the camp layout—pre-Hera-fuckery memories were a little fuzzy—he could have sworn he saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye as the waves crashed on the rocks below.
Eight hours and an extremely awkward conversation with Annabeth later, ("Look, Wise Girl—" "Did you just call me Wise Girl?") Percy was hiding in a cove on the rocky beach, one black, slightly worn notebook ("I promise, Percy, completely paid for—"), pen, and borrowed flashlight in his hands.
After glancing up at the glittering night sky, sans one constellation—permanently, if he had anything to say about it—Percy stuck his pencil behind his ear, and viewed his Official Time Traveller's Guide To Preventing the Mythic Apocalypse by Percy Jackson—A.K.A., list of godly screw-ups to correct this time around, because this was his life now.
In Greek, of course. Percy had no desire to deal with dyslexia while trying to save the world.
-Get Bianca and Nico out of the Lotus ASAP—talk to Uncle.
-Suggest to Chiron Golden Fleece could fix Thalia.
-Calypso—use powers? Build raft? Something.
-Keep an eye on Silena Beckendorf.
-Deal with Aunty M.
-Find the Labyrinth, talk to D with Rachel.
-Find Bessie, get her somewhere safe.
-Keep Luke from hosting Kronos at all costs.
-Find Circe, Hylla Reyna, direct towards Amazons and Camp J—reach out to Romans later.
-Fill in gaps of myths knowledge, work on Latin—ask Annabeth?
-Find the rest of the Seven—tell Thalia about Jason, when given chance—Hazel?
-Find out who thought me saving the world after going back in time was a good idea, and kick their asses into next century.
"What could go wrong?" he breathed. Besides pretty much—
"Everything, little brother. One would think you know that by now." Percy whipped around, reaching for a pen that wasn't there, only for his jaw to drop in shock at the person standing in the mouth of the cave.
"You? Seriously?"
Chapter 3: Family, Just Can't Live with Them
Notes:
Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, swearing, PTSD, brief mild gore in the second section. Ain't a pretty chapter, folks.
Chapter Text
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."
-Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit
"You?"
"Me, little brother." Triton, immortal heir of Poseidon—and general arrogant pain in the ass from what little Percy remembered—smiled grimly.
Belatedly, Percy tried to act dumb. He pasted a dumbfounded look on his face and began scrambling backwards. The notebook and flashlight were dropped, discarded as he played at shock. "Who? Wha-Who are you?"
The elder son of Poseidon merely rolled his green eyes in a manner Percy was intimately familiar with—it had been his reaction to many a god. "Do not attempt to play the fool with me, brother. Now, where is it?"
Shit. Please don't be talk—
"Where is the Master Bolt?" Triton demanded.
Double shit.
"I-I d-don't know wh-what—what you're talking about," Percy managed to stutter out in a somewhat convincing manner. "Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, you know who I am, brother," Triton drawled. He didn't seem to fall for it.
Percy dropped most of the act—maybe he had laid it on just a little thick—as he scrambled to his feet, straightened his spine and sneered at Triton.
"Please quit the brother nonsense," he said facetiously, attempting to disguise any recognition on his part. "I really don't feel I know enough about you to be sure you won't try to kill me, let alone call you family. "
Sadly, all of this did little to erase the imposing effect the immortal had, seeing as Percy barely came up to his shoulder and lacked an aura of godly power. Right, no growth spurt until after Atlas tries to kill me.
Thankfully, it had been a while since a god had fazed him; Triton continued to advance on him, glaring down at him until they were nose to nose. A gleaming bronze trident appeared in his hand that Percy pointedly ignored as Triton continued to threaten him. "Quit the games, and tell me if you already gave it to him or not, or I will drag you before Olympus. Brother."
For gods' sakes, Percy didn't have time for this. Why was Triton here? Why did he care in the first place?
"Listen," he began, anger that had been barely suppressed all day bubbling in his chest. Behind his half-sibling, the ocean began to recede, similar to the moments before a tsunami. "I don't know who you are, what a 'Master Bolt' is, or this him you're talking about is, and even if I did, there is no damn reason for me to tell you! Again—who are you?""
"Fine, little brother, if you insist on playing that game, I will give you one: our grandfather, the Lord of Time!" Triton retorted. Percy almost fell over; only old ingrained battle reflexes kept him upright at the mention. Please, not him. Not now.
"Our. . .grandfather? Sebastian, I told you: I don't know you, you're not my brother; lunacy doesn't run in my family."
At this, Triton outright growled in frustration. "Cease with the lies! I know the truth; I saw the Lord of Time's power flare not even twelve hours ago within the camp in close proximity to you! If I hadn't known better, I would have said there was a connection between your soul and the Titan's. It is already quite obvious he sent you back in time for some task—"
Percy scoffed loudly even as he went cold all over, and the noise Triton let out that time was definitely not completely human.
"—And you know perfectly well who I am. You do not fear me, and the only logical reason for that is if you know who I am, and with his power flashing about, it could only mean that you are under his control. What other explanation could there be other than you being the lightning thief?"
Triton was smart. Great.
But what had changed?
It was worth repeating again: double shit.
Dumbfounded, Percy's grip loosened on the black notebook, and he briefly fell back on old habits, muttering with the resent of the bitter innocent, "I'm not the thief."
Instead of deeming it with a response, Triton disappeared in a flash—or rather, a spray of water—and reappeared behind Percy, summoning the notebook out of his hand before Percy could blink. He quickly thumbed it open to where Percy had been writing, and Percy clenched his fists, nearly drawing blood from his palms in attempting to restrain his own urge to outright snatch the notebook back.
Odds were he'd only end up as a dolphin for his efforts; no Riptide, and it wasn't like his own power would do any good against someone who had been wielding it for millennia.
"Mind giving it back, Baywatch?" Percy angrily asked anyway. "I know it's been a while since you've had to deal with us normal people, but that's mine."
Annabeth would be so proud—that was almost polite.
But Triton didn't even look at him, or acknowledge him. A stone seemed to settle within Percy's stomach; he'd already written a fair bit in that journal to try and get his thoughts together after the hell of the past couple weeks—months, if he was being honest.
Instead, beneath his golden tan, Percy's immortal half-brother seemed to gradually be losing all of the color in his skin. He stopped flipping the pages. Instead he stared at what Percy had written, his eyes flicking up and down what looked like the same two pages over and over again.
Percy wondered if he should do something, or at least pinch himself to make sure he was asleep when Triton, so slowly he couldn't have been aware of his actions, shakily began to sink to the ground. The green eyes Percy saw in the mirror every day were wide as dinner plates.
When he slowly approached Triton, picking up the flashlight while telegraphing his every move, he remembered with a jolt of pure fear what he had written on that particular page: not just a list of nonsense to fix and stuff to get done, but also important points from the past—ones that would cause chain reactions to potentially kill or save a lot of people.
Triton slowly flipped a page, drinking in every word.
As Percy neared, he couldn't help but feel, for the first time, nervous in his brother's presence, his stomach roiling with nausea and worry.
He had been angry before. On the rare occasions he had met Triton, they had both been on the verge of trying to kill each other. This was new, and Percy had little idea of how to react without the buffer of their shared parent, a healer, or you know, a fucking war. Convenient, those. I think I preferred it when he was accusing me of treason against Olympus.
Though Percy really wanted to know how they had just gotten there in the first place, and what Triton had been referring to with "power flashing about". Maybe just a result of whatever had dropped him back a couple years.
"Triton?" he whispered, his voice way too quiet for his liking. Anger and death threats had been much better than this.
A long, awkward minutes passed, and as he debated the merit of reaching out—namely, the dolphin factor—the minor god's head snapped up, matching eyes locking.
"It would seem. . .I have. . .misjudged you, Perseus," Triton slowly said in a dazed tone.
He looked like he'd been hit with a frying pan. Percy felt the same when Triton limply held out the notebook.
Percy's jaw dropped before he quickly snatched it away. After the hoarse admission, Triton raked his fingers through curly mahogany hair—inherited from Amphitrite, Percy knew—and slowly stood up; if he were mortal, Percy imagined he would have begun to wear a hole in the ground with pacing.
"Misjudge me how?" Percy finally asked suspiciously.
Triton looked at him, eyes dark. For a minute, he said nothing, and in the silence, Percy could hear waves crash against the sand.
"You seek to prevent war and disaster you already know is coming. It is an admirable and honorable deed to attempt, Perseus, if a difficult one," Triton informed him, like Percy hadn't been thinking nonstop for hours about this, "You have chosen to face the storm instead of running."
"You know, you make this sound a whole lot easier than it's really gonna be. Or that I know what I'm doing."
"But I do not understand," Triton continued, acting like Percy wasn't even there, "If you are not working for Grandfather, who sent you?"
Percy snorted derisively. "No one sent me anywhere. My luck's just a bit shittier than the average demigod's; I woke up this morning, remembering years that didn't happen."
Triton nodded, his gaze speculative as he stared off into the distance. Suddenly, he picked up his discarded weapon and strode out of the cave, reaching for the conch on his waist. "We must inform Father. You've already wasted several precious hours."
Of all the things Percy was expecting to come out of his half-brother's mouth, that was not it.
"Whoa whoa whoa, tell Dad?" he said incredulously, jumping in front of Triton to stop him, "You really are crazy—we can't tell him."
Now, Triton looked at him like he was insane; a familiar look today, Percy realized with no small amount of exasperation. "Perseus, the timeline you are from, regardless of how you got here, is one where our Grandfather, the Lord of Time, rose again, hosted by a mortal. My parents can help. You cannot accomplish your task alone."
"I don't—hell, you don't—know what change that interference will do! It could make things worse, and I'm the only one who remembers what happened!"
"Perseus," Triton snapped, his grip tightening on his trident before forcibly relaxing again, his voice angry and patronizing. "Titans are a problem for gods, not ignorant, unclaimed, twelve-year-old brats like you!"
"I am not twelve," Percy gritted out, his fists clenched. He had been tip-toed around since the moment he got up, and this conversation was proving the last straw. "And my name is Percy."
"Of course it is," Triton said, condescension dripping from every word. "Nevertheless, this is a problem for too big for you—"
But he never finished his sentence, when he was hit full in the face with a small tidal wave. It didn't affect Triton, of course. But it sure as hell got his attention.
It was the first day, and Percy was already finished with being underestimated; particularly where either of the clusterfucks that had determined his life were concerned.
For once in his life, he knew what was coming, and he wasn't going to let someone like his gods-forsaken big brother try and take that away from him.
"I fought him. In the war, several times," Percy said firmly. To hell with the dolphins factor.
Triton's face slackened, but Percy was far from finished. "I did it once when I was fifteen, the others rose a little less than a year later. I defeated Hyperion and Iapetus in combat, and guess how often I had help? I led Camp Half-Blood to war against dear old Gramps, and I watched him cut down my friends like they were nothing."
Percy was yelling in his face now, and the two of them were once again nose to nose. But this time, Percy was looking up at him with every bit of annoyance and rage he could summon at that moment.
"Hell, I took on the Curse of fucking Achilles just so someone would stand a chance against him," he nearly shouted, figuring he might as well go for broke, "And did a bunch of other crazy shit that by all rights should have killed me and everyone else a million times over!"
Percy paused to swallow roughly, the memory of Beckendorf and Silena and so many others cloying in its intensity. He wouldn't fail them again. He wouldn't.
Once his personal ghosts were under control, he continued in a low, dangerous voice that promised violence if he wasn't believed. "Never accuse me of not knowing who I'm dealing with, presuming where I've been, or belittling what I've done. Odds are, I've already been there, fought that."
But as Percy knew well, stubbornness was hereditary.
"Then you must realize how important it is to get help to strike a preemptive blow!" Triton declared incredulously. "Or all of this—your little camp you love so much, your fellow bastards—you are all most likely still going to die."
"No, that's not how this—" Percy broke off suddenly, turning away in frustration. He was getting nowhere; at this rate, his brother would get worked up enough to drag Percy to Atlantis himself. Then, another form of attack occurred to him.
If not strength, then wisdom. Or at least Percy mangling one of Annabeth's thought experiments.
"Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" His tone was brusque, piercing the silence as the two brothers brooded in different directions. "It's the idea that one small change can cause something huge somewhere else."
Triton frowned, his expression contemplative. "And you believe this—butterfly effect is what will happen here?"
Sensing an opening, Percy nodded vigorously. "I know that's what at stake here. We may head off one threat, but for all we know it'll cause something else to happen that didn't last time. We'll be blindsided."
Triton frowned, and he turned to observe the crashing waves, the ocean spray doing little to tame his curls. "You mean that this. . .butterfly effect may cause a disaster worse than what you witnessed?"
"Yes," Percy said immediately. "Ten times worse, a hundred times worse. If we alter too much, who knows what'll happen instead?"
For one teetering moment, Triton said nothing, before at last curtly nodding.
"You have a point." His immortal sibling's tone was grudging, but Percy knew a victory when he saw one. "Perhaps, it would be. . .best to remain silent. For now, that is, if you are right. Now that you mention it, I believe I've heard mortals make mention of it before, concerning hurricanes."
"Alright, then. We wait and see. Great. So we're cool? You're gone, then?" Percy asked. Triton ignored him, and turned away to pace, thinking out loud. That sinking feeling from earlier returned in full force.
"You will nearly be worth the trouble as one of Father's bastards, then. It will need to be accounted for, to ensure you don't prove detrimental to the cause."
Percy made a noise of indignation, but Triton ignored him, and continued to blindside Percy as he continued to ponder out loud.
"I think I will train you. Or perhaps I will ask Aphros and Bythos; I believe they will make an exception in light of the circumstances—"
"Aphro-who now?"
"—And of course, you will have to learn how to wield a trident."
"Okay, time out," Percy interrupted, holding up his hands. "A trident? A sword is just fine, thank you."
As long as it was a xiphos, called Riptide, and maybe-cursed by Zoë or Heracles? Percy honestly wasn't quite sure on the particulars of that last one. Just that Heracles was a jerk.
"It would not do for you to disgrace your kin and heritage," Triton answered imperiously. "A trident will give you more versatility in combat, and as a child of a sea god, it will come far more naturally to you than sword-fighting ever will."
"Really, now." His tone was skeptical, but Percy couldn't help but wonder at the possibilities. Besides, if things stayed the same at Camp, he wasn't getting Riptide—short of stealing it—until the quest for the Master Bolt.
"Besides," Triton added thoughtfully. "If it isn't you who fulfills the Prophecy, it will be someone else, and Zeus's children are braggarts, while Hades's children are nearly always half-mad. You are the least of the evils."
"Gee, thanks. My heart and its cockles are warmed." Percy's response was dry as the Sahara.
The two children of the sea walked into the glimmering blue water; Triton's legs, Percy noted with interest, had begun to turn somewhat scaly beneath the Bermuda shorts he wore, and his skin had taken on a green tinge. But before he disappeared beneath the surface, he turned and gave Percy a warning look, pointing a finger in his direction like he thought he was Percy's mother.
"I still do not like you, so you know. Be careful you do not lose my good will through any foolishness."
Percy tilted his head up at his brother and grinned, feeling more than a little puckish. "Feeling's entirely mutual. Brother."
It took a minute before Percy could see anything.
But when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim red light, he immediately regretted wishing for his sight. Without a pause, he could tell he was standing in Camp Half-Blood, in front of where the Big House was, under a black sky without stars, clouds, or moon.
Or at least, he stood where the camp should have been.
It was gone.
In place of the Big House was only ashes, and what appeared to be the skeleton of a wheelchair.
Percy attempted to step forward, yell for Chiron, someone , but he couldn't move, like he was frozen into an ice statue; Khione, however, was nowhere in sight. A minute later, he managed to slowly turn his head, and see the cabins and forest.
Or rather, what was left of them.
The wooden cabins of Demeter and countless others had left no trace after their destruction, while those of metal and stone were twisted and burnt almost beyond recognition. The forest was a blazing wildfire against the night, Thalia's tree long since gone, he somehow knew in his bones. As he listened, Percy could have sworn he heard Juniper and her sisters scream.
And still, no one to be found.
Suddenly he felt a prick of pain in his hands; when he looked down, the young man—and it was young man now, if the familiar scars were anything to go by—realized he had been clenching his hands hard enough to draw blood. Stiffly, he began to shift forward and took a step into a dark puddle, only to recoil with disgust and no small amount of sheer when he recognized the sticky substance clinging to his shoes.
It was blood. And if he were a betting man, Percy would have put a lot of money on it belonging to. . .well. He hoped he was wrong.
"Little demigod, count the dead." Gaea.
Percy whipped his head up, frantically looking for the source of the female voice, even as he struggled to move, the air itself seeming to thicken around and restrain him.
"Count how many went up against me and failed. You think you can do better?"
And then he saw them, and had to struggle not to be sick.
Bianca. Her blank face accusing, fingers outstretched to her brother in death, lying on the ground before the son of Poseidon. Beside them—Di Immortales, no —Tyson, his one eye unseeing, his chest covered in his own blood. And so many more.
Silena. Frank. Rachel. Thalia. Grover. Annabeth. Hazel. Jason. Gods above, his Mom and Paul. All around him, the land, Gaea, was littered with the dead.
"No," he whispered. "No."
"Count yourself among the dead, Perseus Jackson. You will soon rejoin them." she hissed, the venom curling around him, suffocating.
"Percy." But that wasn't right. She sounded like someone else now, male.
"Percy!"
Percy knew that voice.
"PERCY!"
"No!" Percy jerked awake, bolting upright, right into the hard skull of a hovering Luke Castellan. He fell away, clutching his nose as Percy curled in on himself, his mind still racing.
Not real, not real, not real, fuck it's not real. . .
Percy continued to take in rapid, shallow breaths, cold sweat trickling down his spine, unable to think or acknowledge Luke or any of the other Hermes campers. Distantly, as his lungs seemed to seize on him and his heartbeat pounded in his ears, he realized he was having a panic attack.
He was gasping desperately, but he couldn't breathe.
"Breathe with me. C'mon, kid, slowly now. In, and out. In, out."
Automatically, Percy did his best to obey, badly at first.
"Don't rush it. Slowly. In, out."
Percy did better, and felt a little bit less like he was about to suffocate.
After what seemed an eternity, he began to actually feel the oxygen reach his brain, and the pounding in his ears began to recede, as he followed the surprisingly gentle instructions.
"In, and out. You know where you are, Percy?" Luke asked quietly. Blood was trickling down from his face, but other than taking a few tissues from a pale Travis Stoll, he didn't seem to care his nose had just been broken. Broken by the demigod he had just woken up, who then had—Di Immortales.
Percy nodded mutely, still focusing on maintaining his breathing and the fact he had just had a fucking panic attack.
"Listen, I'm going to help you up, if that's okay with you, and then we're going to the Big House to talk with Chiron—and away from this nosy lot!" Luke raised his voice on the last part, causing the silent campers to scramble back into their beds, Hermes's kids quickly and expertly feigning sleep.
"Is that fine?"
Percy looked up at Luke, wary. Whatever semblance of the beginnings of what could one day be a friendship there may be in him. . .looking out for Percy, gods, Percy was struggling not to see Kronos in Luke's place right now. "Must we?"
Luke sighed. "It's your choice, Jackson, but I'd feel a lot better knowing you talked to Chiron. Before you were waking up, you were screaming yourself hoarse, something about some people called Nico and Rachel? You were muttering a lot."
Percy quickly shook his head, slightly rattled at the names coming out of Luke, and quickly agreed if only to shut him up, meekly following Luke out of Cabin Eleven.
But as the two walked through camp, Percy came to the most disturbing conclusion yet.
He had just been worked through a panic attack by Luke Castellan. Naturally, like it was something he did on the regular. Like he trusted Luke.
There are no words in Greek, Latin, or English to describe how screwed I am.
"Percy, young Luke has informed me that you woke up rather violently from a nightmare."
"Something like that."
"Your mother?"
". . .Something like that. It wasn't that bad."
"Bullshit. You were screaming your head off."
"Language, Luke. Perseus, is there anything you want to talk about?"
"No, sir. I'm fine."
"No," Percy said firmly. "What I could do is snowboard on that thing; fighting is another story. I'd just fall over and give Clarisse an easy victory."
"Without it, you'll probably just give her an easy victory anyway," Luke countered. "She'll be able to skewer you without even trying."
"I can take care of myself," Percy insisted, even as he realized how ridiculous that would sound to anyone who hadn't seen him fight in the original timeline or universe or whatever.
Luke glared at him. "Kid, I swear to Olympus, I will tape you to that shield if I have to."
"And I swear to Olympus, the millisecond you turn your back I'm gonna tear it off." Jaw set, Percy met him, tit for tat, even as he wondered at the changes already found just by existing, weaved through his new-ish life here.
After the Incident That Luke Is Never Ever Talking About If He Wants To Live This Time, things between him and Luke had gone from weird to weirder. Luke had gotten it into his head Percy needed help, somewhere and hadn't lost it yet. Sure, seeing as Clarisse was out for his head as usual and Annabeth still wasn't talking to him, Percy wasn't complaining, but it was unnerving beyond belief to casually banter with Luke "I hosted Kronos and it mostly worked with my plans" Castellan.
But already, things had permanently changed from it—for the better, Percy hoped.
During the sword fighting class, Luke had been somewhat kinder in pushing everyone, and had almost immediately offered private lessons to Percy after displaying a seemingly natural talent with a sword. Naturally gifted, my ass. Perk of getting to sixteen without dying.
More importantly, the ever-present bitterness that had accompanied Luke before he had left camp had nearly dissipated completely, as Percy deliberately poked and prodded at his knowledge of the gods whenever they were alone, feigning curiosity between jabs at possible parentage as a long-lost child of Athena. It had caused a few arguments Percy had forced himself to run screaming from, trying desperately to keep his mouth shut from spilling too much, but it had so far been worth it.
The anger was still there, but it was quickly becoming very obvious what parts were fanned by Kronos and what was genuinely Luke. Frustratingly, the latter was proving stubborn to deal with.
It would have been so much easier if Luke didn't have a point.
However, it had caused an unexpected side effect: as the Summer Solstice neared, and the skies darkened, Luke had become increasingly agitated, constantly jumping at the rumbles of thunder off in the distance, and crashes of waves against cliffs. The other day, he had even snapped at Annabeth, whose crush was worse than Percy had ever remembered it being.
Not that Percy had an opinion on it or anything. It was just a bit weird to be seeing with a couple years of actual perspective.
Sighing, Percy picked up the unbalanced sword he temporarily called his, an unexpected pang going through his chest at the thought of Riptide.
"Right," Annabeth called, disturbing Luke and Percy's argument and petulant staring contest. "Luke, you're in the advance guard. Percy, you're on border patrol by the river."
Because of course I am.
Percy began to trudge off to his post and round two with Clarisse and Lamer the First, but not before Luke called out to him again.
"Percy? Forgetting something?" The son of Hermes smirked as he offered the gargantuan shield to Percy.
Damn it.
"Flag's the other way," Percy said lightly, silently cursing out Luke and Annabeth.
Clarisse scowled threateningly at him, raising her spear as the other children of Ares hovered and looked absolutely gleeful at the prospect of beating up on Percy.
He was smarter than this, how did it always end like this?
Clarisse thrust Lamer the First forward without warning, and Percy rolled to the side on instinct, landing in a crouch and almost falling into the river. He raised his sword as Clarisse lunged again, hand wobbling slightly as he attempted to work with the imbalance.
He really could have used his own sword right now. Or even the gods-damned shield that he had promptly dumped the second he was out of sight of Luke.
Percy managed to deflect her blow, but not without getting a large dose of electricity in the process; he reflexively dropped his sword as his arm went numb, stumbling into the water. At his fall, the daughter of Ares gave an ugly chortle that was echoed by her cronies, Uglies Numbers One through Four.
"Not so tough without your body guard, huh?" she mocked. Percy resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he gasped for breath and stepped into the river.
"Wha—What are you talking about it? 'Sides, what would you call your goons, Clarisse?" Percy attempted to play for time, and silently willed the pain in his arm away, cradling it like it actually still hurt. Thankfully, Clarisse had yet to figure out the meaning of the word subtlety in this timeline.
"Luke Castellan." The sneer in her tone was as potent as Percy's urge to facepalm. Getting the attention of the son of Hermes had been a hell of a double-edged sword, to say the least. "He's far too interested in a wimp like you, Prissy."
Percy held up his hands. "Clarisse, last I checked, it's perfectly fine for you to ask him out yourself. I mean, it's not healthy for you to bottle up your feel—"
Before he finished, Percy was forced to duck as Clarisse wildly swung out her spear, stalking into the water and blind with rage—right, Chris. She was still in denial, if he remembered right. Nice job, Jackson—while her stooges didn't even bother to follow, laughing on the sidelines as he stumbled around like a newbie.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Recharged from the river swirling around him, Percy dashed for the sword. He lunged forward and briefly feinted to the left before swinging the other way, cutting Lamer Senior in two. Clarisse's eyes widened, but Percy didn't stop, turning his sword and swinging it back with both hands to hit her in the jaw with the flat of the blade.
Clarisse went down, clutching her face as she shrieked, "Get the punk!"
Uglies One and Two advanced, but he was ready for them, twisting his sword around to hit One in the chin with the pommel hard enough to hear the impact, and ducked Two's javelin flying through the air to hit them with the flat of the bronze blade, knocking their helmet clean off.
Percy kept his sword raised for the next attack, but surprisingly—or perhaps not—Stooges Three and Four were nowhere to be found. Percy turned to Clarisse, who briefly looked almost lost before she saw him staring, and her glare returned, more poisonous than ever.
"Got something to say, Jackson?" she spit.
And it would have been so easy for Percy to gloat. To say how even strength had to fail, how she shouldn't underestimate him again. In the previous timeline, Clarisse had even admitted that his taunts combined with such a stinging defeat had been what originally earned him her very grudging respect, considering him strong in his refusal to show weakness—read: being nice—to someone he defeated in freakin' Capture the Flag.
Except.
He also remembered her pride in the last timeline. How terrified she had looked at the prospect of her fall at his hands getting back to her ass of a father. How desperate she had been to make Ares proud.
Percy could empathize. Internally, he sighed. I'm gonna regret this in about. . .oh, thirty seconds?
Percy extended his hand.
When Clarisse just stared, he raised his eyebrows. "I already beat you. Just don't pull me down. I suspect there's a swirlie in my future anyway."
"Damn straight," Clarisse growled. "That spear was a gift."
But she took his hand, and pulled herself to her feet. While she didn't make any effort to keep him from falling, Percy wasn't yanked down either.
For a long moment, the two demigods stared at each other. Then, Clarisse stalked back to her team's side of the bank, and picked up her discarded shield; her goons, looking shell-shocked, followed suit.
"This," Clarisse gestured between herself and Percy. "Never happened. Got it, punk?"
"As long as you don't make another appointment with me and the toilets," Percy returned, pointing at her with his sword, the point wobbling ever-so-slightly. I hate this sword more than Medusa, the war, and Gabe's stink combined.
Clarisse nodded curtly. "I hope Chase kills you for letting the enemy go."
She and her goons ran off, leaving Percy standing in the river. As they disappeared into the trees, Percy relaxed, relieved they hadn't noticed the dampness of his clothes—or rather, the lack thereof. He walked to dry land in his team's territory, and went off to patrol in the general area he knew Luke would probably return in, when he heard an ominous growl.
He tilted his head back in exasperation. Now? Really? At least the Ares kids are gone this time.
"I don't suppose you could be Mrs. O'Leary?" Percy muttered, turning around slowly. From the shadows, another rumbling growl came, and Percy could see a pair of malicious red eyes gleaming.
Nope.
The thrice-damned hellhound suddenly leapt out of the shadows, and instinct kicked in as he dove forward, adrenaline flowing again. The dog, still the size of a rhinoceros, flew over his head to do a one-eighty as soon as it hit the ground, claws scrabbling for purchase. Against his better judgment, Percy charged forward, sword pointed forward similar to the lance of a jouster.
The monster gladly ran at him, displaying his sharp fangs and far quicker than anything its size had a right to be. At the last moment of the round of chicken, Percy dropped as the hound leapt, sliding into the metaphorical home plate. Percy swung up wildly, once, then twice, hitting flesh, before rolling to the side as quickly as he could.
But not quite quickly enough. Even as the creature fell, its claws still pierced his side, ripping the armor there to shreds. Percy grimaced as hot pain lanced up his side, dropping his sword back into the river on reflex.
Thankfully, at that moment, Luke came racing across the river, flanked by the Stolls and a couple Apollo kids as he waved a banner painted with Ares's colors and sacred animal high above his head. Clarisse and the rest of her team were in hot pursuit, but weren't quite fast enough as the banner exploded into silver when it crossed the river, an owl replacing the boar. Cheers erupted from Percy's team as they converged on Luke to raise him up on their shoulders.
Luke's own triumphant grin, however, faded when his eyes landed on Percy.
"Percy!" He launched himself off of his teammates, and yelled for Chiron as he made for the younger camper. As he ran to Percy, he carelessly dropped the banner.
Percy felt a little bit touched, really.
"Shield. . .wouldn't have helped," he managed, giving Luke a pained grin, even as he staggered into the river, seemingly by accident. Luke quickly darted forward, slipping his arm carefully under his shoulders.
"Shut up and focus on breathing," Luke ordered as he attempted to drag Percy out of the water. Percy, for his part, acted like he was dead weight, waiting for himself to heal. Chiron trotted up to the pair with Grover behind him, both of their faces grim.
"Di Immortales," Grover yelped as he helped Luke support Percy. "Is that a hellhound?"
Chiron didn't respond, his eyes locked on Percy's side, which was beginning to tingle with a familiar sense of healing.
"Luke, Grover, let him go," the centaur advised.
Luke glanced up at him, his face disbelieving. "Chiron, he's bleeding to de—"
"Luke, look at him."
"Perce," Grover began nervously. "Why, exactly, is your side healing over?"
Show time.
With a false look of shock, Percy looked down, and back up at Chiron, whose face was grim. Luke's face was pale, and he promptly staggered away from Percy, mouthing a single word over and over again as he stared at Percy's side, seemingly willing it to do. . .something.
Grover just looked uncomprehending at his best friend, and Percy couldn't blame him. Behind the centaur, both teams of campers were nearly silent, some pointing at him, at the river, and back again; Percy had to work to not roll his eyes and instead project a whole lot of confusion.
The whispers flared up when the hologram of a trident flickered into being above his head. Percy tilted his head back, watching with fascination as it faded.
"It is determined," Chiron declared. "Your father has claimed you."
"Wait, my father?" Percy exclaimed, the bewilderment perhaps a tad exaggerated as he noted Annabeth looking at him suspiciously. Under his breath, he added with a fair dose of sarcasm, "Say it ain't so."
Grover snorted, even as he shot Percy a worried look. Chiron, oblivious to the interplay, continued.
"Poseidon, your father," the centaur intoned. "Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God. "
Here we go again.
Below the son of Poseidon, below even his uncle's realm and the lands of the dead, something stirred in the darkness, where even the gods feared to walk.
The Lord of Time smiled.
Chapter 4: Where Nothing Going Wrong Is a Bad Thing
Notes:
Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, swearing.
Chapter Text
"I have a bad feeling about this."
-Everyone, Star Wars
"Just to make sure I have everything straight, Perseus: After coming back in time with your memories, you are about to repeat a quest with the fate of Olympus—nay, the entire world, if what you say about the scale of these wars is true—at stake where you are not going to change anything? "
Triton was incredulous, and Percy couldn't blame him. Somewhat. Triton was still forcing Percy to let him pretend to be involved, so he didn't have much sympathy to spare in the first place.
At first glance, it did seem to be a bad idea. Actually, it was probably a bad idea. But all of his other ideas were worse, so the probably-bad-with-a-slight-chance-of-all-right one was what he was sticking with.
"Look, there are several things that if we don't deal with, will come back to kill us in horrible ways later. Also, I'm not keeping everything the same."
"Right," Triton continued to fume. Percy fought not to roll his eyes. "How could I forget—you're going to unleash Hades's spawn on the world earlier than necessary."
"I'm not unleashing Nico and Bianca earlier than necessary," Percy groused irritably. How many times had they been over this? "If I get them out now, they won't be left alone where anyone could find them, and there's a better chance of Bianca not dying while fighting Talos or even being there at all since they can learn how to use their powers earlier."
He still couldn't believe he'd actually remembered the name of the giant robot in the desert. Or that Triton insisted on being such an ass about Bianca and Nico. The prophecy, not that it mattered at all, was a non-issue, and he owed both of them so much that he couldn't leave them alone. Besides, they were family.
"But the eldest, Bertha—" Triton insisted.
"Bianca."
"Beth—she is younger than you, correct?" The look on Triton's face promised the godly equivalent of a headlock until Percy changed his mind if the answer was no. Thankfully, he was pretty sure there would be no need for a fight.
"She was barely eleven when they went into the Casino, I think."
"And remind me why I simply cannot take them out?"
"Because they don't know you, and I wouldn't be surprised if the Furies—" He ignored the hissing from Triton. By this point, he and Mrs. Dodds were like old friends, even if she didn't remember. "—showed up to protect them from you."
Or if Nico judged him based upon his Mythomagic card. If Triton had one, that was; did he have one, Percy wondered?
Triton gazed at Percy before letting an annoyed huff that let Percy know he'd won. "Is there any other half-baked plan of yours I should know about before letting you run off on this ill-conceived notion of Chiron's?"
"Seeing as you're not my mother, no," Percy chirped, "But as my highly infuriating half-brother, I will give you the list of expected monsters and traps we will most likely encounter, just in case."
Accordingly, he handed Triton the "list", a ripped-out piece of paper from the black journal that he figured would make Triton happy.
New Jersey: Take care of Aunty M, try not to fight Furies?
St. Louis: Avoid Arch w/Echidna, Chimera.
Las Vegas: Try not to provoke god of war, get di Angelos out, keep track of time.
Los Angeles: Procrustes; get Mom back, try not to fight Clarisse's dad.
It was mostly how the past couple evenings had gone, really: Triton showed up to yell at Percy, Percy yelled back, and they kept yelling until either Triton went off to sulk with the best of them or Percy ripped some note out of the journal to pacify his ridiculous half-brother.
They also planned once in a while, and had agreed completely on things exactly zero times.
Triton, in a surprisingly human gesture, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perseus, please tell me 'Aunty M' is not some strange pseudonym for Medusa, and that you have no intention of picking a fight with my half-wit cousin."
"Aunty M is not some strange pseudonym for Medusa and I have no intention of picking a fight with your half-wit cousin," Percy dutifully parroted. Inwardly, he fought a smile. He'd never heard the half-wit cousin line before.
Triton bit back something undoubtedly very creative in Greek, before turning around and abruptly extending a box out of nowhere to Percy. "Here. If Chiron does not give you Anaklusmos, this should provide you an advantage; I would not recommend letting the daughter of Athena see it."
Percy cautiously took the wooden box and cracked it open like something was about to leap out and bit him. Then part of what Triton had said registered. "Wait—how d'you know about Riptide?"
Triton smirked. "I am a god, Perseus. I know many things."
Percy ran the sentence through his Triton-to-Normal-People-English translator. "You stole my notebook again while I was asleep."
"Perhaps. I am a god, after all."
"A minor one," he muttered vindictively. He peered inside the container, only to find a miniature bronze trident, strung onto a necklace of black cord.
"Not really my style, Sebastian," Percy wondered out loud, even as he put it around his neck. "Mind sharing with the class?"
"Must everything be spelled out to you?" Triton implored, before explaining in a slow voice normally reserved for toddlers, "It is enchanted. When you are in battle, you can pull it off, and it will enlarge into the real article—with adjustments made for your height as you grow, hopefully."
"I'll have you know I am a perfectly normal height for my age. You're the one that's freakishly tall."
"Of course you are, brother," Triton soothed. "Now, settle into your preferred sword-fighting stance."
"Is this the part where you tell me everything I've been doing wrong, ever?" Percy snarked, despite rolling his weight back onto his heels and taking the weapon out from around his neck at the same time, stumbling backwards on instinct as it suddenly extended.
Percy waved the bronze trident around a little. The sharp points gleamed in the dying light, and it sat well in his hands.
He had to admit it was a little cool. Not out loud or anything, but Triton was already looking too smug about it.
"Fine, it's neat," Percy admitted, "But if you're about to lecture me about my mistakes as a disappointment to Dad and your mother, this isn't going to end well."
As always, that made Triton's blood pressure visibly rise.
"No, idiot brother of mine," he gritted out, "Instead, I am going to show you how to modify your stance when wielding a trident so that you don't impale yourself the first time you try to use it in battle."
Percy raised his eyebrows. "What happened to all that nonsense about me being 'naturally talented' as a son of Poseidon?"
"I said naturally talented as a child of the Big Three," Triton retorted. "I never said it would cancel out your naturally idiotic as you tendencies. Now, give me your best shot."
Percy took in his half-brother's relaxed posture and cocky grin with no small amount of trepidation, before debating whether running really was the better part of valor after all. Whatever happened to not picking fights with immortals?
Two hours and— so damn many, gods above, why —bruises later, Percy was stumbling back to his cabin when his ex-girlfriend almost got the drop on him.
That is, she would have, if Percy hadn't retained an awareness and reflexes honed by two wars and motherfucking Tartarus— and bad idea to go there, Jackson.
She attempted to pin him against the wall of Cabin Two only for her to have her own move reversed to have them in the opposite position. But Percy quickly relaxed his grip on Annabeth, letting her go—to be honest, he dropped her like she was radioactive, afraid of acting too familiar with her.
Percy did take the precaution of confiscating her knife.
"What the hell, Annabeth?" he hissed. The last thing either of them needed was rousing half the camp and having to explain why they were out after hours with knives at each other's throats.
"Did you steal the Master Bolt?" she hissed right back.
At Annabeth's question, Percy's jaw dropped. "What? N—What's the Master Bolt?"
Annabeth stepped right up to him, her eyes stormy. "You know what it is, Jackson. I know you weren't nearly as surprised by your claiming as the rest of us, and you defeated Clarisse without breaking a sweat, and nearly had a panic attack the first time you woke up at the Big House, which is very interesting considering you claimed to have a normal life before this. You know something about what's going on, so 'fess up before I yell for Chiron."
As she finished ticking off the facts, Percy internally sighed. He needed to work on his acting.
And holy Hades. He always forgot how good she was at this.
For a long moment, his mind whirled as he tried to figure out how to bullshit his way through this. There was no way he was willingly telling her the truth, and even if he did, no one had the time—or the margin for error—for him to prove it if he did.
Then the obvious answer hit him. "Mrs. Dodds mentioned it."
The blonde' anger faded a little at the odd statement. "Mrs. who? "
A brief smirk crossed his face. He'd understood none of the book when forced to read it in school, but he remembered enough to probably defuse Annabeth's rage a little more. "Not her. Or Mrs. Whatsit or Mrs. Which."
" You read A Wrinkle in Time? "
Percy gave a self-deprecating shrug at her shock. More like, it was inflicted on me; stupid English classes.
But all that did was remind him of Paul, and he felt his smile warp into a grimace. "The three ladies are all I remember, so don't get impressed. Mrs. Dodds was my math teacher who tried to kill me."
Annabeth tilted her head, "And. . ."
"And she accused me of stealing something called the Master Bolt. It's not good, clearly."
Close enough. The daughter of Athena snorted at the understatement, but the suspicion was still lingering beneath the surface. "Then you won't mind me coming on a quest with you. To make sure this 'not good' doesn't happen and that you aren't really the thief."
At the statement, Percy started as much out of surprise than acting skills. Last time, she had come on the quest out of a desire to leave camp and save the world; now, she plain didn't trust him. I'm pretty sure this is what Paul would have called irony. Probably.
"And if I do?"
Annabeth gave him a deceptively sweet smile. "Then I take my suspicions to Mister D and Chiron."
Percy raked his fingers through his hair in frustration but couldn't come up with another option right then.
". . .Okay. You can come along if you want." He began to walk back to Cabin Three, Annabeth still right on his heels. She nearly slammed into him when Percy suddenly turned back around.
"Our parents don't get along, do they?" he said lightly.
"What tipped you off, Seaweed Brain?"
At the familiar moniker spit out as an insult, it took everything for Percy to not give a visceral reaction. "Oh, I don't know. Death threats are probably what tipped me off—"
"Don't be silly, if I wanted you dead, you would know it—"
"Is there a particular reason you're so suspicious of me?" Percy demanded. "Or do you like to terrorize me?"
"I told you," Annabeth retorted. "You've been acting suspiciously, and with everything going on—"
"Or maybe," Percy interrupted heatedly. "It has something to do with the fact I found out a week ago I'm the son of some god who can't keep it in his pants, and my mom was taken by the freaking Lord of the Dead, and that I've been in more danger the past couple of days than I've ever been in the last twelve years."
"Don't be silly, you've always been in that danger, same as the rest of us, it's normal—"
"Well, it wasn't for me!"
In the heat of the fight, the son of Poseidon couldn't help but feel like he was twelve again: angry, afraid, and in desperate need of someone who would just listen. "I had a normal life, Annabeth. It wasn't perfect, but I had a normal life with a mom I love and awesome best friend. Now, I've been thrust into this world where I have no idea what's going on, and everyone's expecting something that they won't tell me about, but are just fine with killing me over it."
Annabeth stepped back, her eyes wide and hurt, giving Percy a blessed moment to regain his equilibrium.
Because