The dojo was silent.

It made Percy's hackles raise and put his senses on edge, strange as it was. Camp Half-Blood, that bustling disarray of buildings now crumbling on the East Coast, had never been silent. Not once, in those long, blood-stained decades he'd spent wandering those dirty paths, had it been as silent as this.

Camp Half-Blood followed the flame of the gods, but it seemed that what followed was not always Camp Half-Blood. This dojo was a pale shadow of its grandeur, larger and safer perhaps, but it would never amount to much more.

He sighed softly, bright mist escaping his lips as he paused at the edge of the magical border. The dojo rose from the soft earth ahead of him, down a well-weathered road into a small, insignificant valley in Japan's endless forests. Fumetsu Dojo was a small, stout building, only two stories high and not much wider. The wooden structure was getting on in years, though, held together by nothing but splintered wood and fervent prayers.

At least, that's what it looked like – mortals would come sometimes, some to gawk at the establishment that had raised some of the best Heroes of all time, others to insist that their own children be taken in and trained.

Fools. Ambitious and proud, but fools nonetheless. They didn't know what lay inside those hallowed walls.

Neither did Percy, anymore. Once upon a time, it was happiness and joy and content and love. Another time, it had held hate and despair, shame and anger. Now? Well, he'd have to find out.

And the first step was seeing what it had evolved into, whilst he was… away.

As he tore through the mist, the pure power of Thalia's border still resisting this many years later, Percy's eyes widened imperceptibly as the tall trees disappeared with a soft shimmer.

The true camp was beautiful.

Hiding in plain sight, nothing but a simple and unbreakable touch of glamour to camouflage them was an entire village – no, he'd hesitate to call it a village. Perhaps a town would be more apt.

There were hundreds of traditional houses, stretched across the valley – no longer reserved for the children of gods, but for entire families, generations living and dying and living within. Shops and fields for training and a shining blue lake, it was eerily familiar, almost a haphazard mix of the original two camps.

And the offerings – Perseus could feel more than one incense burner left alight for him inside, even now. He relished the smell, sniffing the air and taking in the familiar, heart-wrenching scents: blue cookies and hot cocoa, ozone and hay and stables, sea foam and old, old books.

Perhaps he had neglected his duties for too long. It had been years since he'd indulged in the gifts left out for him.

Tall, metallic buildings topped with bronze and gold statues dotted the paths, more than he could count, and a soft smile graced his face. Shrines, far too many to count, for gods both ancient and recent, and even more still being built, no doubt.

Jason would have been proud, he decided, as he stepped through the barrier and made his way down the road. He kept a close eye on the little town as he walked, a melancholy gaze roving through the cobbled streets, tracing their dark, eerily empty paths.

He was no longer a demigod. This was not his home, not anymore.

But the pangs in his chest cannot be avoided. While the silent town is nothing like his memories, it's something, at least. Something that he's missed.

With a soft buzz, the lights in the dojo flickered on, drawing his attention, and suddenly the bottom floor of the forgotten dojo was awash in a warm, golden glow. Percy bit back a curse.

He and Chiron… had not separated on the best of terms.

That was an understatement. Still, it was about time that Percy did his duty – he's spent long enough on his own.

It was time he returned.


"I honestly don't know what to say."

The centaur turned to him, and Percy bowed his head slightly. He may be centuries older, but he was none wiser. His old mentor's disappointed voice was still the worst punishment he could ever receive.

He took a quiet sip of his tea in lieu of responding, savouring the harsh taste. Chiron definitely didn't make good tea, but Percy had missed it anyways.

Chiron plopped over towards Percy, the white fur of his horse half peeking out under a pink blanket with unicorn designs that he magnanimously ignored. Chiron was obviously getting ready for bed when Percy had arrived, from his half-lidded eyes and well, the pink curlers still in his hair.

Chiron narrowed his eyes, getting comfortable across from him. Percy was kneeled on a tatami mat in the quiet room, his teacup in his hand.

"What are you even planning, Percy?" he asked suddenly, resting his head in both his hands, rubbing his forehead with his thumbs.

Percy blinked. "Nothing." He replied, but his voice was a bit more forceful than necessary.

Was it really that hard to believe that he just adopted a child out of the good of his heart?

He thought back, memories of some of the things he'd done in his past rising, and he quickly rescinded that silent rhetorical question.

"Nothing," Chiron repeated, staring at him.

His eyes were as old as ever. But, with every passing day, their indecipherable depths became easier to understand. Those ancient brown pools, so full of knowledge and sorrow had become more and more familiar to him as time passed.

He wondered what his own eyes looked like, these days. It wasn't like he put much thought into his mortal form – he just looked as he would have if he were in his late thirties.

He shook his head, coming back to his senses. Chiron was still staring at him, not saying a word.

"Well, yeah, nothing. What do you expect, like I'm gonna get him involved in a prophecy or something? I- I just made a snap decision, and it's too late to change anything." He blustered out, gripping the teacup harder than he should. The ceramic would shatter, soon. Huffing, he relaxed his hand and trained his eyes down at the ground. His eyes trained on Chiron's hooves, as he shuffled them from side to side. This wasn't exactly the reunion he'd envisioned. Short and stilted conversations, a quiet aura of judgement following him at every moment – no, this wasn't how he wanted to meet his mentor, but when had Percy ever been good at thinking things through?

He hasn't even apologized for the past – he's just barged in, and expected Chiron to help him as he's always done. To Hades with it. If Percy was in Chiron's place he wouldn't have even let himself in the door. He doesn't deserve this, and he knows it.

Chiron watched him panic for another moment, before letting out a short, weary breath. Well, at the very least, Percy could still tire Chiron out in less than ten minutes. He thinks this is a new record.

It isn't something he's proud of; not anymore.

"Okay." Chiron says, picking up his own tea cup and downing the scalding liquid in one gulp. "Okay. Percy. That's… nice, I suppose. Why did you come here, then?" he asked, setting the cup back on the table.

Percy can tell from his tone that he's not being accusing, that he's trying not to be angry at him, but… it still hurts.

Why is he here? He's here because he wanted advice on raising a child.

He doesn't think that's the question Chiron wanted him to answer.

Percy's here for Izuku, and because of Izuku. Without him, he doesn't think he'd have ever returned to Chiron, to Camp Half-Blood - but he's decided that he needs to help Izuku.

If that means pushing through his own shame and despair, then by Zeus, he would do it. If that means apologizing to those he's wronged, he would do it, even though he should have done it years ago.

"I – Chiron." He starts, looking up to look his mentor in the eye, making up his mind. As a centaur, the man towered over him as he sat, but unlike every other immortal, he had never felt small with him.

"Chiron," he says again, and he hopes that the man can feel the love, respect, reverence poured into his name. It's not enough, not for the one person who'd never left him.

"I'm sorry."

Chiron tilts his head, and he watches him with narrowed eyes. It's a silent invitation to continue, because two empty words, a quiet apology, means nothing to two gods with centuries of deaths trailing behind them.

So he starts talking, and he doesn't stop.

"I – I shouldn't have done that whole thing with their reincarnations, and I shouldn't have fought with her, and I'm sorry about Camp, and I shouldn't have turned out like this, why didn't I refuse," he breathes out, in, out, in, focusing on the actual problems instead of berating himself. It doesn't get easier. "I – I can't – I'm sorry I ran and I'm sorry about Reyna and Jason and An-Annabeth, I'm sorry, I-"

He has so much more to say, so much more to apologize for, but he's cut off suddenly by a calloused hand grabbing his shoulder. Without a word, Chiron pulls him up and into a tight, suffocating hug.

Percy might be surprised, and he might think he doesn't deserve it, but he still melts into the hug, relaxing as a weight is lifted off his shoulders and he can breathe again – whatever Poseidon thinks and says, Chiron was more of a father to him than he ever was.

Because here is a man who knows what he's done, who knows what he's suffered, who knows for what, but Chiron doesn't hate him for it. And nor does he praise him, as the other gods do, with joyous conversations and calls to drink, for every 'milestone' in his godhood.

Chiron whispers soft, nonsensical reassurances into his ears as Percy fights the urge to break down and just sob into his mentor-father-figure's shoulders. Unfortunately, Percy wins that fight for once, and he pulls back out of Chiron's grasp, his eyes dry but fingers twitching.

He looks up, and Chiron's eyes bore into him still, but they're softer now. The skin around his eyes is crinkled as he smiles softly at him, and Percy can hear the wind whistling through pine trees on an island an ocean away.

"Percy," he begins, before pausing and taking a deep breath. "Son, I've already forgived you, but there isn't anything for me to forgive." Percy pushes down his tears and the words rising in his throat yet again, and breathes again, in, out, in, out, until his emotions even out.

"I – I am still sorry, Chiron." He says, bowing slightly to him. The old man, a mountain of experience next to his molehill, shakes his head, his hand still on Percy's shoulder, gripping tightly.

"You should be," he says after a moment, his voice suddenly sharp as he peers at him over his glasses with furrowed eyebrows. "There are many who are ready to forgive you, and others who are not. But still, what forgiveness I can offer you pales when you have yet to apologize to those you've actually harmed."

Percy pales. "Chiron. I – They're all dead." He's not – he's apologized to him, hasn't he? Is that not enough?

Chiron fixes him with an unimpressed stare. "You've been to Elysium before, son."

Percy breathes. Yes, he had. He had been to that golden city, in the depths of the underworld. He preferred not to go to the underworld, especially after the Second Gigantomachy, but he'd been to Elysium more than his fair share of times.

He'd spoken to Frank and Hazel, the couple content to remain in Elysium after their first life, no rebirth for them.

He'd spoken to Bianca in all of her lives, each more tragic than the last, and wiped away stubborn tears as she made her way to the Isles of Blest. To where gods didn't follow.

He'd argued with Leo and shouted at Jason, he'd fought with Clarisse and cried into Beckendorf's shoulder. Once upon a time, he'd laughed with the Stolls and reminisced with the Solace-Angelo's. Not anymore.

He'd spoken to Luke and Annabeth… at times, too. Not often. It usually devolved into a screaming match each time. Especially after his involvement in their second lives.

It wasn't his right, anymore – and besides, they were probably in the Isles of Blest, by now.

He'd had to have missed their third lives, while he sulked like a petulant child in America. It may have been recovery, a period of time where he just had to be alone, but that's certainly what it felt like.

So, yes, Percy's been to Elysium before, and he's failed everyone inside one way or another – the only demigods there he's still on good terms with are Frank and Hazel, maybe Jason, and even those relationships are rocky and strained.

Apologizing to them is a much more daunting task than apologizing to Chiron seemed, because the love they might have once had, the friendships they'd formed, are long, long gone.

Why not, though? Why couldn't he rekindle those soft, dying embers, back into the bright blaze they'd once enjoyed? Some friendships transcended death and life. If he wanted, he could. Why didn't he?

Well, he knew why – he was scared. The god of loyalty, and he was scared of his once-friends.

Chiron's hand pulled his chin up to look him in the face, jolting him out of his thoughts. His caramel eyes looked down at him, steel in their kind gaze. "Promise me you'll try, Percy."

Choking back any words he might've said instead, he nodded slowly.

Percy had broken too many promises in his short life. At the very least, he wouldn't break this one. He'd go… just not anytime soon.

Chiron nodded at him, before clopping away, setting to making another pot of tea in the corner of the little room.

"Now, tell me son, how old is this child? Mortals change drastically over their earliest years, I'm sure you remember."


Chiron had a lot of good information. It was to be expected; after all, the man had to have raised hundreds of thousands of demigods by now.

He hadn't really approved of him wanting to train Izuku to be a Hero. Percy understood why, though he disagreed. Chiron just didn't want to see any children forced to fight in wars that weren't theirs anymore. Especially those without any power to protect them.

Chiron had questioned why he hadn't just blessed the child, granted him a modicum of control over water, and went on his way.

He didn't really know, actually. Maybe he already knew his little star was destined for greatness – he didn't want to interfere any more in his destiny than was necessary. Izuku was going to great things, and he knew that he didn't need a quirk to do it.

Although, maybe a small blessing to keep him safe would be appreciated. Some form of self-healing, he should ask Apollo to grant it. With Izuku's permission, of course.

That was for later, though. There were still things he had to do, here.

Chiron had walked with him through the streets of Camp Half-Blood, ushering him through a door in the back of the dojo.

It wasn't Camp Half-Blood anymore. Chiron had called it Fumetsu, a small town named for the dojo. Two thousand people resided in these dozens of intricate, panelled houses, lanterns hanging outside every house.

The cobblestone paths were cool against their feet, a warm, inviting air in the town, but there wasn't a soul to be seen or a breath to be heard. It felt more like a ghost town than the unshakable sanctuary of half-bloods.

Chiron didn't explain, and he didn't ask.

They walked through the town, speaking quietly, and Percy hung onto every piece of advice Chiron gave him. But as they stalked the dark streets, exchanging soft words, he had a feeling that Chiron had a destination in mind, and an ulterior motive.

He was proven right when the centaur stopped suddenly in a small square, the detailed cobblestone carvings curving a diamond around a massive willow tree. The leaves fluttered in the wind, a soft whoosh trailing through the streets the only sound as Percy turned to look around him.

Just a few dark houses, all as quiet as the night was. But Percy knows why he's here – or rather, who's here.

Chiron placed his hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. His eyes turned down to look at him, full of grief and sadness, and a tear slipped out from behind his spectacles.

"Well, son, the Lord of the Wild's been missing you, no doubt. Say hello." He said softly, before turning and walking away, his hooves clicking against the stone. Just before he turned a corner, he turned back and said, "Do visit more often, Percy. I've missed you." Percy raised a hand in acceptance, not looking at him.

Percy's eyes were for the gnarled and ancient tree only, as he stepped forward, his throat constricting.

His palm grazes the ridged bark, and there's no spark of remembrance, no instant communication, not even a flutter of recognition. He doesn't know what he expected – reincarnation doesn't bring memories alongside it.

Still, he pulls closer slowly, knocking his forehead against the trunk of the tree, feeling the life and soul running through it.

A willow tree. How apt. Willing to bend, but never to break - it fits him to the dot.

Choking up, he began to speak, whispering out softly.

"Hey, G-man."

The willow tree did not respond. Percy slumped forwards, until he was kneeling against the tree, stubborn tears leaking out of his eyes.

Pathetic, wasn't he.

No. No, mourning is good. This wasn't pathetic – crying didn't make him weak. Grover was one of his best and only friends. If there was anyone he could cry in front of, it was him. And he just knows that if he was here, he'd be telling him there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Maybe if he repeated it enough, he'd believe it.

Sniffling, he shifted until he was sat with his back to the tree, and he stared down at his hand, as a leaf fluttered down into his palm.

He closed his fist, keeping the leaf safe in his palm, before shutting his eyes and getting comfortable against the hard wood.

"It's been a while, G-man. It's – it's been a while." He said, feeling for the slumbering, achingly familiar spirit in the wood. Let him sleep, he decided.

His old friend would hear him anyways.

So he began to speak.

He spoke about everything that had happened in the century since his friend's death.

He spoke, without stopping, even as his throat turned parched and his voice turned hoarse and the sun rose, he still spoke, about everything and anything he could. All the things he couldn't speak of, wouldn't speak of to anyone else, all his worries and fears, he lay bare, and he knew that Grover could hear him.

Perhaps the soul in the willow tree wouldn't understand why the god of loyalty was visiting his humble abode. Perhaps what was once Grover was long gone. Perhaps he was chasing a friendship that had been extinguished centuries ago. Percy didn't care, much.

To him, it was still his best friend, and sitting there, talking about old stories, laughing softly at jokes of a dam that still ran or crying for friends long gone, he was struck with memories of a short teen who'd been by his side for everything, who'd never disparaged his decisions, who'd never been afraid of him.

The least he could do was be by his side, in his second life.

So Percy talked, reminding him of their crazy adventures that had become myths and legends in this day and age.

He spoke of those who'd followed him into them, the people they'd lost, the people they'd loved, and he did not stop. He spoke of his mistakes, and he did not stop. He spoke of a green haired boy who'd lost too much, and he did not stop, not even when his eyes filled with tears and sobs wracked his body. Not when the memories became too much, and his voice turned low and rough, filled with too many emotions to name, he didn't stop.

He had too much to make up for. He had too much to say, too much to apologize for. But this was a start, at least. And now that he had begun, he would not stop.

Fumetsu awoke softly and quietly, but everyone knew that a god had visited in the night.

Perhaps the air scented impossibly with bittersweet reunions was a sign. Maybe it was the soft breeze that carded through the streets, bringing with it a quiet, barely audible sound of the happy laughter of people who'd left earth years ago.

Maybe it was the fact that many of them had woken up without a scream tearing out of their throats or tears soaking their cheeks, for the first time in too many years. Or perchance, some noticed their old injuries, bones that never healed and ears still ringing, were aching just a little less that morning.

A god had returned, but few knew he had ever left. His vigil was done, his pain pushed down and forgotten – he had a son to protect, now. There was no time for anything else.

The past was the past, and nothing could change it. He'd face it with every day he continued living. He faced it with every breath he took, every tear, every drop of golden blood, until one day he could stand straight and proudly say, 'this wasn't a mistake'.