5. Scar
Percy said it was to keep people from bothering him. After all, where was a better place for the son of Poseidon to catch some peace and quiet than at the bottom of a lake?
Poseidon knew it was only a partial truth. Sometimes Percy did retreat to the tranquility of his shores when the demigods were being particularly irksome (like when the son of Hephaestus blew up one too many things or the son of Jupiter's ego eroded at Percy's admittedly short temper)—and Percy would escape to the tranquility of his father' domain. That happened.
It wasn't the only thing that happened.
Some days, it was the noise; the clashing of swords, the twang of arrows loosened from their notches, the flap of pegasus's wings as the beasts took to the skies, boisterous, unbridled laughter bouncing around the pavilion that pressed around him, too loud, too full of memories, too much, just too much.
Some days it was colors; the blue of innocent eyes that unabashedly followed his every move, the steady brown of trusting hands reaching out to touch, to clasp, to shake, the red stains that never washed out even after their vibrancy faded, the gray threat of loss that faithfully walked beside him, the empty green that stared out of the mirror.
Some days it was nothing at all; the absence of sound, the mundane cadence of routine, the coolness of sheets against sweat sleek skin and screams swallowed before fruition.
Poseidon knew he would cradle his son beneath his waves those nights. Sometimes he stayed for but a moment. Sometimes he stayed for hours. Poseidon couldn't help selfishly enjoying the days he stayed entire nights and it looked like today was one such night. Percy sank below his waves three hours ago. He probably wouldn't leave until the morning's light. Two hours ago he entertained the hippocampus that nuzzled and nipped with affection but the great seahorses had settled in as the sun's light disappeared from the lake's floor and Percy followed their lead. The son of Poseidon laid on his side, nestled into the soft silk of the mudded lake floor. One arm served as his pillow, a stray chunk of rolled up seaweed nestled in the crook for comfort. His chest rose and fell in tandem with the current of the lake. Poseidon took great satisfaction in Percy's ease, the safety he took from his father's domain that the land couldn't afford (not even the faithful gray that stayed ever by his side). Percy couldn't sleep on land, but here under his father's eye, he felt safe enough to slumber.
The current swirled around Percy, urged gently on by the god halfway across the world. It swirled protectively around his son's frame, caressing the gentle slope of his peaceful face. The movement shifted the weary hero, not enough to wake him but enough to cause his shirt to ride up. Poseidon sighed as the fabric pulled away to reveal the scarred skin underneath. The shallow remains of claw marks marred his son's ribs, an ugly, jagged outline of a faded javelin wound blemished the skin of his lower back, perfectly straight lines from the bite of a sword across his hip; times when ambrosia hadn't been administered fast enough, the ocean too far to prevent the stains.
Oh my son, Poseidon thought heavily.
Part of him wanted to reach out and shake the shirt back into place, to cover the reminder of his son's pain . . . of his failure to protect his own.
Poseidon left it be.
He deserved the reminder.
Percy shifted in his sleep, brow puckering. Perhaps he felt his father's churning emotions. Sleep, Poseidon assured him, cocooning the lake comfortingly around the child. Just sleep, my son.
Percy slept.
Up next: Self-Inflicted