Please people read my AN about answering questions.
Perseus stood before the Olympian Council, their divine gazes weighing down on him like the weight of the sky itself. The golden chamber was vast, its pillars stretching toward an endless firmament, the air thick with power and expectation.
Seated upon their thrones were the gods, some watching in curiosity, others in scrutiny. Hermes stood off to the side, arms crossed in a relaxed stance, though his sharp gaze never left the proceedings. Athena sat upright, her grey eyes unreadable, though Perseus could sense the tension in her shoulders—uncertainty, perhaps, or something else.
Zeus was the first to speak.
"You are far too powerful for a demigod." His voice rumbled through the chamber like distant thunder. His electric blue eyes bore into Perseus, studying him, analyzing every ounce of his existence. "Not even Heracles, not even my greatest sons, have displayed what you did on that battlefield."
A murmur rippled through the council. Dionysus, seated lazily on his throne, lifted an eyebrow. He had been silent thus far, but the mention of Perseus' power being greater than his own made him shift uncomfortably.
Apollo, on the other hand, leaned forward, golden eyes gleaming with interest. "A demigod should not be able to do what you did," he mused. "Yet, there you stood, withstanding the power of six Olympians. You did not just survive, you pushed back."
Perseus met Apollo's gaze evenly. He had always been curious about his own divinity—the strange pull of the sun's energy, the way light and fire responded to him in a way that it did to no other. Apollo, being a god of the sun and light, would likely have insight into his nature. He made a note to speak with him later.
"I am not just a demigod," Perseus finally said, his voice steady. "I am something new. Something that has never existed before."
Zeus' frown deepened. "Explain."
Perseus inhaled. "My mother, Rhodes, was the daughter of my grandfather, Poseidon. She was a nymph, but also something more. My father, Helios, was a Titan, a god of the sun. Their union created something—me." He met Zeus' gaze unflinchingly. "I am a fusion of Olympian and Titan, sea and sky, light and storm."
Apollo tilted his head, clearly intrigued. "A child of the sun and the sea…" he murmured. "Your connection to light, to divine energy—it makes sense now. Your very essence is attuned to it."
Perseus merely gave a curt nod. He had always wondered about the advantages of his heritage, and now that he had the gods' attention, he might finally get some answers.
But before he could say another word, the chamber doors burst open with a crash.
A familiar voice boomed through the hall.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"
Poseidon.
His grandfather's presence filled the chamber like a tidal wave, his voice a deep rumble of restrained fury. He strode forward, trident in hand, his stormy green eyes alight with barely contained rage. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, thick with the scent of salt and brine, the power of the sea coiling around him like an oncoming tempest.
"I leave for a few weeks," Poseidon began, his voice low but carrying through the hall, "and return to find my grandson standing alone before the entire Olympian Council? On trial?" His gaze swept across the gathered gods before settling on Zeus, burning with accusation. "He has committed no crime, caused no disorder—so tell me, brother, why is he here?"
Zeus remained seated, his expression unreadable save for the faintest flicker of amusement in his storm-bright eyes. The crackling energy surrounding him flared subtly, a counterbalance to Poseidon's rising fury.
"Peace, brother," Zeus said, his voice calm but firm, a king addressing an equal. "Your grandson is not on trial." He gestured toward Perseus, his gaze sharp. "He merely drew the interest of the council by withstanding the combined force of six Olympians… and emerging unscathed."
A murmur rippled through the gathered deities. Even among gods, such a feat was unheard of.
Poseidon's glare did not waver, but something else flickered beneath the surface of his stormy gaze—pride. His grandson had not merely survived but had triumphed against the might of the gods themselves.
Still, his grip on his trident tightened.
"The council has taken interest in him?" Poseidon's voice was dangerously low, the waves of his power cresting ever higher. "And what, exactly, does the council intend to do with that interest?"
Zeus held Poseidon's gaze, the tension between the two kings of the cosmos crackling like a brewing storm. The council chamber, once filled with murmurs and whispers, fell into a tense silence. No one dared speak between the two most powerful gods.
It was Athena who finally broke it.
"We intend nothing, Lord Poseidon," she said carefully, stepping forward. Her storm-gray eyes flickered briefly to Perseus before returning to her uncle. "This is not a trial—only an inquiry. The council must understand what Perseus is. He is no ordinary demigod."
Poseidon let out a sharp breath through his nose, his jaw tightening. He turned his gaze to Perseus, finally addressing him directly.
"You withstood the power of six Olympians?"
Perseus hesitated only for a moment. "Yes."
Poseidon studied him for a long moment. "How?"
Perseus clenched his fists at his sides. How indeed? He had barely understood it himself. That moment—when he had reached out, pushed against the combined fury of six divine beings—had felt as if something inside him had unlocked. He had felt his body dissolve into light, his swords thrumming with an overwhelming force, and then…
The stranger. The one who had spoken in riddles, who had touched his forehead and filled him with a power beyond his understanding.
"I don't know," Perseus admitted, but even as the words left his mouth, they felt like a lie. He did know. He had felt it. Something within him had shifted, something far beyond the normal boundaries of god and man.
Zeus leaned forward on his throne, his fingers steepled. "That," he said, his voice crackling with restrained power, "is what concerns me, Nephew."
Poseidon's rage had settled, but his protectiveness had not. He turned back to Zeus, his expression unreadable. "And what would you have of him, Brother?"
Zeus considered. "Knowledge." His gaze flickered to Perseus again. "Understanding." He leaned back slightly. "And perhaps, a test."
The word sent a shiver down Perseus's spine. The gods rarely tested anything without breaking it in the process.
Poseidon's expression darkened, but before he could respond, another voice spoke, light and lilting—yet filled with wisdom beyond millennia.
Apollo.
"If it is knowledge we seek, perhaps we should begin by examining his divine nature." The god of the sun and prophecy sat with one leg crossed over the other, golden eyes alight with curiosity. "Perseus, you are unique. That much is obvious. You were born of the sun, yet you stand in the realm of the sea. Your power has exceeded that of most young gods—perhaps even some elder ones." He tilted his head, studying Perseus. "I would be… most interested in understanding the nature of that power."
Perseus narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly do you suggest?"
Apollo smiled. "A simple test. A reading. You are an enigma, cousin. I would see what the fates have woven for you."
Perseus wasn't sure he liked the idea of Apollo peering into his soul. But before he could speak, Poseidon cut in.
"No."
The word was final, unyielding.
Apollo arched a golden brow. "No?"
Poseidon turned to Zeus, his voice carrying through the chamber with the weight of a thousand storms.
"He is my grandson. His fate is his own." His trident struck the floor with a resounding crack. "You will not lay your hands upon him as if he were some specimen to be examined."
Perseus blinked. His grandfather's protectiveness was as fierce as it was sudden.
Zeus studied Poseidon for a long moment, then let out a slow, measured sigh. "Very well, Brother. If you claim his fate as his own, then we shall not pry." His gaze turned back to Perseus, sharp as lightning. "But make no mistake, boy. You carry a power unlike any seen before. Whether you wish it or not, the eyes of Olympus are upon you."
Perseus clenched his jaw. He had never wanted Olympus' attention. But now, it seemed, there was no escaping it.
Poseidon stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Then our business is concluded."
Zeus studied them both for a moment longer, then nodded. "So it is."
With that, the council began to disperse, gods vanishing in flashes of light or the rustling of divine energy. Athena lingered a moment longer, her eyes meeting Perseus's. There was something there—concern, perhaps? Or curiosity?
He wasn't sure.
But as Poseidon led him from the chamber, one thought burned in his mind.
Something had changed within him.
And the gods were beginning to notice.
Perseus made his way through the halls of Apollo's temple, slipping past the ever-watchful eyes of Olympus. He had left Poseidon behind, knowing that his grandfather's protectiveness—though fierce—would only hinder what he sought to understand.
Apollo had not turned him away.
Instead, he had welcomed him with a knowing smile, leading him into a grand chamber of polished marble and gold. It was an open-air space, the scent of laurel and sunlight thick in the air. At its center stood a smooth slab of white marble, almost like an altar, though Apollo had assured him it was merely a tool for examination.
Now, Perseus lay upon it, his back against the cool stone, staring up at the golden ceiling. Apollo stood over him, his expression unreadable, though his golden eyes burned with curiosity.
"Try to relax," Apollo murmured. His voice was warm, comforting.
Perseus exhaled.
Then, Apollo placed his hands over him, a faint white glow emanating from his fingertips as he passed them over Perseus's body.
The warmth was immediate—like basking in the sunlight at its peak, like standing in the shallows of the sea where the water met the heat of the day. Apollo hummed softly as he worked, occasionally furrowing his brow or tilting his head in interest.
Once, he even muttered, fascinating…
Perseus fought the urge to sit up. "Well?" he asked impatiently.
Apollo didn't answer immediately. His hands hovered over Perseus's chest, the glow intensifying for a brief moment before he pulled away entirely.
Finally, the god of the sun stepped back, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of understanding and something close to awe.
"You were always going to be… exceptional," Apollo began, his voice measured. "Your parentage alone ensured that."
Perseus sat up, frowning. "What do you mean?"
Apollo gave a small, knowing smile. "Where sun meets sea, something new is born. The union of the depths and sky."
Apollo studied him for a long moment, as if weighing how best to explain what he had uncovered. The golden god was rarely at a loss for words, but this was something different. Something beyond the simple divinity that Olympus understood.
Perseus remained silent, waiting.
Finally, Apollo exhaled and began.
"You were always meant to be great," he said. "Even before your birth, you were set apart from others. Your father, Helios, held dominion over one of the most ancient and fundamental forces of the cosmos—the sun, the very light that gives life. His worship spanned ages, from the dawn of civilization to now, and that belief, that reverence, made him nearly as powerful as the eldest Olympians. Your mother, though lesser known, was no less mighty. As a daughter of Poseidon, she bore the power of the seas, and her people followed her with unwavering devotion. You were always going to be more than just another demigod."
Perseus swallowed, his hands curling into fists against the marble slab. "Then why this? Why am I… this?"
Apollo hesitated. Then, gently, "Because they gave it to you."
Perseus' breath caught.
"When gods and titans fade, their essence does not linger. It is drawn into the void, scattered across the cosmos, their power returning to the great cycle. But your parents… they chose differently. Their love for you, their desire to protect you, was so strong that they willed their essence to remain. Not as a whisper. Not as a blessing. But as a gift. And when you were too young to understand, too young to bear it, it settled within you, shaping you into something new."
Perseus felt his pulse pounding in his ears. He had always known—had always felt—that something within him was different. But this? This was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
Apollo continued, his golden eyes softening. "You are not immortal in the sense that the Olympians are. Your soul is still tethered to mortality—by choice, by circumstance, by the war that still binds you to this world. But physically? Your body is divine. And as long as you remain among mortals, as long as you have a purpose within their realm, that small sliver of mortality will remain."
Perseus let the words wash over him, but they did nothing to ease the storm in his mind.
"You mean to say," he murmured, "that until I abandon the mortal world—until I choose to leave it behind—I will stay as I am?"
Apollo inclined his head. "Yes. But the moment you let go, the moment you step beyond mortal concerns, you will ascend fully into what you were meant to be."
Perseus' stomach twisted. He had spent his entire life walking the line between mortality and divinity, between the world of men and the world of gods. And now he knew—he was neither. Or perhaps, he was both.
"Then what am I?" he whispered.
Apollo smiled, though there was sadness in it.
"You, Perseus, are the first of your kind."
Perseus stood once more upon the plains of Ilium, the weight of his new responsibility settling heavily upon his shoulders. The Olympian Council had made their decision—he would return to the war, not just as a warrior, but as its guardian.
It was a role he had not sought, but one he could not refuse. He had already gained the respect of the young gods, had already proven himself capable of standing against divine wrath. And now, Zeus himself had declared him necessary—a presence to maintain balance, to prevent another catastrophe like the one that had nearly erased Troy and its surrounding lands from existence.
He would be the intermediary. The watcher. The enforcer.
It was a bitter thing, to be tasked with restraining the very gods he had once admired. But Zeus had made himself clear—no more unchecked interference. No more destruction for the sake of pride or petty grudges. If the gods wished to play their games upon the battlefield, they would have to contend with him first.
Perseus exhaled, his breath curling into the cool night air as he strode through the Achaean camp. The men paid him no more mind than usual—he was one of them, after all, a warrior who had fought and bled beside them. None of them knew what had transpired atop Olympus. None of them knew that the fate of the war now rested, in part, upon his shoulders.
And that was how it had to be.
The ordeal with the gods had been long and trying, but the war had not waited for him. The fires of the Achaean camp still burned, the sounds of men preparing for another day of battle filling the air. The siege had dragged on for years, and still, it showed no signs of ending.
He had returned to the battlefield.
Now, he had to decide what to do next.
The days continued as they had for nearly a decade. Each dawn brought the same tense anticipation, the same weary silence before the inevitable clash of arms. The Achaeans and Trojans alike waited—waited for the breaking point, for the moment when one side would falter and the war would finally tip toward its end.
The war council had gathered once more, commanders and their most trusted warriors seated within the great tent of Agamemnon. The air was thick with frustration, the atmosphere soured by years of bloodshed and stalemate.
Agamemnon was raging.
"You said ten years, Calchas!" he roared, his voice echoing off the wooden beams of the tent. His heavy fist slammed against the table, rattling the bronze goblets and scattering maps that had long since lost their meaning. "Ten years, and we are near the end of the ninth! Do you mock me, prophet? Do the gods mock me?"
Calchas, ever composed, merely inclined his head. "I only speak what the gods have revealed, Great King. The time is not yet upon us."
Agamemnon's patience, already frayed, finally snapped. With a growl, his hand shot toward the dagger at his belt, fury twisting his face.
"You dare—"
"Only a fool would strike the messenger of the gods."
The words cut through the tent like a blade. Agamemnon froze, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger.
And then, silence.
Perseus blinked, realizing only a moment later that he had spoken in unison with another voice.
Odysseus.
Their words had been identical, spoken at the exact same time.
The two men turned to each other, both equally startled, studying one another with expressions of mirrored amusement and intrigue.
A beat passed. Then Odysseus let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Well," he mused, "at least I know there's one other sensible man in this camp."
Perseus smirked. "It seems even the gods think you need the reminder, Agamemnon."
The warlord scowled but lowered his hand from his dagger, relenting with a muttered curse. Calchas, for his part, simply watched with an unreadable expression, his knowing gaze flickering between the two men who had spoken as one.
The sun rose over the plains of Ilium, but there was no warmth in it. It was a cruel, pale thing, casting its light over a battlefield that had long forgotten mercy. The war had dragged on for nearly a decade, and now, on this day, it appeared fate itself had chosen to bring it to its climax.
Achilles stood at the head of the Achaean host, his armour gleaming as though Hephaestus had captured the sun within its bronze plates. His rage had not dimmed since Hector's death. If anything, it had festered, growing into something even more terrible. Today, he would carve a path through the Trojans until nothing remained.
Perseus watched him, feeling a familiar dread coil in his chest. He had grown to love the boy—not as a mere warrior, not as the demi-god son of Thetis, but as something more. A nephew, a son, a younger brother. Achilles, in his rage and his brilliance, was so much of what Perseus had been in his youth. And yet, where Perseus had been tempered by time, by his grandmother's lessons, by the weight of a kingdom, Achilles had only been fed more blood. More war.
And now, he was walking toward his doom.
Perseus felt it before he saw it. Fate, stretching taut like a bowstring, singing its final note in the battle-weary air.
The fight was like something out of legend.
Achilles cut through Trojan warriors as if they were nothing, his father's sword finding its mark every time, his shield turning aside all who dared stand before him. The gods watched, some in horror, others in admiration, as the greatest warrior of the age stormed through the battlefield, unstoppable, undeniable.
Then, Paris loosed his arrow.
Guided by Apollo, it soared, glinting like a serpent's fang, striking Achilles in the one place he was vulnerable.
The heel.
Perseus saw it as though the world had slowed. Achilles staggered, his movement faltering, his spear dipping toward the earth. He turned, his sea-gray eyes searching for something, someone. His lips parted, but no sound came.
Then, he fell.
Perseus did not breathe. Did not move.
He simply watched.
The boy he had come to love—the boy who had screamed his grief to the heavens, who had wept for Patroclus, who had been forged into something brutal and unyielding by the endless hunger of war—was dying.
The world fractured.
The sky darkened, the clouds thickening in an instant, churning with unnatural fury. The wind howled as though the gods themselves had begun to mourn. The sea roared, a tidal wave rising from its depths, towering, monstrous. The earth trembled, cracks spiderwebbing across the plain, swallowing men whole.
The sun.
The sun burned.
It was a terrible, blinding light, searing the land with its fury. The grass withered to ash, the air itself grew heavy with unbearable heat. Perseus was not thinking—there was no thought left in him, only wrath. Endless wrath.
How dare they.
How dare the fates, the gods, mortals—how dare they take him. How dare they shape him into a weapon, twist his life into nothing but grief and battle, and then discard him like some broken thing.
Perseus roared.
The very sky split open with the force of his fury. Thunder and fire and wind howled together in a chorus of rage. The sea crashed against the shore, waves rising to swallow the battlefield whole. The very walls of Troy trembled, stones cracking and falling as the ground beneath them split apart.
The men, both Trojan and Achaean, had stopped fighting. They stood frozen, their weapons limp in their hands, staring at the god-made-flesh who now stood among them, no longer restrained by mortal shell.
Perseus' swords were in his hands, though he did not remember drawing them. The air around him shimmered, reality itself warping under the weight of his power. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something that was beyond vengeance, beyond grief.
He would end this war.
He would reduce Troy to dust.
He would—
"ENOUGH."
The voice was not a sound. It was a force, pressing against his very being, commanding obedience. The storm that had risen at his fury shuddered, the tidal wave stilled in its ascent, the burning sky flickered.
Lightning split the heavens. The earth groaned.
And then, they arrived.
Zeus and Poseidon.
The gods descended like nature taken form from the heavens, their presence palpable in the very air around them. The storm, which had raged under Perseus' control, became more furious as the sun blazed hotter, the earth cracked beneath his feet, and lightning lashed the sky.
But Perseus did not feel their presence with reverence. He felt only the fury of his grief, the anger that burned in his chest as brightly as the sun he commanded. The gods—his grandfather Poseidon and the mighty Zeus—came with all their force to wrestle control from him.
Poseidon moved first, his form rippling with divine power as the sea around them surged, boiling with wrath. With a godly roar, he reached out and tore the seas from Perseus' control with ease. Water crashed violently against the shore, foaming and churning as the god of the oceans reclaimed his domain.
But Perseus' grip on the earth—his power over the land itself—held strong. The ground trembled beneath him, the very mountains seeming to groan in pain as the earth refused to release its connection to the furious demigod.
Poseidon turned his gaze toward the land, his eyes like storm clouds, and with a primal fury, he reached deep into the core of the earth. The very essence of the oceans swelled up in a blinding wave of divine might, but it was not enough to pry the land from Perseus' hands.
It took the might of both gods, Zeus and Poseidon combined, to push against Perseus' strength, a battle of power so immense that the heavens themselves shook with the effort. They struggled with every ounce of their divine essence, the world around them contorting and reshaping under their force. The air crackled with the energy of two of the strongest Olympians, their wills pushing and pulling at Perseus as though trying to break the very foundations of the earth.
Zeus' voice rang out, commanding the skies, while Poseidon's rage fueled the storm at his back. Perseus' fury, however, was unmatched. He did not yield. His heart was a furnace of grief and anger, a divine explosion that burned away everything in its path. The gods, even with their immense power, had never felt a force like this before.
Finally, Poseidon—seeming to feel the weight of the task—pulled from within himself a level of power not seen in millennia. His body shimmered with pure divine energy, his trident crackling with the wrath of the oceans themselves, and with one final effort, he wrenched the earth from Perseus' grasp.
But even as the sea and land were torn from him, Perseus did not falter. The storm that surrounded him grew even wilder, the very sky itself alive with fury. Lightning lashed, fire streaked across the sky, and thunder shook the world as Perseus held tight to his rage.
Zeus, seeing the danger of this uncontrollable power, raised his master bolt high. The gods had struggled for so long, and it was now time to end it. The Olympian king's bolt crackled with energy, powerful enough to turn the plains to dust, as he brought it down with the force of a god's wrath.
But just as the bolt descended, Poseidon moved like a flash of blue light, appearing before Zeus, his trident raised, striking the bolt from the air with a deafening crack.
The two gods locked eyes for a moment, the tension so thick that it seemed the heavens themselves were on the edge of breaking. But before either could speak or move again, another bolt, unlike the first, shot from above—a bolt not of Zeus' master bolt, but powerful nevertheless.
This bolt, faster than even the gods, struck Perseus square in the chest. The impact was like nothing he had ever felt before, a surge of energy that sent him crashing to his knees, the world spinning around him. His body burned with the force of the strike, and for a moment, all was darkness.
He gasped for breath, his vision swimming, as the storm raged around him, but the power of the bolt… had it been from a god? Or something far worse? Perseus didn't know.
But he could feel the end of something.
Poseidon's fury surged, a tempest of divine wrath that would have torn the heavens apart if not for the careful restraint he held within himself. His rage was the storm, the roar of the ocean crashing against the rocks, the very essence of the sea bending to his will in a frenzy. The sight of Perseus, his grandson, struck down by that bolt, sent waves of power crashing through him, and the very earth trembled beneath his feet.
Zeus, ever the king, stood triumphant, a smirk of victory twisting his face. His expression told Poseidon all he needed to know—the battle was over, and the king had won. He had struck the final blow, and his power had proven unyielding, even against Perseus' tempestuous wrath. With a flash of lightning, Zeus vanished, his presence leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of ozone and the echoes of his dominance.
Poseidon's heart, however, was not victorious. The very air felt heavy with grief and the knowledge that something far worse had just transpired. His eyes locked onto Perseus' crumpled form, his body still, his breath ragged and labored, a small but undeniable sign of life amidst the overwhelming weight of divine power that had just been unleashed.
Tears welled in Poseidon's eyes as he knelt beside his grandson, lifting him gently, though his hands trembled with the depth of his sorrow. His pulse quickened at the sight of Perseus, so full of potential and strength, now shattered by a bolt from the sky. Poseidon held him close, feeling the heat of the sun still radiating from his skin, the warmth of life still clinging to him despite the grievous wound he had suffered.
"Perseus," Poseidon whispered, his voice thick with emotion, but his grandson did not respond. He could feel the weight of the mortal essence within him, the tether to mortality that had been his salvation but now, in this moment, would be his curse.
He took a deep breath, composing himself, and with a roar that shook the very foundation of Troy, Poseidon summoned the healer, a trusted figure from the Achaean camp. The healer arrived swiftly, his face grim as he took in the sight of Perseus' broken form.
The healer's hands trembled as he examined the wound, pressing gently against Perseus' chest where the divine bolt had struck. "It's no ordinary wound," the healer murmured, his voice full of awe and dread. "This… this strike has burned far deeper than flesh and bone. It's as if the very soul has been wounded."
Poseidon's face darkened, the weight of the healer's words sinking into his soul. The wound had not just torn through the body—it had reached into the very heart of Perseus, into the sliver of mortality that still clung to him. He had always known that Perseus' mortality was not just a matter of flesh, but a piece of his very being—a sliver of a human soul that anchored him to this world.
The healer looked up, his face filled with sorrow and helplessness. "I can heal the flesh. I can heal the body, but this… this is beyond my reach. The wound lies deep, in the soul itself. Only a few could even begin to understand the depths of this."
Poseidon's mind raced. "Is there a way to save him?" he demanded, his voice a low growl of desperation.
The healer took a long breath, looking to Poseidon with a weary gaze. "There is one way. It is not a perfect solution, but it is the only option. We can bind the mortal soul to his body, permanently tethering him to this realm. He would never truly die, but his mortal spirit would remain—forever tied to his human nature. He would be… biologically immortal, but he would never ascend to godhood. He would remain as a man, in the technical sense of the word."
Poseidon's heart sank. The price was steep. Perseus, who had always carried the weight of two worlds within him—divine and mortal—would now be forever bound to his mortal side. He would never be free to fully embrace his divine heritage, but he would live. And that, in this moment, was the only thing that mattered.
Poseidon's eyes, usually calm and tempestuous like the sea, were now dark with pain. He gently placed his hand on Perseus' chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his breaths. "We'll do it," Poseidon murmured, his voice steady but full of grief. "I will save him."
With a firm, steady hand, Poseidon nodded to the healer. The ritual would be long and difficult, but it was the only hope for Perseus. The winds howled in the distance, the sea restless with the god's own turmoil, but Poseidon remained still, resolute. He would not lose his grandson—not like this.
As the healer began to prepare the necessary steps, Poseidon held Perseus, his body trembling with the power of the storm still raging within him. He could feel the pull of the ocean in his veins, the depth of his sorrow threatening to drown him, but he could not let it consume him. He had a duty now—not only as a grandfather but as the god of the sea.
For Perseus, his child of sun and storm, the war was over—but the battle for his soul had only just begun.
Poseidon stood, his mind swirling with both grief and determination. The healer's words had struck a devastating chord within him, but there was a small glimmer of hope in the midst of the despair. There was one way to save Perseus—one way to pull him from the very edge of the abyss. The Styx. That dark river, said to grant immortality to those who bathed in its depths, but there was a price to pay. The challenge lay in its access—only those who could navigate the Underworld could reach it, and now that Perseus' mother was lost in the Void beyond, Poseidon had only one option.
He looked at Perseus, still cradled in his arms, and took a deep breath. "The Styx," he muttered. "The only way."
His mind raced, seeking the only possible path forward. There was one person who could aid him—Hades, his brother, lord of the Underworld. But there was a catch. Poseidon knew that Hades, as cold and distant as he was, did not allow just anyone to pass into the realm of the dead. And now, in the depths of their grief, Poseidon could not fathom how to make his request.
But he would not give up. For Perseus, for his grandson, he would do anything.
"Perseus," Poseidon whispered. "We're going to save you."
The journey to the Underworld was long, but Poseidon's resolve was absolute. His footsteps echoed as he moved through the darkened halls of Hades' domain. The gates of the Underworld stood ominously before him, guarded by the fearsome Cerberus. Poseidon's presence, usually so full of authority, seemed diminished in the face of his request.
He stood before the gates, clenching his fists as he called out for his brother. "Hades!" His voice boomed across the Underworld, sending ripples through the obsidian air. "I need to speak with you."
It wasn't long before the ground trembled beneath him, and Hades appeared from the shadows, his face as stone-cold as ever. His eyes gleamed with a chilling blue fire, a stark contrast to Poseidon's warmth. "Poseidon," Hades greeted with an icy tone, his voice echoing in the stillness of the Underworld. "What brings you to my domain? You've crossed the threshold without my invitation."
Poseidon's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained steady. "I seek your help, brother."
Hades raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but not yet moved. "Help?" he asked, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "From me? You know the price of entering the Underworld, Poseidon. No one enters without purpose, and no one leaves unchanged."
"I don't care about the price," Poseidon said fiercely, his voice trembling with emotion. "It's my grandson—Perseus. He's been struck down by Zeus, and I cannot heal him. Not without bathing in the Styx. You know the power of that river, Hades. You know what it can do. I need you to let us in."
Hades took a step forward, his gaze scrutinizing Poseidon, his expression unreadable. "Why should I help you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "This is not a favor you can ask lightly."
Poseidon's heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to be deterred. "You don't understand," he said. "I cannot lose him. Perseus is a child of the gods, yet he carries the burden of two worlds. He deserves to live. He has a place in this world, and I won't let that slip away. Please, for the love you owe me as your brother—grant me this one mercy."
Hades remained silent for a long moment, his gaze cold and calculating, and Poseidon felt the weight of his brother's deliberation like a leaden cloak. He could feel the emptiness of the Underworld pressing in around him. The air felt still, unyielding, as if even the earth itself held its breath.
Then, as if some unseen weight had been lifted, Hades spoke.
"You are not the only one who feels loss, Poseidon." His voice softened, ever so slightly. "I, too, have seen the depths of grief. But the Styx is not a path to be taken lightly."
Before Poseidon could respond, a voice came from behind them, gentle and melodic, yet unmistakably commanding.
"You would not ask him to do this alone, would you?"
Persephone stepped forward from the shadows, her presence like a soft light in the otherwise dreary Underworld. Her eyes, full of warmth and understanding, locked with Poseidon's.
Poseidon turned to her in surprise. "Persephone…" His voice was laced with a mixture of awe and confusion.
She smiled softly, her gaze never leaving the two gods before her. "I know of the bond you share with your grandson. And I understand the love that drives you. Do you not see how pure this love is, dear husband? How deep it runs?"
Poseidon's heart clenched
Persephone placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm, her touch bringing a rare tenderness to the cold king of the Underworld. "We will grant your request," she said, her voice firm yet compassionate. "Let the love of a mother—of a grandmother—guide this decision. You may bathe Perseus in the Styx."
Hades said nothing, but his gaze softened as he looked at Persephone. He placed a hand on her shoulder in silent agreement. It was clear that her voice held sway over him, as it always had.
Poseidon nodded, his heart lightened with hope. "Thank you," he whispered, the weight of his burden finally lifting for the first time. "Thank you."
With Persephone's blessing, Hades stepped aside, allowing Poseidon and his grandson to enter the depths of the Underworld. They would bathe Perseus in the Styx, and with that, the possibility of a future—a future where Perseus could once again stand strong—began to shine through the darkness of despair.
And so, the river of the dead would not claim him, not today.
The journey into the depths of the Underworld was not one for the faint of heart. The further Poseidon and Perseus ventured, the more the air seemed to grow heavy with the weight of ancient sorrow and unspoken despair. The land of the dead was a realm that could swallow hope whole, a place where light dared not linger and only the coldest of truths existed. The shadows stretched long, casting a foreboding gloom, and the sound of distant wails and murmurs of lost souls reverberated through the stillness.
But Perseus—clutched in Poseidon's arms—was oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere. His body was limp, his breaths shallow and labored, each exhale a rasping reminder of how close he was to slipping into nothingness. Time seemed to stretch in the realm of the dead, and every step Poseidon took felt like it carried them deeper into an abyss that threatened to swallow them whole.
Persephone walked beside them, her presence the only thing that made the air feel less like ice. The grace and warmth of her seemed to offer some small reprieve from the despair that surrounded them. Her eyes, filled with compassion, never left Perseus, and her hands gently guided him forward when Poseidon's strength waned.
They finally came to the banks of the Styx.
The river stretched before them like a black wound in the land, its waters dark and thick, swirling with an eerie stillness. The very air around the Styx seemed to hum with an ancient power, a sensation that sent a chill down Poseidon's spine. It was a place where few had ever ventured, and fewer still had returned unchanged. This was where the boundary between life and death was the thinnest.
The river's depths were said to hold the power to cleanse the soul and grant immortality, but that was a double-edged sword. Those who bathed in it were bound by it, unable to escape its pull once they had crossed into its currents. But the need to save Perseus burned within Poseidon, and with one final glance at Persephone, he lowered his grandson into the waters of the Styx.
The moment Perseus touched the surface, the river seemed to stir in response, the waters swirling violently around him as if sensing the divine essence that coursed through his veins. The black water rippled and surged, caressing his body like an ominous embrace. His mortal soul, still tethered to the realm of the living, began to resist, but the divine energy that surrounded him—like a fire and an ocean combined—waged war against it.
Poseidon stepped forward, watching with bated breath as his grandson's form glowed faintly beneath the surface, his body suspended in the liminal space between life and death. The sound of his labored breathing was the only thing that broke the eerie silence.
"I've come too far," Poseidon muttered to himself. "This cannot be the end."
Persephone's hands clasped together, her eyes closed in silent prayer. She had seen many things in her time, but never before had she witnessed such a raw, desperate plea for life. And never before had she seen love so powerful that it defied even the boundaries of the Underworld itself.
As time passed, Poseidon's gaze never wavered. He could feel the pressure of the Styx's power pulling at him, pulling at Perseus, but the tides of fate were not so easily swayed. The god of the sea's heart raced with a frantic hope, one that had been kindled by his grandson's potential and the promise of saving him.
Then, after what seemed like an eternity, a ripple surged from the depths of the river. It was subtle at first, but then the water began to churn violently. Poseidon stepped back instinctively, his grip tightening on the trident in his hand. The air thickened, electricity crackling in the air like a storm ready to break.
And then, from the depths, Perseus rose.
The water cascaded off him like a torrential downpour, but his body was no longer the same. His chest rose and fell with steady, deep breaths, his body fully restored, and yet something was different. His mortal soul, that sliver of mortality that had once tethered him to the world of men, was now bound forever to the living, tethered not by the will of the gods but by the ancient power of the Styx.
Poseidon's heart swelled with relief and grief, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Perseus…"
The young man opened his eyes, their glow soft but undeniable, and for the first time, there was no sense of the fragile mortality that had once held him. The essence of the Styx had worked its magic, but the price had been high. Perseus was no longer of the gods. He was something else entirely—something untouchable, immortal by definition, but removed from the chance of becoming a true god.
He stepped forward, his steps sure and grounded, though there was a heaviness to him now. Perseus seemed to hesitate for a moment, his eyes still clouded with a distant confusion, as if trying to reconcile the deep chasm between the gods he once knew and the life he had chosen to forge.
At the banks of the Styx, Poseidon watched his grandson, proud and sorrowful. He had saved him, but at what cost? The gods of the heavens could never truly understand the life Perseus would lead now. He was not a god, yet he was not fully mortal either. His place in the world was uncertain, but he would live. He would endure.
And that, Poseidon thought, was enough for now.
Far above, on the peaks of Olympus, the gods watched as the Styx's final currents settled and Perseus emerged. They had known it was his only chance, and though they had hoped, there was a bittersweetness in their gaze. The gods, proud and eternal, had watched as their worlds had collided with the mortal one, and yet they had failed to truly understand the power of the bond between them.
For all their power, the gods had learned one thing that day: some loves could never be fully understood or controlled, and sometimes, it was love that led to the greatest transformations.
From the heights of Olympus, they could only watch and hope. Perseus had been forged from the storm and the sun, born of the sea and the heavens, and now, he stood alone—an immortal, but no longer destined for divinity, walking the mortal realm with the power of both gods and men within him.
It was not the ending they had imagined. It was something more. And in that uncertainty, they found a flicker of hope.
You fuckers finally get your answer to why he isn't a god.
R&R