PERSEUS MEANS DESTROYER

All For Us

If it makes me a king,

A star in your eyes.

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Perseus stirred in his sleep.

Loki could see it out of the corner of his eye while Thor yelled at him.

He stirred, stilled.

"Shut up, Thor. You were always his favourite."

Thor, surprisingly, shut up. "Brother..."

"Don't try to lie to me, you imbecile. Have you taken a proper look at our situation recently? Come back when you understand what it is, fully," Loki worked as much derision into his voice as he could.

Thor stared at his back for a few minutes, trying to come up with a response. Nothing came.

On his way out, he clapped Perseuus on the shoulder and spoke in a rumbling voice, "do not hurt him."

Percy jolted awake with a heavy hand on his shoulder and thunder in his ear.

"Do not hurt him."

Percy snorted, but Thor was gone, taking himself and his stupid red cape down the hall and out of the cells.

Loki wasn't sure he heard it correctly; things became garbled through the glass.

"What is the son of the father of monsters?"

He didn't think Perseus was necessarily talking to him, and he couldn't place the title; his knowledge on the Hellenic religion was weak at best. The Son of the Father of Monsters...

Father of Monsters. Perhaps the god Poseidon; father to the unfortunate cycploses borne of his ill-fated affairs with nymphs. Or perhaps Typhoon, or even Tartarus, husbands of Echidna and Gaia... and the son, who was he? A monstrosity?

A mystery for a later date.

Percy stood up sharply, accidentally moving the chair backwards a centimetre or two.

It was eleven PM and he was hungry. He wasn't sure if the mess would be open, but he figured it would be worth it to check anyway.

It wasn't open, but someone had left out a box of muesli bars—chewy choc chip.

Not the healthiest option, but it was that or starve for the night. He put two in his spare hand, gripping the crutch handle as he started back towards the bunks.

He sat cross legged on his mattress, chewing slowly on the muesli bars.

The arena, in the Labyrinth. Where he'd killed his brother. Half brother. Right in front of Luke.

He'd mistaken Jason for Luke on more than one occasion. Double takes when he used a similar move with his sword. The hair and eyes were almost the same. Not the scar, though.

Why did the idea of being Poseidon's favourite make him feel sick to his stomach when he thought about Antaeus'... tributes... to Poseidon?

He was still half asleep, and he couldn't process the information the way he wanted to.

He polished off the muesli bars, deciding while doing so that he'd try to sleep, and sort out the arena business when he was more awake.

His brain kept feeding him chunks of memories;

"Hail, Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, god of the seas, Earthshaker, Stormbringer," Chiron lifted his arms, and the wind hissed back at him, bringing more glory, and gore, and fame, and infamy.

Father of Monsters.

"The sea doesn't like to be controlled, son," Poseidon's voice, though soft, echoed through the hall of his castle.

Percy had always figured he and Antaeus were... different. Antaeus was the squall before a greater storm, born of unchecked power gone to waste.

Percy was the gentle sea; one of Poseidon's better moods. From what he had learnt of his half siblings, their abilities were heavily affected by their father's mood at the time of meeting their mothers.

Percy had figured he was the beach at Montauk; rough waves, but mostly show. Not much power behind them, though better than a squall showboating as a tsunami or a hurricane.

He had figured that up until the year he turned fifteen. After that he tried to stop thinking about it all.

Antaeus. It all came back to something about him and Antaeus.

Percy had thought he was calm sea; gentle, hard to provoke, helpful in a good way.

He was having a hard time reconciling that with what he had done in the battle of Manhattan, with what he had done on that quest with Hazel and Frank, with what he and Jason had accomplished together, with what he had done in Tartarus.

They couldn't... be explained by 'calm seas'.

He sat up, gasping.

Antaeus.

Antaeus has claimed to be Poseidon's favourite son; child of Gaia and Poseidon, cursed with dirt for blood and a need for violence.

Or blessed.

It depended on who you asked.

He had an arena in the Labyrinth filled with... the skulls of his opponents.

Banners to Poseidon on the walls.

This was why he was Poseidon's favourite, he claimed; this blood-lust that sated some of the darker parts of the ocean.

And Poseidon had claimed Percy was his favourite son.

What had Percy done so horrible to be comparable with hundreds upon thousands of gorey mementos?

What had Percy done to put himself on par with this ancient Grecian monster, Herculean in size and strength, beaten only by the wit's ends of a tired teenage boy.

Was he so horrible even when he was a child?

Percy wondered if Poseidon—or any of the Olympians, or any of the gods in the mortal realm—knew what had happened in Tartarus.

Grover had spoken to him about it.

He had felt Percy falling—or rather the terror of falling—and then nothing for what felt like forever. Relief—probably when Bob showed up for the second time, or after Bob killed his brother, reforming in a zit—and then something so incredibly off, steeped in rage, and the terror that followed.

Akhlys and the House of Night.

Grover had described it as having splinters in his stomach, but warm—it almost felt nice, but not in a particularly comforting way.

There hadn't been anything after that, and Grover had been terrified Percy was dead.

Which explained the bone-crushing hug he got when Grover found him.

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First published ::: 19.07.22
First edit ::: n/a
Wordcount ::: 991
Chapter dedication ::: n/a

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Yours, l0v3rboy_