─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆
❛ Here we are at the end of the world, waiting for the sky to break into flames─but we are together, as if the stars had aligned. ❜
Percy Jackson never thought he would fall in love with a traitor.
[completed - editing]
[p...
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HE WAS REBORN ON THE BANKS OF LETHE'S STREAM. Even now the phantom sensation of the golden waters dripping down his skin haunts him. He remembers the sight ofthesouls who were to spend eternity in the greyness of the Asphodel Meadows forgetting their previous life. He was alone. When he garnered the strength to crawl out of the river, a folded piece of paper greeted him.
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝?
HE IS THE SON OF HYPNOS, THEY TOLD HIM. Golden-eyed with a sleep-ridden gaze, blessed with a set of wings to match his angelic appearance—The perfect replica of his divine father. It could not be disputed which god would claim him. And yet, he was forced to stay in the Hermes cabin because his father wasn't worthy of a cabin. That's who he is. The son of a forgotten god. A cowardly god. A father who cursed him with weak blood. He isn't the child of the prophecy; he isn't a son of the Big Three. Not a hero, either. He isn't Heracles, or Theseus, or Jason, or Perseus, and he will never be—nor should he dream of it—because Micah is the son of Hypnos.
Plainly, he is an orphan.
He is nothing but the name written on tear-stained paper.
Chiron stares at him with unfathomable pity.
Resentment filled his heart. Micah, he reminded himself. I am Micah.
FOR ALL HE KNOWS, MEETING ARES WAS AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. After seeing what the cruel god had done to an innocent nymph, the sword Micah stabbed through Ares' gut was not an accident. When he arose, the god of war had laughed, a deep and raucous sound as he placed a hand over his body to stop his entrails from spilling out.
"You got spunk, kid." The god complimented him. "Tell you what—Cut me up nicely again and I'll gift you somethin' special."
Micah, enraged at the mere sight of a god and with an appetite to destroy the world, accepted the challenge easily.
Maybe he does have something to be thankful for when it comes to his heritage.
No one—not even Ares—can fight back when they are asleep.
It started out with random junk: armory, an ancient sword with incomparable history attached to it, shields invulnerable to corrosive acid, a spear blessed to always pierce its target's head. Then it developed into trinkets worth millions if sold to the right people, an estate in Rome if he ever felt like visiting, information on how to retrieve items for certain quests. A new reward for every bruise and every cut he could get on Ares. If he couldn't manage it, then Ares had the liberty to do whatever he wished with him.
When Ares grew bored of testing him physically, he began to test him in other ways.
Eager to be better than the gods—prove that he doesn't need to be Heracles, or Theseus, or Jason, or Perseus to surpass everyone, because alone, he is capable of plummeting gods and monsters alike—That he isn't like Hypnos and will never, ever be like that cowardly god—he accepted.
Micah, he reminded himself.
I am Micah.
𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝?
"AND WHAT DO YOU ACCOMPLISH, EXACTLY?" MICAH QUESTIONED, BORED IN THE PRESENCE OF ARES. Another quest, another reward. Years passed and nothing changed. He remained unclaimed. Camp Half-blood continued to deteriorate. The number of so-called heroes continued to dwindle.
In a random café in New York City, sitting in a booth opposite of him with his disgusting scarred cheek and a bulletproof vest, Ares looked as human as the rest of civilization. The audacity of a god playing mortal while another one of his children died on some quest just a week prior sickened Micah.
"The honor of starting a three-way slugfest. Nothing like watching your relatives fight, I always say." Ares grinned. "Corpse Breath sees that new spawn of Big Ol' Lightning Bolt sneaking around after his roach nest got blown up, gets mad at Zeus for being a hypocrite, so they start to fight, and Old Seaweed will step in because they both broke the oath. With that prophecy buzzing around again, that washed-up barnacle probably has some kid out there too."
At his lack of reply, Ares leaned forward closer to him, smoke drifted up from his sunglasses. "It's for training, kid, but I can always use you for target practice."
Micah didn't care much for the affairs of the gods, but he has learned a lot from Ares's mindless comments. An oath between Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades. A prophecy... "Whatever," Micah told him. "What's in it for me?"
Ares smirked sadistically. From within his leather jacket, the god of war withdrew a weapon—A scimitar. Despite the beauty of the doubled-edge weapon, Micah's expression remained indifferent, but a scowl quickly twisted the coldness into annoyance then he noticed a trivial, petty detail sculpted on the hilt: Poppies.
"I'll give you this pretty little thing," Ares mocked. "So how about it? Or are you too weak like your daddy to lure me some Hellhounds?"
Hatred raged on inside.
"I'll do it," Micah agreed.
And perched on a tree in the forest of Camp Half-Blood, carefully hidden as he watched a blond little girl be carried away to the infirmary as another boy sobbed at the base of the pine tree, nauseous with the sense of an impending tragedy—a sense of rotting guilt, because he didn't know but he should've—It was Ares, it was a god who asked, of course someone was going to die—Now that girl is dead because of him—Micah had an epiphany.
