Chapter Text
The Underworld is like nothing Percy Jackson could have imagined.
After a boat ride down the blood-red River Styx with the mythical boatman Charon, who communicated solely through groans and AGCL (Ancient Greek Sign Language), he thought nothing could surprise him anymore. This was before he saw Cerberus, the three-headed guard dog of the Underworld.
He, Annabeth, and Grover had discussed their plan for Cerberus earlier, but even Percy can admit that it was pretty weak. Even Annabeth looks worried, biting her lip as she takes the red Waterland ball out of her pocket, which isn’t exactly a confidence-booster. If the daughter of Athena is out of ideas, then they might really be doomed. Still, they had come this far. Percy wasn’t about to give up when his mom was so close.
As they approach the guard dog and Annabeth explains how the Underworld works, he takes in the official entrance. It looks a lot less like pearly gates and lakes of hellfire and a lot more like airport security. Except, of course, for the house-sized, bright red, three-headed dog with a spiked collar and three tongues hanging out of three drooling mouths. He’s got sharp green eyes, the same color as the dead passing by him. He looks—well, he looks bored. Percy’s never seen that around an airport before—but, granted, he’s never exactly been to one.
Cerberus’ middle head snaps to attention as soon as the trio get within twenty feet of him, and the other two heads soon follow. A low, deep growl begins to reverberate through the air.
“He can smell the living,” Percy realizes.
“But that’s okay,” says Grover, trembling from head to hoof. “Because we have a plan.”
“Right,” says Annabeth, her voice as smaller than Percy had ever heard it, which scares him more than a big dog ever could. “A plan.”
The left head barks, and shades scatter, pushing against and through each other to get as far away from Cerberus as possible. Percy can’t blame them—he half wants to jump back into the River Styx and swim home. He’s certain that Cerberus’ bark is at least as bad as his bite.
He takes a deep breath, takes a stick out of his pocket. “Uh, hey, boy,” he tries for a smile. “Do they play with you much down here?”
All three heads snarl.
“Grover, is that a yes or a no?” Percy mutters out of the side of his mouth.
“Um, it’s hard to tell through all the threats of dismemberment,” Grover says weakly.
They try distracting him with the stick—it doesn’t work. Neither does the red ball and Annabeth’s dog-training. Cerberus’ eyes are starting to turn from green to red, a really bad sign, when Grover takes a little step forward. Abruptly, the growling cuts off—and Cerberus tilts his head.
Grover frowns. “You said you were hungry earlier—you don’t have to say it again, I get it.”
Cerberus leans one massive head forward, craning his neck out, and sniffs him loudly.
“Grover, come back!” Annabeth says. “We can—we can figure something else out.”
“I don’t think he’s going to eat me,” Grover says slowly. “Hold on, I might have heard of something like this. I’d forgotten until now.”
“Something like what?” Percy has one hand on Riptide. Some of the shades approaching from the River Styx are starting to eye them with a hungry look that Percy really does not like.
Grover extends his hand in front of him and twists. There’s a sound sort of like a pop and like the wind sighing and something else, and a small, brown sack, a little larger than the palm of his hand, appears in front of him. It smells terrible.
“What is that?” Annabeth gags.
“It’s a satyr sack.” Grover explains. “They were used for—um, it doesn’t matter. But I remember stray dogs were always getting into them.”
Sure enough, Cerberus has sat his huge haunches down and is sniffing excitedly, his ears perked up like he’s looking for a treat.
“Well, give it to him, then!” Percy says.
“You see this, boy?” Grover waves it in front of the dog, and all three massive heads track it. “You can have it if you let us through.”
Two dog heads tilt, and the third raises an eyebrow, as if to say, that tiny thing?
“We’ll get you more when we come back out.” Annabeth says quickly.
Cerberus licks all three lips, then lets out a long huff and whines. It’s a surprisingly cute sound for a hound of hell. The right head shoves its forehead forward, underneath Grover’s outstretched hand.
“I think… I think it wants you to pet him,” says Annabeth. Grover cautiously scratches behind the dog’s ears, and one of his legs starts thumping as his green eyes close in bliss. Finally, after he’s deemed it enough scratches, he bows his head and steps aside, snatching the satyr sack out of Grover’s hands as he goes. He gives them one last look that Percy could’ve sworn seems amused, before bounding away to eat his prey.
The trio all exchange baffled looks.
“Good thing we had a satyr with us, I guess?” Percy offers. “Nice, dude.”
The satyr gives him a somber look. “Please don’t ever ask me to make one of those again.”
“Why—”
“Probably better not to ask.” Annabeth advises him, and she ushers them through the E-Z Death Line.
They make it to the House of Hades, after passing through a horrifying pit that tried to drag Grover in, as his winged shoes betrayed him. Now barefoot, they hesitate at the entrance, where a queue of green ghosts forms, trudging forward, slow as sand trickling down an hourglass. A worn-down sign points towards the entrance, saying, APPEALS, then, Wait Time: Ninety-Seven Years. As they watch, a taller shade scratches out the number and replaces it with One hundred and seven.
Percy exchanges a look with Annabeth, and for once, they’re thinking the exact same thing. “Cut the line?”
“Cut.” She agrees, and they start shoving past ghosts. They turn translucent as they brush up against them, but a feeling of awful coldness spreads through Percy’s skin the longer he’s near them, like they’re sucking the life out of him. After what seems like an eternity—or maybe just ninety-seven years—they make it to the front of the queue, passing an eddy of the River Styx, which for some reason, is allowed to lap against the marble floor of the palace.
“Welcome to the House of Hades!” A voice is calling cheerfully to each shade it lets enter, and Percy looks to see a man with deathly white skin and matching curly hair, a floating list in front of him. He floats with his legs crossed underneath him, cocooned by a cloak that looks like it’s made entirely of blankets.
“Who is that?” Percy asks Annabeth.
She narrows her eyes. “Um… no idea.” She looks embarrassed to admit it.
They reach the front of the queue, and the man notices them. “Welcome to the House of—woah, you guys are alive!”
“Not so loud!” Percy says hastily, but the longer he looks at the man, the less inclined he is to rush. The blankets surrounding him look so comfortable, and Percy can’t remember the last time he’s had a good restful sleep. He’s certain, more certain than he’s been of anything in his life, that he’d sleep so well in those blankets.
He frowns. What had he been saying? “We have to see… um…” His mouth feels like it’s filled with sand as he looks up to meet the man’s eyes, which are warm and golden and welcoming.
His eyes feel heavy. Surely it wouldn’t be too bad to take just a quick nap? It’s so hard to keep his eyes open. But—no, there was something he needed to do. He blinks slowly and sees Annabeth swaying next to him. A soft, warm feeling is starting to envelop him, like he’s already surrounded by those soft blankets. He really wants to sleep, but there was something… something important…
A jaw-splitting yawn interrupts his train of thought. His next blink lasts a little longer than the last—
A quick trill of music makes his eyes snap open. It sounds a bit like the alarm he’d used to get up for at Yancy, and he flinches at the sound. Annabeth rubs her eyes, looking annoyed.
“Snap out of it, guys!” Grover hisses, then plays another few notes. It seems to clear his head, makes the warm feeling fly away from him. “That’s Hypnos!”
Percy shakes himself, and he can see Annabeth doing the same. The man waves, but this time Percy avoids eye contact and stares at a spot somewhere above his head. “That’s me! Hypnos, god of sleep, at your service!” He lets out a yawn, and Percy follows him reflexively.
“Sorry, was I making you tired? That doesn’t seem to happen with the shades…” He consults his list, frowning. “I don’t think you guys are supposed to be in here.”
Percy draws himself up to his full height, which he’s uncomfortably aware is not much. “We need to speak to Lord Hades,” he says.
“Well… I guess you are at the front of the line…” Hypnos says doubtfully. “But, I mean, I saw you cut the queue, and that’s really not something I’m supposed to encourage, you know.”
“Listen, it’s about…” Annabeth lowers her voice. “The thing with Mount Olympus.”
Hypnos blinks, and Percy makes the mistake of looking at his eyes for too long again. He has to blink hard to get the heavy feeling out of his eyes. “The… oohhhh, you mean the thing.” He winks. “Gotcha. Well, I’d better send you on your way then!”
He points ahead of him. “Take a right down the hall—you can’t miss him.”
“Thank you, Lord Hypnos.” Annabeth says, and Percy and Grover mutter the same.
“No problem! It’s so rare we get live mortals here, it makes sense Lord Hades would want to see you!” Hypnos waves. “Get some sleep, kiddos!”
Percy feels his knees start to buckle right then and there.
“Not here!” Grover snaps, and plays a sharp tune on his pipes again, which jolts Percy back into alertness. They turn right at the next hallway and enter the throne room.
It looks just like it had in his dreams, except this time it’s occupied. Another difference: in front of his huge throne is a matching desk which is covered in paperwork, each stack nearly a foot high.
The occupant of the throne looks up at Percy, Annabeth, and Grover, and all Percy can think is that Hades is the first god that really looks like a god. He’s at least ten feet tall, for one thing, and he’s wearing a traditional Greek chiton that’s clasped at one shoulder with a skull. He’s covered in jewels: he has a massive ruby encased in gold lying on the top of his hand, and nearly all his fingers have rings with huge jewels of all kinds—emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and a bunch of others that Percy doesn’t know the names of. His face has the same deathly pale quality as Hypnos’ had, and his eyes are a pure, deep red. His black hair extends down his face as a beard that crosses over itself and hangs in two strands over his chest, and his head is wreathed in red, orange, and gold laurel leaves.
His throne is made of pure black stone and towers over even Hades, making it at least twelve feet tall. Percy has to crane his neck to see the top of it. A matching black desk contains stacks and stacks of paperwork, only parting so Hades has a clear view to see his throne room.
Percy immediately feels like Hades knows more than Percy does. Hades should be giving the orders. Hades should be his master. Then Percy shakes himself out of it—the god’s aura was affecting him, just like Ares’ had.
“It is extremely brave for you to enter into my House, spawn of Poseidon,” Hades says, in such a deep voice that Percy could swear he feels it vibrating in his chest. “After what you have done to me… Yes, very brave. Or very foolish.”
A numb, cold feeling spreads through Percy’s body, making his limbs feel heavy in the same way Hypnos’ aura had, but a million times stronger. It urges him to lay down at Hades’ throne and close his eyes, to sleep forever and never get up. But Percy’s ready for it this time, and he ignores the feeling.
He steps forward, swallowing. “Lord and Uncle, I come with two requests.”
Hades raises a thick black eyebrow and leans forward in his throne. “Only two requests? As you can see, my desk is quite filled with requests already, boy.” He gestures at the parchment. “Arrogant child—to make demands of me after what you’ve taken. Fine, speak. It will be an amusing interruption not to strike you dead just yet.”
It’s going about as well as Percy had hoped. His eyes catch on a pure white throne, sitting empty. It must be for Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, who might calm her husband’s moods. But it’s summer, so of course she’s absent. Percy wonders what would make the goddess of verdure choose to make a home here, among the dead. But then, according to some myths, it hadn’t been her choice at all.
Annabeth clears her throat and nudges him.
“Lord Hades,” Percy says. “Look, there can’t be war between the gods. It would be… bad.”
“Real bad.” Grover supplies helpfully.
“Return Lord Zeus’ Master Bolt to me, and I can carry it back to Olympus.”
It’s wrong thing to say. Hades’ eyes glow like embers in a fire that is about to erupt. “You dare keep up this pretense, after what you’ve taken?”
“Um… Uncle,” Percy says. “You keep saying that after what I’ve taken. What exactly have I taken?”
Then it all sort of goes to hellhound crap after that.
After complaining about how huge the Underworld has swelled, how many subdivisions he’s had to make, and how overworked he is, he reveals that not only has the Master Bolt been stolen, but Hades’ Helm of Darkness has, as well. And of course, he thinks Percy’s stolen that, too. Percy wonders if any of the gods even know that he’s twelve years old. He can’t even drive yet.
And Hades… Hades thinks that Percy already has the Master Bolt. Which Percy denies, obviously. But then he opens his pack, a horrible feeling striking him. The weight in his backpack, like a bowling ball. It can’t be…
He slings his backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. Inside is a two-foot-long metal cylinder, spiked on both sides, humming with energy.
“Percy,” Annabeth says, her eyes huge. “How…”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t understand—”
“You heroes are always the same,” Hades scoffs. “Your pride makes you foolish, thinking you could bring such a weapon before me. I did not ask for my brother’s symbol of power, but since it is here, you may as well yield it to me. Now, boy—”
He cuts off suddenly, his eyes narrowing. He cuts his gaze over to the Styx in the hallway to the west, its blood-red waters going unnaturally still. Percy feels something odd building in the air, a heavy sense that presses down on his blood. Annabeth puts a hand on her dagger and Grover bleats nervously. What else could possibly be going wrong?
The pool bubbles, and Percy watches, tense, as a figure, a man, rises from it, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the House.
The Styx’s blood slides off the man like it’s water—he shakes it from his hair, wipes it from his face, rubs it from his eyes. He’s casual about it, like it’s something he does every day, as he slings a long, crimson sword off his shoulder. Once the blood is gone, Percy can get a good look at his face: he has black, spiky hair, framing a sharp face with striking eyes—one a piercing green and the other a deep, pure red. With a start, Percy realizes that it matches Hades’.
He is wearing another classic chiton of some kind, though Percy still can’t help but think of them as fancy sheets. His is also clasped at the shoulder with a skull—is that the peak of fashion in the Underworld, or something? He’s barefoot, but his feet have sparks flying off them, as if he’s walking on a bed of hot coals. He has that aura of casual power that Percy has come to associate with gods, and he tenses even further.
“Hello there, Father,” The man says, running a hand through his hair. “Mother sends her—”He stops short, his eyes widening as he takes in the scene in front of Hades’ throne.
Father? Percy wracks his brain, but he can’t recall anything about a godly son of Hades. He sends a panicked look to Annabeth, whose grey eyes are stormy, likely thinking just as hard as him.
“Zagreus.” Hades growls, his red eyes flashing. “Go to your room. I have affairs here that are none of your concern.”
“Go to your room?” Zagreus repeats, sounding amused. “What am I, barely a century old?” His casual tone is undermined by his sharp gaze that stays fixed on the trio in front of the throne. Grover and Annabeth subtly slip into defensive positions to counter this new threat, going to either side of Percy. “Who are our guests, Father? I’m offended you didn’t tell me we’re hosting.”
Hades scoffs. “You should be examining our security, boy. You’ve clearly missed something, because these godlings slipped in right under Cerberus’ nose.”
“Oh, trust me, he was well aware.” Grover mutters, Annabeth giving him a sharp look.
“Two demigods and a satyr,” the new god murmurs, his multicolored eyes catching on Percy’s backpack. Percy gets the feeling Zagreus knows exactly what he is hiding in there, but oddly enough, his expression softens. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Helm that you’re no longer wearing to our battles, which—as you’ve said, repeatedly—is also none of my concern?”
And Hades growls, looking much closer to losing control of his temper than he had earlier. “I refuse to be disobeyed like this in my own hall. Guards!” He makes a slashing motion with one hand, and three skeleton guards carrying rifles start towards them, one reaching out to seize Annabeth’s wrist.
“Wait!” Percy shouts, and then a lot of things happen at once.
Faster than he can blink, there’s a flash of golden light as the daughter of Athena dashes to the side. With a voiceless shriek, the skeleton is forced back, his strength deflected. Percy draws Riptide, the sword extending with a shink. The three close ranks, but hopelessness is already descending on him. He hadn’t even gotten to see his mom.
Then there is another flash, this time red, as the smell of iron blood fills the air. Suddenly, Zagreus is standing between them and his father. The skeletons halt, not daring to march upon what must be the Prince of the Underworld. He glances behind him. “Daughter of Athena, are you?”
Annabeth hesitates. “I… am, yes. Annabeth Chase, my lord.”
A quicksilver smirk lights up the god’s face. “Well then. You could’ve just said so.”
Hades leans forward, his aura of cold and death growing until Percy feels nearly suffocated by it. But Zagreus doesn’t even flinch. “Boy, I am warning you—”
“Under my authority as Prince of the Underworld, I formally place these three under my protection: Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena—” He looks behind him again. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your names?”
“Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon,” says Percy quickly. He has no idea what this god’s motivations are, but right now, protection sounds pretty good.
“Grover Underwood, satyr protector.”
“Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, and Grover Underwood, satyr protector.” Zagreus crosses his arms in front of him, and then slices them down. There’s a shudder, and a sigil is ripped from the air as if carved by a knife: a blood red symbol that looks sort of like a diamond crossed with one of those fancy ‘S’ drawings that kids would draw in school. It pulses once, then dissipates.
If Hades looked furious before, his expression is utterly thunderous now. “You don’t know what you’ve done, you fool. The summer solstice deadline is today. You cannot simply put them under your protection. That sea-spawn has stolen the Master Bolt itself!”
“Has he really?” Zagreus turns and raises an eyebrow appreciatively at Percy. “Well done, mate.”
“I haven’t!” Percy protests. “We were sent to get it back from you!”
“Like we’ve said, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Annabeth steps in smoothly. “If you’d just let us explain—”
“Surely you can give us thirty minutes, Father.” Zagreus interrupts, giving them a warning glance. “You know you can’t touch them with my protection over them, not without a fight.” And at that, he puts a hand on his sword. “It would be embarrassing to thrash you in front of these guests—for you, I mean.”
Percy’s mouth twitches at the words, despite the danger in them. That kind of disrespect is—well, it’s something Percy would say.
“Choose your next words carefully.” Hades says slowly, dangerously, like a panther about to pounce. Percy readies himself to bolt. “That boy stole two symbols of power.”
Zagreus cocks his head, brow furrowing. “Stole—Father, they’re children.”
Percy scowls, and Annabeth straightens herself, eyes flashing. There’s an odd beat of silence at Zagreus’ words, as something passes between father and son that Percy can’t decipher. Hades pauses.
Then at last, the suffocating aura lessens, and Hades waves a massive hand, suddenly looking tired. “Fine. Do what you will with them. But when war breaks out between my brothers and they are looking for someone to blame, I will send them to you. Obstinate brat.”
Zagreus inclines his head, the first show of respect he’d given to the God of the Underworld so far, then nods to Percy. “Follow me.”
Feeling a bit dazed, Percy does.
Zagreus leads them through grand, winding halls of the House of Hades with the kind of relaxed grace that comes from absolute confidence. Percy envies him for it. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt relaxed anywhere.
“So who is this guy?” He mutters to Annabeth.
She shakes her head. “I’ve—I’ve never even heard of him. Clearly, I didn’t research Underworld gods as much as I should have.” She looks frustrated with herself.
Grover lets out a nervous bleat. “He just saved us from a one-way ticket to Tartarus, so I’m up for giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Why, thank you, Master Satyr,” Zagreus says cheerfully, and Grover blushes furiously. “We’re almost there, and then we can talk properly.”
The god leads them through a secluded doorway, which opens up to a room that looks a bit like the kitchens at Camp Half-Blood, if those kitchens were using a black-and-red ominous color theme. It’s empty, except for a shade chef at the corner, busily chopping up some fish. “Take a seat, then.” He gestures to a lone table. “We won’t be overheard here.”
Percy hesitantly pulls out a chair and sits, Annabeth and Grover doing the same. Zagreus leans back in his own chair, arms crossed behind his head. “So—you must be the little sea spawn that caught Alecto by surprise.”
“Who?” Percy frowns.
The god laughs. “So she didn’t introduce herself? Meg and I have been hearing her complain for months about it.”
“Alecto—the Fury.” Annabeth reminds him.
“Oh, her. She disguised herself as my math teacher.”
Zagreus lets out another loud laugh that almost makes Percy want to smile. “I will definitely be reminding her of that next time she calls me a trash blood.”
“You… do know that he killed her, right?” Grover asks cautiously.
“Oh, sure. Alecto does have that effect. Not the most pleasant Fury to fight, I’ll tell you that. Though from what I heard, you took her out in one hit. Impressive—even I’ve never done that.”
Percy blinks, trying to process that nonsensical statement. “Who are you? Why are you helping us if Hades is your dad?”
The god tilts his head. “I apologize, I’ve been rude. I am Zagreus, prince of the Underworld, god of blood and rebirth.” He winks at him. “Sorry you had to see me come out of the Styx like that—I’m usually much more put together. And as for why I’m helping you…” Something in his bearing shifts, his expression getting serious. “That’s your mother that Hades is holding, isn’t it?”
Percy flinches. “What do you know about my mom? Is she okay? She’s not…”
“She’s perfectly fine.” Zagreus says in an unexpectedly reassuring tone. “I promise. She’s not a shade, she’s just being held in stasis.”
Relief flows through him, but… “What does that have to do with why you’re helping us, though?” He’s reminded of the saying Annabeth told him after he received the pearls from Poseidon: never trust a free lunch.
Zagreus meets his eyes. “I know a thing or two about going on an impossible quest to find one’s mother, son of Poseidon.”
At that, Annabeth gasps. “Zagreus… you’re Persephone’s son!”
He inclines his head. “I am.”
“That means—you were the one to find Persephone and negotiate an agreement with Lady Demeter to let Persephone stay in the Underworld, right?”
“For three months out of a year,” Zagreus corrects her. “But yes. Although I did get a lot of help from my relatives. We’ve strayed from the point, though.” He turns to Percy again, wincing slightly like he’s in pain. “Blood and darkness, godlings, what was your plan? No mortal walks out of the Underworld alive, least of all with my uncle’s symbol of power in his backpack.”
The weight of the Master Bolt is still heavy, and, as if at Percy’s thinking of it, the air sparks with ozone.
“We were told that Lord Hades had stolen the Bolt, Lord Zagreus.” Annabeth explains. “We had no idea that the Helm of Darkness was also taken.”
“Please, daughter of Athena, just call me Zagreus,” says the god easily. “I owe a debt to your mother; she was the first to offer her aid in my quest to find Persephone. Your use of Athena’s Divine Dash…” He winks one green eye. “Well, that sealed my decision to intervene on your behalf. I was a fan of that move myself.”
But then he sighs. “Still, there must be other forces at work here, if what you say is true. To steal both the Master Bolt and my Father’s Helm…” He trails off, his face grave. “It means we’re dealing with someone powerful enough to execute that kind of plan and crafty enough to set my father and uncles against each other. It’s a dangerous combination.”
Percy hesitates, searching the god’s face. “I’ve been… having dreams with a voice in a pit, and it’s not any god we could recognize. Then we were almost dragged into Tartarus by something that felt the same. I can’t describe it, but—I think something’s stirring down there.”
Annabeth shivers, and Grover makes a sign to ward off evil. A shadow falls over Zagreus’ face, his red eye darkening to a crimson. “Something stirring in Tartarus… but that’s—that’s impossible.” He rubs a hand against his mouth, seeming to forget the other demigods are there for a moment, muttering to himself. “It can’t be, has to be one of the others. But then—Meli did say she’d been having strange dreams…”
“Um, Lord Zagreus?” Annabeth promts, her face a little pale. “What do you mean, one of the others?”
“My sister Melinoë knows more about this kind of thing than I do,” says Zagreus, frowning. “It’s best not to speculate, at least for now, until we can be more certain.”
“Your sister?” Grover asks, who had pulled out an aluminum can from his pack and was nibbling on it nervously. “Who is she?”
“Melinoë. A formidable witch, officially the goddess of nightmares, but her domains are truly a lot more varied. I’m not ashamed to admit she’s a lot more powerful than me.” Zagreus smiles, a softer, fonder thing than his sarcastic ones Percy has seen before. “She has some gift of foresight, particularly in these cases.”
“Does that mean you know who could be trying to start a war between the gods, Lord Zagreus?” Annabeth says, clearly determined not to drop the title. From the dry look she gives Percy, he wonders if it’s to lessen the impact of his ‘impertinent’ attitude towards gods.
Zagreus shakes his head. “I don’t know. If you’d asked me two thousand years ago… well, I could have had an answer for you then. But things have changed.” He shifts in his seat and winces again, a hand going to his shoulder. To Percy’s shock, it comes away dotted in red blood.
“What…?”
“Oh, this.” The god shrugs. “Not fully healed from my recent trek across the Underworld, I suppose. I hadn’t realized.”
“Your blood,” Annabeth says slowly. “Why isn’t it ichor?”
“I bleed red just like all mortals,” says Zagreus. “Because I am the god of blood, you know. It would be odd if I didn’t, I think. But my sister and I have some mortal heritage from our mother’s side, as well. I’m told it makes us quite different from other gods.”
Percy is seized by an impulse. Maybe it’s the kindness Zagreus showed them, maybe it’s the stress from the quest, maybe it’s that it really does feel like he’s different from the other gods, but he reaches into his pocket and hands the god his canteen of nectar. “This should help you heal, right? If you bleed red like mortals, you probably feel pain like us, too.”
Zagreus stares at the nectar for a few moments, his expression strange. It lasts long enough that Percy starts to get worried he’s offended him. “Uh… what’s wrong?”
The god seems to shake himself. “Sorry, it’s just… It’s funny, but no one’s actually given me nectar before. I’m usually the one doing the giving.” Then he laughs, more genuinely than before. “Well, little cousin, I suppose that means I owe you something too!”
“You really don’t need to do that.” Percy protests. His mom raised him well enough to know that you don’t give gifts expecting something in return.
“I insist.” Zagreus smiles at him, then takes the nectar, taking long drink from it, far more than would be safe for a demigod to drink all at once. He then stands, extends his left hand above him, and closes his eyes. It’s an almost supplicating gesture, and Percy would nearly mistake it for praying, if not for a sudden pressure in the air. He gets an odd feeling, like his blood wants to jump out of his skin and reunite with the god in front of him. Instead, the blood flowing from Zagreus’ shoulder wound changes direction, floating up to his hand.
The heavy feeling increases, and the blood condenses into a single glowing drop. It crystallizes, something like clear glass encasing it, and at the same time, a small metal chain grows out of the end. It rotates once, then stills. It falls into Zagreus’ hand, the glow fading. “Take it, Percy Jackson.” Zagreus says, one of his eyes still half-closed, the red one trained on him.
For the first time, Percy gets a real sense of the kind of power that lurks under this man’s skin. And he’s offering Percy a part of his own essence.
Slowly, Percy reaches out and takes the hardened drop of blood. It’s cool in his hands. “Zagreus, this…”
“We’re honored.” Annabeth says. “But… what is it?”
“Just a mark of my favor,” the god says, rolling his neck like he hadn’t just created a keepsake out of his own blood. “Though I can’t really leave the Underworld, you could say I have gotten around a bit. I hope it serves you well, little cousin. And though I hope you never have to use it, you’ll find that if you ever draw so near to Death that you can hear his footsteps behind you… well, this should give you a bit more fight.”
Percy fastens the chain to his Camp Half-Blood necklace, shaken. “I… thank you, Zagreus.”
“Anything for the family.” He takes another drink of the nectar. “Now, I think our time from dear old dad is almost up. Do you have a way out of here?”
Percy’s hand goes to his pockets where the pearls reside. “Yeah, we do. But… my mom, I can’t—”
Zagreus lays a hand on his shoulder, his eyes hard, though his anger doesn’t seem directed at him. “I’ll make sure your mother gets home safe, Percy Jackson. I can promise you that. You and your companions need to get out first, though. I meant what I said to my father—you three are only children. You should never have had the responsibility to fix our uncles’ problems. You deserve better.”
All at once, Percy finds that it’s hard to breathe, like he’s underwater without his dad’s protection from the deep. No one’s ever—no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. That he deserves better. There was never talk about deserving, only what was. Your mom stayed with Gabe to protect you. Don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy, Percy, it’s for your own good. It’s no accident Poseidon claimed you now. Your father needs you.
To his absolute mortification, he can feel his eyes start to burn. Zagreus’ hand is a weight on his shoulder, grounding, and Percy looks away quickly. “…Thanks.” He says roughly, clearing his throat. “But sometimes you don’t really get what you deserve.”
And Zagreus looks at him, his green-and-red eyes impossibly sad. “No, Percy. Sometimes you don’t.”
At that moment, a voice roars loud enough to be heard through the whole House, if not the Underworld. “Zagreus!”
“Oh, damn, that’s my cue.” Zagreus mutters. “Blood and darkness, but he’s going to give me a thrashing the next time I reach the surface.”
And with that, the god seizes the demigods’ hands and twists, and between one second and the next, they’re standing back in front of Hades’ throne. The god of the Underworld does not look like his temper has calmed any in the short interval.
“Enjoyed your break, boy?” Hades snarls.
“Very much, thanks,” Zagreus says with the grin Percy is starting to think he only pulls out to aggravate his father.
“I see you gave the sea spawn something to remember you by.” The other god says gruffly. “You should be more careful with who you bestow your favor upon.”
Percy’s hand flies up to the blood teardrop on his necklace as Zagreus looks at him with that searching look again, then smiles. “You know, I really don’t think I do.” He turns to his father. “I’ll leave you to your interrogation, then, shall I?”
“If you’ll allow it,” Hades says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Get out of my sight, Zagreus.”
His son gives him a mock bow, winks at Percy again, then twists on his heel and disappears. Percy turns to face Hades again, this time feeling a little more courageous.
Luke hasn’t looked Percy in the eyes since they returned, but he tries not to let it bother him. He and Annabeth make it through more summer days at Camp, they send off Grover in search of Pan, they watch the fireworks and win Capture the Flag and sing campfire songs, and Luke doesn’t look at Percy. Which is fine. Luke’s an adult, he’s not going to waste his time with Percy… even though he had before the quest.
When the son of Hermes invites Percy to go hunt monsters in the woods, Percy’s just so relieved that Luke wants to talk to him again that Percy ignores the dread in his gut, and he goes.
(Later, on nights where he really hates Luke, he’ll wonder if the whole thing had been on purpose. If he’d strung Percy along, half-starved on love from anyone but his mom, knowing that if he withheld it, he’d have Percy where he wanted him.)
Percy is betrayed by one he calls a friend, and the man sends a pit scorpion against him. Percy’s too slow with Riptide, still shocked, and it stings him. It’s a dull pain that seems to spread into his core, and as he stumbles towards the river, he knows in his bones it’s going to be too late. Even his father’s blood can’t heal him from this—it’s freshwater, it can’t purge the poison from his system faster than the venom spreads.
So much for that destiny everyone keeps hinting at, he thinks, as he collapses to his knees and the world grows dark, turns misty and hazy. It’s like a veil has been lifted, and all at once he sees… a figure dressed in purple, a huge scythe strapped to his back. Percy feels an unnatural sort of calm as he watches the figure approach him, his footsteps slow and inevitable.
The figure goes to lifts his hood—and Percy feels something on his camp necklace suddenly heat up, pulsing against his skin, and his vision clears for a moment. The figure halts and cocks his head. Zagreus’ keepsake, Percy realizes. With a shaking hand, Percy seizes his necklace and yanks the hardened drop of blood off. It pulses again, and a burst of power rushes through his whole body, his blood burning under his skin.
That energy pushes Percy to his feet as it cleans his blood, reinvigorates it, but it can’t get rid of the poison entirely. Water swirls around him, pushing against his feet to give him extra strength. It gives him enough time to croak help to a nearby dryad, who goes running for Chiron. Percy turns his head—and makes eye contact with the man, who is still standing, waiting.
Golden eyes glint underneath the hood as the figure studies him. He gives Percy a short nod, then twists on his heel and vanishes into darkness with a flash of green and a deep gong that no one else seems to hear. It’s almost like he takes the keepsake’s power with him, because the warmth pulsing in Percy’s blood dies, and his eyes close on their own as he hears Chiron’s hooves.
After he’s recovered, Percy tells Chiron and Annabeth of Luke’s betrayal, of the prophecy’s true meaning. He’s still weak enough that he has to stay on bedrest for another day, Annabeth visiting him on and off to keep him company.
“Fates, Seaweed Brain…” Annabeth says, the nickname falling a little flat as her voice shakes. “You gave m—us a real scare.” She’s sitting on a chair next to his sick bed in the Big House, a tome with a title in Ancient Greek open on her lap. Percy squints at the title—Chthonic… something?
“I’ll try to avoid pit scorpions next time.” Percy takes a few sips of nectar, which reminds him—“Annabeth, I think Zagreus’ gift saved my life.”
Her grey eyes narrow. “How?”
“Remember what he said? If you draw so close to Death that you can hear his footsteps behind you… I though it was just a fancy poetic way of saying it would activate when you were dying, but it must’ve been literal, because I—Annabeth, I think I saw him.”
“Death?” Annabeth says, her hand going to her dagger reflexively. “You mean… Thanatos?”
The lights flicker for a moment, and she curses under her breath in Ancient Greek.
“Is that his name?”
She nods slowly. “It’s really, really rare to see him. For obvious reasons. Are you sure—I mean, you must’ve been nearly unconscious.”
“I remember that part clearly enough,” Percy says. “He had a huge scythe, and his aura… It was like everything just went completely still around him. Who else could it be?”
Annabeth takes a deep breath. “No, you’re right. I think Zagreus might be one of the only beings who could promise something like that.” She gestures to her book. “I’ve been doing some research on him and the other Chthonic Gods. We were only prepared for Hades. We overlooked the other gods in the Underworld, made a mistake in thinking it was just him. We got lucky in meeting one of the kinder ones, like Zagreus.”
Percy cocks his head. “Tonic what?”
“Chthonic. It means of the Underworld. And Zagreus—well, he’s not really well-known. What is known is that Zagreus’ consort is literally Death. Thanatos.”
“Consort.” Percy frowns. “That means they’re, like, dating, right?”
Annabeth rolls her eyes. “Gods don’t date. But yeah, basically.”
“That’s not what my mom said about my dad,” He mutters.
“Not everyone gets as lucky as your mother,” says Annabeth, her expression hardening.
I don’t know if I would call it lucky, Percy thinks, but knows better than to say. He changes the subject back to her research, which tends to cheer her up. “He mentioned someone else. A sister, right?”
“Yeah, Melinoë.” Her eyes brighten. “There’s a lot of contradictions about her domains. Some say she’s the goddess of shades, others say nightmares, divination, witches, magic—there’s even an association with time. She’s a little more well known than Zagreus, but the legends about her… they’re strange, Percy.”
“Stranger than normal Greek myths?”
“They don’t make any sense. This was one of the only books I could find with information about her, but all the stories about Melinoë… it’s almost like there’s been things cut out. See, here—” She shows him a paragraph in the book, all written in Greek. “I call upon Melinoë, the saffron-cloaked goddess of witchery, who vanquished the great foe in the War of—And then it just blacks out. As the gods battled against—another blank. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the gods are ashamed of something in there.”
Percy frowns. “But… aren’t she and Zagreus minor gods? Why would the Olympians go to the effort of cutting things out of her story?”
“They are minor gods—which, now that I think about it, is weird too. Nearly all of Zeus’ godly children are Olympians. My mother, Hermes, Ares, just to name a few. Why wouldn’t Hades’ godly children be considered just as important?”
“The Olympians don’t seem like Hades much. Maybe they’re just as powerful as some of Zeus’ godly kids, but they just don’t like to acknowledge it because they’re from the Underworld?” Percy suggests.
Annabeth considers it “You might be right. Don’t get cocky about it,” she warns when she sees his smirk.
“I wonder if we’ll see Zagreus again,” says Percy slowly. “I don’t think I dread it like I do the other gods.”
“But what reason would he have to leave the Underworld? And no one has encountered Melinoë in millennia. I don’t know, Percy. It doesn’t seem likely.” Annabeth snaps the heavy book shut, and it makes an audible thud. “It’s interesting research, but nothing more than that.”
“I guess.” He says, but his hand goes up to his camp necklace again. When he’d woken up, the chain had repaired itself, though the drop of blood had lost some of its shine. Still, at Annabeth’s words, Percy could’ve sworn he felt it heat up.