Chapter Text
Percy wakes up with a sense of foreboding. It’s not exactly unusual for him—for any demi-god, really, but between demi-god dreams and the continuous post-Tartarus nightmares he has, it’s a miracle he gets any sleep at all—to awaken from the sensation of dread.
It is, however, unusual for him to wake up in a field of grass. Alone. When he was just curled up beside his girlfriend.
(A consolation prize awarded to him by Mr. D after one too many nightmares. The God had almost seemed like he gave a damn, before returning to his card game.)
He quickly snaps to his senses. A familiar flash of panic courses through him. Where is Annabeth?
Where is he, for that matter. His whereabouts are less of a concern to him though. This isn’t the first time Percy’s been straight up taken in his sleep and plopped elsewhere. He supposes it was foolish to think the first time would also be the last. At least he has his memories this time.
It’s not much of a consolation. Not when worries over Annabeth plague him. Percy knows his girlfriend can take care of herself. But memories of her dangling on the edge of the cracked cavern floor leading to the pit of Tartarus, memories of himself from his own unpleasant misadventures during his time sans memories, make his stomach churn.
He hopes he’s the only one here. Wherever here is. Even if Annabeth has to wake up to him gone again, he’d rather guilt over that than fear for her safety.
Pulling himself up, Percy surveys his surroundings. The rolling green fields go on for miles, but the most prominent feature is the great mountain resting a ways away. His hand instinctively travels to his pocket. He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels riptide in its pen form.
(The breeze picks up. A string is strung and a thread spun; a sudden knot gets in the way. A soft hiss fills his ears, the phantom sensation of bony fingers digs into his skin.)
Percy goes over his options. He could explore the fields, but chances are it will be in vain. For some reason, the mountain draws him in. Besides, mountains likely mean water, right? He and Annabeth watched a documentary. Decision made, Percy treks towards the base of the mountain.
Thoughts of Annabeth, his mother and family, his friends, plague his mind. So much so that when the sudden bleat of sheep rings through his ears, it nearly makes him jump. Percy stares at the woolly offender. It lets out a soft baa before trotting off. Huh, Percy thinks, a lone sheep seems strange.
Percy senses another presence, whipping around to see a shepherd rushing towards him. “Blast it! Return at once you damn sheep—”
He isn’t speaking in English. The language is similar to Ancient Greek; close enough for him to understand. Huh.
Percy moves to halt the sheep. He plucks it up with ease, ignoring the animal’s indignant cry. The shepherd comes to a stop, dipping his head in gratitude. “Thank you. That one is always getting away from me.”
The shepherd laughs. He smiles at Percy. The shepherd isn’t a monster, which should put him at ease. If anything, he seems mortal. But Percy’s been exposed to too many beautiful—and he truly is beautiful—creatures that turn out wanting to kill him for him not to be on guard.
“Apologies.” The shepherd says, his soft curls bouncing. He kneels, part reverent, part fearful, and part curious. Percy knows that look. It’s the kind one gives to Gods. “I did not mean to address Your Grace casually.”
Your Grace. The addressment feels fundamentally wrong. It’s not unlike the stiffness he used to, and sometimes even now, feels when anyone addresses him formally. Percy shakes his head, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m not a God.”
The son of one, who’s probably freaking out about Percy being missing now that he thinks about it, yes. But not a God. Never a God.
“Ah.” The shepherd relaxes, standing back up. He tilts his head curiously. “But of divine nature?”
“Half. But I’m not one to lord it over someone. Or demand respect and stuff.” Percy replies. He knows not all Gods are like that. He also knows that more than enough are.
It is odd, though, that a mortal (?) would recognize that about him. Even ones who can see through the mist don’t necessarily revere the Gods, let alone kneel for them. The shepherd nods. He offers Percy a dazzling smile. “I am Alexandros.”
“Percy.” When Alexandros blinks, Percy hastily expands. “It’s short for Perseus.”
“You are not from here?” Alexandros guesses. Percy nods mutely. “From where do you hail? Your clothes and manner of speech are... foreign.”
Like he can talk, Percy thinks. Then again, Percy also has no idea where the Hades here is. Or why the language seems to be something similar to ancient Greek.
“I’m from New York.” He answers. Alexandros blinks. Maybe he doesn’t know cities. Knowing his luck, Percy’s probably in the middle of nowhere. “Uh, America.” Another blinks. “USA? The United States of America?”
Alexandros frowns. “I do not recognize the place of which you speak.”
Okay. Weird. “Maybe if I knew where here was?”
“You are by the base of Mount Ida.” Alexandros informs him
The name strikes him as familiar. Mount Ida, where Zeus took refuge from Kronos, where so many legends took place. Percy stares blankly at Alexandros. The cogs in his brain start to turn. This man, this mortal, who understands ancient greek, speaking a language somewhat familiar and different yet with the same sense of ancientness to it.
Oh.
Oh no.
As if making him the child of destiny hadn’t been enough, Percy muses bitterly. His heartbeat picks up, his breathing becoming uneven. Alexandros says something that Percy can’t make out. He’s too busy focusing on the fact that he’s probably in Ancient Greece.
(A carefully woven tapestry frays slightly, a single thread loose. The weavers hiss in frustration and attempt to mend it.)
“Breathe.” Alexandros instructs. His voice is soft, melodic. His hand rests lightly on Percy’s back, grounding. It lulls Percy back to reason.
Percy shudders. He breathes in, then out, until he steadies. Alexandros can’t offer much support with his slight build. But what he does offer might be all the more important. “Have you anywhere to stay?”
Percy shakes his head. Alexandros smiles. It reminds Percy of the kind celebrities wear; not entirely fake, but not exactly genuine. “You can stay with me. My wife would be happy to receive you.”
Being stuck in Ancient Greece will probably suck less if he has something to eat, so Percy agrees with a modicum of wariness. Alexandros beams and leads the way to his homestead, prodding his formerly stray sheep along. Percy follows him.
The journey isn’t too long and if Percy hadn’t been sure he’d been thrown into the past before, he is now. The few people whom they cross are dressed in chitons, speaking in the same way Alexandros does. They all give him strange looks. Which, fair enough. If someone wearing a knight’s armour or something was just following one of his neighbours around, Percy would probably be a little curious too.
It does nothing to soothe the unease he feels, though. Ah well, at least he’d have shelter for the foreseeable future.
He hopes.
_______________________
“Forgive me, you must be used to more splendour.” Alexandros says when they arrive at the humble homestead.
“Your home is lovely.” Percy replies. For one, because his mom raised him right, and two, because he can’t talk given the places he’s stayed at. And then, “Home doesn’t need splendour to be comfortable.”
Alexandros’ features visibly soften. He runs a hand through his soft curls. “My wife would say the same thing.”
As if on cue, a mountain nymph, with silvery-blonde hair and eyes too blue to belong to a mortal, emerges from the mitato. She smiles at Alexandros adoringly, planting a kiss on his cheek in greeting. “Husband. You’ve brought company?”
Her eyes settle on Percy. She blinks apprehensively before Alexandros wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
“He means no harm. He even caught that damned sheep for me.” Alexandros assures her.
“Apologies.” The nymph softens. She offers Percy a small smile. “I do not mean to offend.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” Percy tells her. He rubs the back of his neck. “I get it.”
Because he does get it. He remembers being twelve, seeing the power behind the facade Mr.D likes to wear. Remembers Grover’s nervousness, the nymphs’ hesitance around any half-blood that resembled their godly parent a little too much.
He also knows the stories about this time period. When the Gods were at their mightiest, and cruelest. If he were to encounter his father now, it wouldn’t be the same casual, teasing fisherman Percy’s grown used to. He might recognize Percy, would probably be his safest bet, but still not the same. Not to mention if he were to encounter another God, like Apollo– or Chaos forbid someone like Ares– it likely won’t bode well for him.
“Thank you for aiding my husband. I do not know if he has thanked you already, for he often forgets his manners.” The nymph ignores her husband’s cry of protest and flashes Percy a brilliant smile. “I am Oenone, daughter of Cebren.”
“Percy. Er, Perseus, technically. But everyone calls me Percy.” He returns her smile. He doesn’t reveal who his father is and judging by the way Oenone looks at
“Come, I have dinner ready and the sun shall soon set.” Oenone squeezes her husband’s hand before heading back into her home.
Alexandros’ gaze follows her in. He looks at Percy almost expectantly. Percy flummoxes for a bit until he guesses. “Your wife seems great.”
“Is she not?” Alexandros sighs dreamily. “A beautiful nymph, choosing a mere shepherd such as myself.”
“I’m sure she loves you.” Percy responds. He doesn’t know how else to, but he kind of gets it. To be dopey and in love. It reminds him of Annabeth. He still can’t wrap his head around why she chose him, but by the Fates is he glad she did.
Alexandros nods, grinning. “Shall we?”
Percy smiles back at him and they head into the mitato. The meal Oenone has prepared is simple and delicious. It consists of flatbread, some kind of cheese, olives, and wine to drink. The wine tastes a tad too strong for him, so he sticks to water.
Alexandros and Oenone make for easy company. Alexandros is charming. It’s like he always knows the right thing to say to keep the conversation flowing. Oenone’s gaze lingers on him, fond. Their domesticity makes his heart ache for his own home. For his mom and Paul, his little sister, and their apartment. And for Annabeth.
At least, he reminds himself, he can remember them this time.
“I’ll check on the flock before I retire.” Alexandros informs them. He pecks Oenone’s cheek before departing.
Oenone blushes, watching him fondly. She turns back to face Percy, smiling. “You enjoyed your supper?”
“It was excellent. Thank you.” Percy says.
“You praise me too freely, Percy.” Oenone laughs. “Praise from you must be coveted. Godling’s of the Sea King are usually rife with power.”
“I figured you knew.” Percy rests his chin on his hand. “Is it a nymph thing?”
“It is most obvious you bear his claim.” Oenone answers.
That gives Percy something to think about. He frowns. “Obvious?”
“Many favoured children of the Gods bear them.” Oenone explains. “It is not always obvious to mortals, but it is for us nymphs.”
His father’s favourite son indeed, Percy snorts softly. It’s useful to know that people can tell he’s a son of Poseidon. He bounces around the idea of asking his father for help but quickly decides against it. First of all, Percy is pretty sure pulling up to Atlantis to say a quick hello, I’m your son from the future. Like, more than two thousand years in the future, care to help me go back? wouldn’t go over well. Also, he’s watched Back to the Future. If he plays his cards wrong, which he likely will, he might have Zeus as a father.
Percy shudders just at the thought. So, yes, no divine intervention for now. Beyond whatever deific figure decided to fuck him over and plop him in Antiquity, of course.
There’s also a second aspect to consider; his father’s nature. Poseidon, at least to Percy, is one of the mellower Gods. He doesn’t really meddle too much, all things considered. Maybe a bit too much for Percy’s liking but that’s the Greek pantheon for you. But right now? Poseidon isn’t the hawaiian-shirt-wearing, dad jokes kind of guy. He’s the Earth-Shaker, the Ruler of the Seas, at his mightiest and cruelest.
“This might not be a good thing.” Percy mutters.
Oenone glances at him sympathetically. “So it goes. We have seen goodness and cruelty alike. For each blessing given, there has been a curse cast down.”
Percy grimaces. The Gods aren’t as black and white as many people from his era like to paint them as. Apollo, for instance. Percy would go as far as to label him a friend. A helpful ally. A good father. But Apollo in antiquity? Percy shudders. He knows the myths. He knows why the nymphs at Camp Half-Blood would grow wary if one of the campers resembled their divine parent a little too much.
“So it goes,” repeats Percy, the words tasting ashen on his tongue.
_______________________
And so it went. The first night bled into the next day, the pattern continuing until at least a week, or what Percy had counted as a week, went by. Alexandros and Oenone continue to play host. Percy helps around the homestead however he can. He aids Alexandros with his sheep. Or tries to. Sheep are far from horses and Percy cannot understand them nor can he fathom how the woolly creatures get into as much mischief as they do.
“Perhaps a shared trait with Dolios.” Alexandros teases when Percy shares his complaints.
Ah, yes. Hermes’ association with sheep. Percy runs his hand through the soft fleece of his favourite sheep. He’s dubbed her Sally, to Alexandros’ amusement, because she reminds him of his mom. Warm and, unlike the other members of the flock, gentle.
He really wants to go home.
“Have you given thought to where you will journey to?” Alexandros inquires, nudging Percy.
Percy nods. “I think I should go south. You said an oracle was in that direction?”
“The Oracle of Didmya.” Alexandros affirms. His usually carefree tone sours slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“What’s wrong?” asks Percy, cocking his head to the side.
Alexandros hesitates. His shoulder slumps as he sighs. “You need not risk your well-being. The journey you will undertake is perilous.”
Stab Percy straight through the heart, why don’t you? Alexandros’ plea isn’t unfamiliar. He’s offered Percy sanctuary multiple times over the week. The offer, the plea to stay somewhere safe, has been given to Percy time and time again.
By Calypso, yearning for company in her isolated existence, begging Percy to circumvent his presumably doomed fate. She tempted him with the promise of safety, of no longer having to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.
By his father, desperate to not be left bereft of his favoured mortal son.
By his mother, her heart bleeding as she watched her baby suffer under Fate’s hand.
And each time Percy had said no. The world would keep spinning, time would continue to march forward, and Percy would always shoulder the burdens demi-gods accrue for the sin of their birth, so no one else has to.
(Someone else had, when Percy refused. And now Jason is dead. Gone. And it’s Percy’s fault.)
He yearns for Annabeth. It’s a constant ache these days, but in this specific instance he misses her understanding. Annabeth understands the weight he carries around; shares it, even. He’s been marked since conception. A big blinking red dot for Fate to mess with him. He’s Olympus’ poster child for quest-giving. Hell, he couldn’t even go to college without working for the Gods.
Glory doesn’t give one security. Honour is little more than a participation trophy for Half-Bloods. They die, they bleed, and they give and give and give until there is nothing more to take. And it’s starting to change, Percy hopes it is, not for him but for the future kids running around, with an absentee parent, wondering why they can see things that their peers can’t.
Percy has to push for change. He will fight for it. To do that, however, he must remain alive. He must persevere where no one else will. No one save Annabeth, but Percy will fight like any loyal hound to keep her safe.
“I can’t.” Percy tells Alexandros, whose face crumples with disappointment.
Yeah, Percy’s good at evoking that.
“Let me give you supplies for your journey then,” beseeches Alexandros.
Percy’s shoulders slump. He wants to say no. He’s already taken enough from Oenone and Alexandros. The need for supplies is greater than his humility. Percy knows he’ll need them for his journey to meet the Oracle of Didyma. He can’t figure out why the Fates dropped in the middle of antiquity without meeting the Oracle. And if he can’t fulfill whatever bullshit quest the Fates have assigned to him, he can’t go home.
Percy wants nothing more than to go home.
“Can I repay you somehow?” wonders Percy.
Alexandros claps his shoulder. “Consider it a token of friendship.”
_______________________
Night falls and Percy cannot sleep. He drifts outside, met with the night’s crisp air and Artemis’ moonlight.
Behind him, out pads Oenone. She doesn’t speak, not at first. The nymph moves to stand by his side, craning her neck to glimpse at the stars. “Alexandros is sulking.”
“He isn’t asleep by now?” Percy’s brows shoot up in mild surprise. Alexandros sleeps easily, much to Percy’s envy.
“Oh, he most certainly is.” Oenone snorts. “He pouts even while resting.”
Percy shakes his head fondly. Oenone’s eyes twinkle with her usual mirth, borne from her husband’s antics.
“He is unfamiliar with the price the blood of the divine incurs.” Oenone says.
“I know.” Percy replies. “He isn’t the first one. And he probably won’t be the last.”
Oenone shifts to face him, resting a hand lightly on his cheek. “You have a hero’s burden awaiting you. Bigger than the one you carry.”
Percy smiles sadly. Oenone wears an expression of sympathy and grief.
“I cannot discern for certain what awaits you. My Sight is clouded, when it comes to you. Yet I see you in my Alexandros’ path.”
“Sight?” If she has prophetic abilities, then he could—
She shakes her head. “I am no Oracle, I fear. Else I would have directed you which way to go.”
Percy wilts. He must look exceptionally miserable, which, yeah, he kinda is, or Oenone is simply a saint, which, yeah, she definitely is, because she cups his face with both hands, angling his head down to place a chaste kiss to his forehead.
“My blessing is not much.” She murmurs. “But it may help should you find yourself in need. I only ask that when you meet at the crossroads with Alexandros, you help him.”
“Of course.” He promises. Alexandros is his friend. He’d always help a friend. “I’ll always help you and him.”
Oenone’s eyes shine with unshed tears. The utter grief etched onto her features is more than enough to compel Percy to try and comfort her.
“I’ll be fine. Seriously. Going to meet an Oracle is like, really easy. In comparison to a lot of things I do. Not that it’s easy for everyone—“
Oenone cuts off his babbling with a laugh. “I hope you never forget your mortality, Percy. Many do not see the beauty in what is ephemeral, but perhaps they should.”
Percy’s brows furrow. “Is this about Alexandros?”
He kind of feels like an ass now. Maybe Oenone foresaw some terrible fate in store for her husband or something along those lines. She literally just asked him to help, Gods, he really can’t do anything right, can he?
“Not in the way you would think.” Oenone answers cryptically. It’s a common theme in Percy’s life, to never receive a straight answer.
“Goodnight, Percy.”
With that, she slips back inside to rejoin her husband, leaving Percy alone, with a blessing, a million questions, and the silence of the night.
_______________________
The day Percy leaves is marked with an air of sorrow. Oenone prepares a hearty meal, waving him off when he tries to help. Alexandros fills a makeshift backpack Oenone weaved under Percy’s poor instruction.
“It is a peculiar sack.” Alexandros muses. “Wherever do you get such ideas from?”
“They’re common where I’m from.” Percy answers goodnaturedly.
He and Alexandros continue their banter, a heavy feeling hanging overhead this time. The plea to stay remains unbidden on Alexandros’ tongue although Percy can sense it. He sees it shining in Alexandros’ eyes.
The silent plea only grows stronger as time for Percy to leave approaches. He chose to begin his journey around midday, enough time to make it to the spring running along the south side of Mount Ida.
“The water will not guide you all the way.” Alexandros huffs, near whining.
“The water will welcome him.” Oenone chides her husband. “The Lord of the Seas favours his mortal sons.”
Percy’s mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “I’m kind of trying not to invoke him.”
Oenone nods in understanding. The way only one familiar with the divine could. Alexandros blinks, uncomprehending. “Were I of divine blood, I would–”
Oenone silences her husband with a kiss. Percy’s nose scrunches playfully, prompting Alexandros to grin. He moves to wrap his arm around Percy, pulling him into a side-hug. “I pray Tyche will smile down upon you.”
“Good luck to you, Oenone.” Percy’s teasing earns him a swat to his arm from Alexandros.
“I shan’t wear out my wife too much.” Alexandros laughs.
Oenone curls a hand around his bicep. She gazes at him tenderly, tinged with what Percy now sees is grief. She looks back at Percy. “I wish you well on your journey.”
“Thank you both. For everything.” Percy says. He swallows thickly, waving before turning around. He trudges forwards, down south.
Soon, he’ll find the Oracle, get his quest, finish it, and go back home. He hopes.
(The loose thread is joined by another. The weavers do not attempt to mend their tapestry this time. Instead, they begin to loom another.)