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Hades
The first one to suspect was Hades, before he had even met him in person.
Despite appearances, he had not sent the Minotaur after his youngest nephew, not being resentful of Poseidon nearly half as much as he was of Zeus, and reasonable enough to admit thievery was not Poseidon style. He was not going to needlessly cause his favorite brother's wrath, killing a child his brother had already shown great love for. That did not mean he was not going to take precautions. The child was in New York at Christmas, and at twelve he had killed Alecto.
So, when he noticed the Minotaur following the child, he turned his attention fully on the mortal world. If Alecto was to be believed, he was loyal, so when the moment came, he grabbed the mortal woman, the child's mother. If nothing else worked, she would become a pretty useful bargaining chip.
Nothing could have prepared him for what happened after the kid watched his mother disappear. It took less than a second for Hades to regret his action, a second during which he almost believed it was not his nephew fighting the monster, but his own brother. The half-blood had no training. It had been painstakingly obvious until a moment before. It still was. And yet...
The hurricane picked up, not by either of his brothers' hands. The half-blood’s eyes abnormally alight, glowing in the darkness. The monster had no chance.
The half-blood crossed the border, carrying the satyr towards the big house, where he finally collapsed. No one inside of Camp would have noticed it, but Hades had still been watching. The moment the half-blood fainted; the hurricane stopped.
Half-blood? No. Perseus Jackson was a demigod. Godling, maybe?
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Kronos
Kronos started suspecting gradually.
He knew Poseidon's child was exceptionally powerful, for a half-blood: he had first felt his presence when the child was only three, his aura strong enough to echo even in the depths of the abyss where he was forced to reside.
He remembered a prophecy, foretelling the birth of one of his mortal grandchildren who could raze Olympus, and he had rejoiced, starting to prepare his war. He did not need to be a prophet to know this child was him.
The circumstances were in his favor: the child was being raised unprotected, in the mortal world, probably ignorant of his heritage. He was powerful, but alone. An easy target to be manipulated when the time was right, his sons none the wiser. What little contact he had with the world was still enough to know none of the Olympians had realized yet who was growing in their beloved New York, just under their noses. Ignorant fools, the lot of them, but it served his plans well.
Kronos had not meant to meet his grandson so early, even in dreams. But his little spy had failed him, nearly getting caught, and the plans had changed. The child was not going to fail him like Hermes' spawn had. He would have brought him the lightning, despite not knowing it yet.
He did not trust to reveal his full presence to him yet. The child was too young. Not resentful enough with the Gods, yet, but he had faith the child would grow into it. He was powerful, and he inherited his father's restlessness.
He had been confident he could start swaying him to his side with a couple of pointed nightmares, implicating at the same time his oldest son as the culprit of the theft. He underestimated him.
Poseidon had always been a nightmare to deal with, even during the first war, because of his easily changing nature that allowed him more than once to go around undetected until it was too late. He had gotten plenty of valuable information this way, and this was one of the reasons he had been given the domain above prophecy. But Poseidon had easily left it to Apollo, when he was born.
None of his children had ever inherited that side of him. They were usually born from only one of the many aspects of the sea. Poseidon was all of them.
And yet, Perseus Jackson brought himself here, without being summoned, perfectly in time to hear part of his conversation with his spy. Undetected until it was too late.
When Kronos pushed him away, more out of instinct than anything else, for a second felt the boy's body. Perseus had been physically there.
And for a second, he wondered. Could he be... No. A Half-blood of the eldest Gods...
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Hephestus
Hephestus had not been present when it happened, but it was a display of force big enough he had not needed to.
His interest was rarely piqued by half-blood who were not his own children or, occasionally, Athena's, but here he was, reevaluating everything he knew of the child of the sea, reevaluating every piece of information he had of the kid. A kid who, at twelve, had managed to summon water in that park like it was nothing.
He left Calypso's island with more questions than answers.
Of course, he had no doubt the child was going to leave Calypso. He was not going to leave his family fighting alone, it was not in his character. But that was not what worried him.
The child had made a volcano explode. He had nearly woken Typhon. On accident. He had no idea of what he could do. Not that he could really blame him. Clearly, they had no idea of what he could do either and, considering Zeus' paranoia, he did not doubt for a moment their ignorance was a good thing.
Unlike the king of the Gods, Hephestus could think clearly enough to feel somewhat calm about the boy, whose only fault was voicing what most of them, half-blood and immortals alike, sometimes thought. Oh, he did not delude himself into believing the child felt any kind of love for most of the Gods, but he had seen what he had done for Athena's daughter. As long as she was on their side, they had nothing to fear from Poseidon's son.
He wondered how many of the other Gods realized SHE was the one to keep an eye out for. He was not going to tell them. Athena was smart enough to recognize it herself, once she put aside her disdain for everything even remotely related to the sea.
And, likewise, he was not going to tell the rest of the council what he had felt happening that afternoon in his forge. Surely, if he had really been what he thought he was, someone else would have said something, by now. Or maybe his mother, or even better Poseidon himself had helped out the demigod. After all, the aura had felt remarkably similar to his uncle's.
And yet... Hephestus did not doubt Perseus Jackson's loyalty, but for the first time he was scared of what losing it would entail.
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Dionysus
Dionysus, for years had refused to even think of acknowledging his suspicions.
He did not like being so close to the halflings, the memories of his own time before ascending nowadays always on the forefront of his mind. He despised watching those kids, knowing they were all going to die, sooner rather than later, not being able to do anything but think that could have been him, had he been just a little less lucky.
He hated all of them, because he saw in them what he used to be. He hated them because he shoved his resentment on them, and they did not push back. He hated them because they were mortals, and he was not, but being around them, he felt like it.
And he hated HIM more than anyone else, from the second he laid his eyes on him. He was his father's splitting image. Dionysus had not needed a claiming to know whose son he was. No one with eyes should have needed it.
And he had hated the child, because he looked like the sea God, and he had Theseus' nose, Theseus' smile, Theseus' eyes. Dionysus, for years, refused to see that the child's eyes sometimes looked wrong, just like he refused to admit his character was vastly different from his late half-brother's.
Dionysus used to be a demigod. Well, the correct term should have been Godling, really, but the point stayed. He had been mortal long enough to know more about them than any other full-blooded God. He knew mortal names had no power, and could be said without big consequences. Half-bloods' names mostly had no power too, unless the demigod was particularly powerful.
His uncle's son reeked power. He already had a habit of mispronouncing the kids' names. When his cousin arrived at Camp, he made a rule out of it. The child was already dangerous enough, he did not need the additional boost in power.
With the passing years, despite his better judgment, he had grown fond of the boy. A fondness he had fruitlessly tried to drown when he realized he saw in him too much of himself. But he had refused to admit, even to himself, why exactly his cousin reminded him so much of himself, just like he refused to think of the power oozing from the boy.
Until he was stuck away fighting Typhon, wounded, with the last one of his children preparing for battle in New York, ready to die, like his brother had less than a year ago. Castor was already dead. Pollux was too far away for Dionysus to help. There was only one person in New York who could keep his child safe. He summoned Perseus Jackson. He used his name. His full name.
The boy was sleeping. He was not supposed to feel like that. He was not supposed to shine like that. No half-blood was ever supposed to ever shine like that. He himself, once upon a time, had shone like that, just before ascending, because no mortal could have all that power inside. But the prophecy referred to Percy, there was no doubt about it, not anymore. Apollo had confirmed it. The Fates had confirmed it. And the prophecy talked of a half-blood.
Three days later, Perseus Jackson refused godhood. He convinced himself he had been wrong.
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Akhlys
Akhlys was the first one to know, but by the time she recognized it, it was too late.
In hindsight, it had been pretty obvious, had she paid a little attention to the many warning signs. The child reeked power and, despite being deep in Tartarus, he looked too alive, especially if compared to the girl coming with him. They had asked for the death mist, and she had given it to them. She was planning to kill them anyway; it should have been virtually effortless for her. It had not been. The child repelled the mist.
That should have been her last, definitive, clue. She should have changed plan instantly. Misery attacking Gods heads on never worked well. Misery grabbed the defenseless and pulled them down when they were not able to fight back. A cornered God was everything but helpless.
But she had brushed it off: alter all, in the end the mist had started working, even on that annoying sword of his. That child looked so completely mortal, standing there disoriented, appearances close to those of a corpse, expression terrified when he realized he could hardly move...
She had felt so elated, so high, she had not even hesitated jumping on the two half-bloods who thought they could walk out of the house of monsters. She had wanted nothing but to show them just how insignificant they were, compared to a Primordial Goddess. Killing the son of the Sea God with her poisons would have been such a fitting end...
And then her poisons stopped moving towards the Demigod. Her poisons started to move towards her. Her Ichor started burning in her veins. The poisoned air started choking her.
Akhlys saw her mistake too late, only when she raised her eyes to look at the Godling only to see pure, unaltered power. Not the power of Poseidon, but the power of Perseus Jackson.
Akhlys was the first to know, because she was there when it happened. She knew because it was her blood, her poison, her tears, the Godling controlled. She knew because she was Misery, and what she had forced the Godling to do was going to cause him immense misery and in a few seconds he was making her feel all the misery he had lived through.
Akhlys knew, like every other Primordial in the Pit knew, because they knew the rippling the birth of a new deity created in reality. She had seen Perseus's mortality cracking. She had seen, with the eyes of a Goddess, the light of the child's true form.
Then he had heard the girl begging, and she had seen him doing something that should not be possible: the child pulled back the broken shell of his mortality. He stopped his own ascension midway. A Godling whose power was strong enough to trigger his own ascension stopped by the will of a single, mortal girl. She wondered if Athena's daughter understoodwhat she had just done. She doubted it.
It was not going to be permanent, anyway. Perseus' mortal shell had been broken. He may have interrupted the process, but it was not going to last for long. He was still only an infant. They had time.
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Gaea
Gaea heard what had almost happened in the Pit by Tartarus himself almost immediately and, while she had barely considered it a possibility, she was not surprised.
Just like her youngest son, Kronos, she had taken a particular fascination for her great-grandson, watching his life pan out, but never risking intervening. What had happened to her son once he had tried to contact the son of the sea only served to confirm her suspicions. The boy was too powerful to risk informing him before everything was already not only ready, but in motion.
She had always known the child had to be treated carefully, unless she really desired to fail before even starting.
To storm or fire the world shall fall and she was not particularly eager for the storm to be one of the ones the child of the sea could make. She did not fear him, not really, but she was cautious enough to not want to take that gamble.
And then her lover had told her what had happened with Akhlys. What the child had done. What he was. He asked her for permission to kill the two, while the Godling was still mortal and relatively harmless. Tartarus was already not happy with her sequestering Di Angelo before he died like any idiotic mortal who dared to cross her partner's soil was supposed to.
Gaea really wanted Athena's daughter and Poseidon's son's blood to wake up, even more now that she knew what Percy was. The blood of a Godling. The first Godling since Dionysus. The first new God in the pantheon since Rome. A baby, by immortal standards, who almost ascended alone, by sheer power and desperation.
But she was reasonable. If she wanted to wake with his blood, Perseus had to still be mortal. It was a run against the time that would have potentially catastrophic consequences if it failed. She gave her beloved her consensus to stop the children how he saw fit.
Tartarus did not, in fact, stop the children, who showed up weak but still alive on the mortal side of the doors of death, their mission accomplished and the chain holding the doors in Tartarus had been broken.
Her lover told her they were a gift. She did not believe they were a gift he had meant to make her, but she accepted it gladly and she made haste. She needed Perseus Jackson's blood.
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Kymopoleia
Kymopoleia knew the second she felt her youngest brother's power for the first time, when the mortal had tried to sedate a storm created by the Goddess of storms. And he had almost succeeded too, for a moment.
She would have been pissed that she had not been informed by her companion, but she soon realized Polybotes did not know. Hades, her little brother did not know. While she discussed with Jason Grace, she made him work for the help she had decided to give him, she could not stop a part of her from drifting to check on her brother. She knew he was not going to die. Even if he had not been what he was, Gaea wanted him alive, for now. The baby was relatively fine.
And even if he wasn't, he deserved a little bit of retribution, because father, a father who had always barely acknowledged her, loved him. A Hero, probably just as arrogant and insufferable as the rest of them, especially with his power. Kymopoleia was bitter. She had been for centuries. Percy was there, and was an easy target.
And yet she could not stop her mind from wandering to her brother's. Just to make sure he was still alive, she told herself. Just out of curiosity for the new baby of the family.
She had not expected what she found in her brother's mind. She had expected betrayal. Fear. Maybe even terror. She had not prepared for guilt. Her brother's mind was so full of guilt it was hard to find anything else, or even just understand where the guilt came from.
Even more surprisingly, one of the most recent threads of guilt had her name on it. Her brother felt guilty for not knowing who she was before meeting her and... he felt guilty for how their family had treated her. Kymopoleia... she had not expected to find that in her brother's head. She had not expected to somehow start liking her baby brother.
Without even realizing it, she had called her brother's attention, disentangling herself from his emotions, eager to speak unfiltered with the baby. He did not answer her, but what she found was even more disturbing than the guilt had been. Percy kept repeating in his mind that some things are not meant to be controlled, like a broken record. Her brother was not trapped, she realized, suddenly disgusted and terrified. He was purposefully stopping himself from saving his own life.
Her brother was terrified of his power, and was forcing himself not to lash out. Some things are not meant to be controlled. Those were not his words. Someone had told him that. Someone had seen what he could do and had told their young, inexperienced, exceptionally powerful brother to suppress himself.
The situation hit too close for her comfort. a wave of protectiveness washed over her. Kymopoleia was a daughter of the sea. The sea cared for its own. Perseus Jackson was hers.
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Terminus
Terminus only really felt it when the war was already finished, and it left him feeling even more of a failure.
He had been having the worst months in a couple of millennia, making one mistake after another, not seeing things until it was too late to prevent them from occurring. And at fault for his blinded sight were either Gaea, the Queen of the Gods, or Perseus Jackson.
First Praetor Jason Grace had been taken from right under his nose, from HIS city.
Then that child had showed up, and the Lares had been calling him graecus. He had heard the rumors, even before meeting the child of the sea. And even if he had not, the Camp-Halfblood's necklace the kid was wearing should have been the red flag. Terminus should never have let him get inside the city. Juno's masking charm was way too easy to find for him. She had clearly not really been trying to hide the child, but... but he had let him pass, because the son of the sea did feel Roman, even once he took away the charm hiding him. Terminus even suspected the child really was a son of Neptune, who had found himself in the wrong camp, and only now he had been guided back to his rightful home. It would have explained his memory loss.
For the next two months, Terminus blamed only himself from the damage New Rome faced, first for the fight against Polybotes' army, then the war with the Greeks. He was under no illusions the split personalities of the Gods were because of him and his stupidity. He had firmly believed He never should have let the child in the camp. A Child of Poseidon was as Greek as they come. An unforgivable mistake.
Then, in late August, after the war ended, Percy Jackson came back. The plan was discussing with the senate the peace treaty between Romans and Greeks. Percy Jackson was one of the representatives of the Greeks. He came to New Rome as a Greek, for the Greeks. But he still did not feel Greek to Terminus. Not completely.
And it was not even that the reason Terminus froze when he saw the Praetor again, because Perseus Jackson did not feel like a half-blood at all. He never had, he realized, but now it was impossible not to notice how much the child reeked power. He was a Godling, and he had been this whole time without him understanding it.
He wondered, mildly, how many Gods made the same mistake. Clearly Juno. She would not have risked that insane plan, otherwise.
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Apollo
It was incredibly embarrassing for Apollo, the God of Knowledge, to find out and realize he had met the child the first time years ago, and had not felt it.
Of course, he had always been deeply fascinated by his little cousin, who was tied to so many prophecies, but whose future was mostly hidden from him, muddy and hard to read even when he just tried to spy the next week. He knew because he had tried, many times, even aside from his father's orders to check if the child was indeed the one of the Prophecy. After all, he did not need to watch his future to know he was. The thread to that particular prophecy was so clearly connected to him Apollo was surprised no one could see it. With the exception of Poseidon, clearly, by how he looked mournfully at his youngest every time he saw him. Apollo did not even know if his uncle knew because of his own connections to the future, or he could just feel the weight of destiny on his son.
They worried for nothing. Apparently, Percy Jackson was very good at circumventing the worst destiny in his favor. He was, after all, of the sea.
Despite all this, Apollo genuinely liked his baby cousin, not even as an interesting person, but just for how he was, something extremely rare for gods when they looked at mortals.
But the son of Poseidon was something else. He was, in his deepest essence, a good person, sweet and reliable, with a heart too big for their cruel, dangerous, world. A person like that should not be able to survive in the world, and yet Percy did, because Percy was still part of the sea. He was the quiet before the storm. He had a darkness in him only the deepest abyss could contain. He had the power of the tide stopped for too long. If he had been even marginally less of a good person, Apollo was not afraid to admit Percy could have wiped their world from existence, no prophecy needed.
Percy was a work of art.
And so, it should not have been surprising that Apollo's first priority when hurt, thrown away from Olympus and mortal in blood, was searching New York for Perseus Jackson.
If he were to serve a mortal, he had wanted that mortal to be the son of Poseidon. He was the only one he had been willing to bow to, the only one worth of the services of a God. Besides, he had been curious as to how the demigod would have felt without all the different ties of destiny that always distracted him before when he had tried to observe the child.
He had not planned for Meg McCaffrey. Meg, a twelve years old, inexperienced, halfblood had reached him too early and claimed his services. And so, it was a former God of the sun and a teenager who knocked at the door of the Jackson residence.
When the son of the sea opened the door, Meg McCaffrey hid behind him in fright. Apollo himself took a step back.
He had known Percy Jackson was important. He had known he was different. He had never understood why until he experienced his aura as a mortal, around mortals. It was unmistakable. Because amongst mortals, Perseus Jackson had the aura of a God, and Apollo did not doubt, in that moment, Percy's blood was more golden than his.
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Poseidon
A part of Poseidon had always known, maybe even before Percy was born. He had loved Sally Jackson too much and, at first, he had hoped she was not human enough. When they had realized what they had done, what could happen, he had hoped his youngest was born with golden blood.
Then he had felt Percy essence latching on the sea from his mother's womb and he had had his hopes of raising his son, of protecting him, of being there for him, crushed. The child was mortal.
He had raged, then, in anguish for the son he could count as dead before he was even born. A child who, if he was lucky, would have made it to sixteen. If their family did not kill him first. Poseidon deeply loved his children, all of them. Dooming this little part of him was an unforgivable mistake.
He had to leave Sally, for both her and their son's safety, but he could not stop himself from visiting the little rascal, during the stormiest nights. The baby, Perseus, was beautiful. He had known he would do anything for him within seconds of holding him in his arms. He had contemplated stealing him from Sally and hiding him under the sea, raising him as one of his immortal children. Perseus was strong, he could pass as an immortal, and he was confident he could give him immortality, when he got a little older.
The future spoke to him like it had not done since he surrendered his power over it to his nephew.
The little bundle almost sleeping in his arms was the child. Not Zeus' daughter. Not one of the children Hades had managed to hide, but his little, innocent Perseus. A half-blood of the eldest gods.
Poseidon left the house and did not come back. He did not see his son again until he was twelve and had stopped a war he had nothing to do with. His young, naive, very mortal child had been sent to face a quest with not training because of him. Poseidon felt guilty, especially when it happened again, and again, and again. Always his sweet, kind Percy being sent on quest after quest, meeting father. Fighting father.
He knew Percy was strong. Percy was powerful, even more than how his children usually were. Percy was an earthshaker. But, after all, he had thought Percy was going to be born immortal.
Percy saved Olympus and, for a second, he had seen his son's destiny as clear as day. He had seen what the Fates had decided for him. They had used him for that blasted prophecy, but now they were giving him his child back. The council had never been so willing to turn a mortal a God.
No mortal had ever refused that gift.
But Percy was the sea just before and just after the storm. Quiet, kind, sometimes unnaturally so, but unpredictable and explosive. It did not matter no one had done it before, Percy was going to be the first one to do it. And so, his little child refused the godhood that was rightfully his. He had thought that was it, there went his last chance of protecting his baby. Percy rejected immortality gifted to him. He was not going to ascend on his own.
Hades, his sometimes annoyingly perceptive older brother, found him that night, hiding in one of the more secluded gardens of Olympus. He sat in silence next to him for a long time, a mute comfort for a father mourning his still alive son. He knew his brother had understood it too: Percy was not made to be a mortal, but he clung to his mortality with a desperation they, as Gods, could not understand.
Poseidon knew that, had he loved him a little less, he would have forced him to burn his mortal blood. But Perseus Jackson was loved more than he could understand.
Then his foolish brother closed Olympus, his baby went missing, having been hidden so well even he could not feel where he was, his connection to him, weak but still present, the only proof he was still alive.
Until the fall.
It takes nine days to fall into Tartarus. It is impossible to grab someone during those nine days before they reach the bottom, even for gods. Gods have no power over the pit, its sphere of influence outside of theirs. The spell hiding Percy from him was washed away just before he went too deep, out of his reach. Too late. His Child, his mortal child, was in Tartarus, and he had not been able to help.
Poseidon had wanted to be angry, rage, make the world feel his pain and despair. Judging how his family looked at him after hearing the news, those sane enough to understand it, at least, they expected it too. But he had already felt angry. He had felt sad. Now... Now he just felt empty, and it was somehow worse.
Percy survived. Percy, his too young, mortal son walked out of the Pit alive. He still felt empty. He wanted nothing more than to run at his baby and never let him out of his sight again, the laws be damned, but every time he thought of going to see him, his legs felt weak, and he could not bring himself to face his favorite son's hunted eyes. Percy should have never been born a mortal.
He saw his son for the first time fighting on the Acropolis of Athen. He was too pale, too skin and bones, his breathing too irregular and his aura too stuffed.
They won the battle, but Grandmother woke anyway. He had known the second his child's blood dropped on the ground Percy was going to beat himself up over this, but he knew, by then, it had been inevitable. They all had. He had to leave his child again. He had to let him go fight a war again. He had to know he was in danger all over again.
He hugged his youngest, clutching his torn clothes, asking, begging, Percy to be careful, to please come back alive to him. Only after getting Percy's promise, only after murmuring a blessing of protection over him, did the god let his child go.
He met his younger brother's eyes, daring him to stop him, but only got a resigned nod back. It was as good of a concession his brother was going to give him, but he did not care.
In the following months, he never once stopped checking on Percy with the connection their minds had, albeit never once gaining the courage to talk directly to him, until in late December, Sally asked for him.
From what she told him, Percy was not doing well: he woke almost every night screaming and he had lost any kind of control he had over his powers, which apparently terrified him. She told him she knew Annabeth Chase had something to do with that, but she did not understand why.
Poseidon showed up at their apartment the next day, just in time to watch his son have a panic attack for having, apparently unconsciously, ordered the water of the sink to wash their plates. Percy was still unnaturally skinny and too pale for one of his.
But his power... His aura... Percy had not been stifling it as efficiently as he had been on the Acropolis, and he could feel it in the air. Percy had the aura of a God, albeit a young one. And yet, he had not ascended, not completely, at least.
Poseidon would have found out how it had happened only a month later, when Percy finally felt confident enough to tell him what had happened with Akhlys, how he had felt like he broke something inside of him, and how hard it had been to put those pieces back together. How it still did not feel right. How Athena's daughter was terrified of his powers because of it. How conflicted about it Percy himself felt.
And Poseidon, in turn, cautiously, explained to him what had happened. What ascension meant for him. How he thought the process he had accidentally started was going to end.
He held his son while he cried for his mortality, now forever lost to him, in silence. It was not the time for expressing how relieved he actually was. Percy surely knew, but he did not need to hear it.