Chapter Text
When one is primordial, there are some things one just knows . For example, it's currently eighty-one and a half degrees in Tampa, Florida. In another example, Gaea is about to be charmspoken back to sleep in twenty-four and a half seconds, give or take, by a pesky daughter of Love. It's not uncommon to taste defeat moments before you suffer it, as these sorts of momentous occasions have a way of echoing backwards in time and therefore fortifying their place in the loom, and Gaea had laughed uncontrollably at her youngest Titan son for experiencing the feeling of being disassembled not once, but twice , seconds before the son of the Messenger took a knife to himself.
Except Gaea is now on the other end, and although her send-off is a much gentler lullaby, it is still decidedly unpleasant.
It's quite reasonable then that, in perhaps what the mortals these days call “a total jerk move,” she spends her last waking moments lobbing a very hefty curse in the direction of the one cretin that doubles as both her favorite and least favorite demigod.
We'll meet again…Perseus Jackson, she vows, yawning. And next time… I'll…crush…zzzz.
She falls asleep before she finishes. Just like she rather unfortunately knew she would.
The curses of defeated enemies usually don't amount to much, even more so if the enemy is so soundly defeated they no longer hold consciousness. A curse from a dying gorgon, for example, will only really attract other gorgons on the off-chance they're in range (about 5 meters, don't ask). Even a curse from a defeated but active war god can only really come into effect when encouraged by spirits known for amplifying curses in a space so cursed the air itself is poison.
And then there's the word “usually.” Because usually , an average demigod gets cursed about 2-3 times throughout their entire life because usually that's how many monsters a demigod will ever encounter one-on-one (they generally learn to work in groups, or stop needing to learn altogether). Usually , these curses will wear off within a few years, because usually they come from creatures no stronger than a harpy.
On an unrelated note, Percy Jackson has been unknowingly marinating in hundreds of curses for a good half a decade now. In his hall of fame includes:
- a curse from a sore loser (resolved)
- a curse from a sorceress to turn him into a guinea pig (also resolved, thank you Hermes)
- three curses from three separate sons of Poseidon to draw their shared father's attention onto their opponent (supposedly to avenge them, but Poseidon only really grows more proud every time the recipient of the curse catches his eye)
- a curse from a washed-up time-controlling Titan King to damn his whole future (very rude, another total jerk move)
- a curse from one of the most famous rivers to exist in any pantheon (also resolved. Personally, Percy isn't too sure how to feel about this one.)
- a curse from the depths of The Pit to encourage suffering and misery (closer to a rite of passage, really; no one enters into The Pit unscathed)
- several more curses from sons of Poseidon to experience a miserable death (these ones knew better than to ask Dad)
- a curse from a daughter of Poseidon to die in a storm one day (half-joking, Kymopoleia says, to which Percy asks, Which half?)
- and finally, a curse from the Earth Mother for them to meet again.
So one day, when his immortal half-siblings convince him that a random fountain in his father’s palace actually grants wishes, and that he should totally throw a drachma into it, Percy really should have had some inkling on what would happen next.
He didn't even wish for something nice, either. Before the fountain started up like a bad lawn mower and decided to vacuum him up, all he had thought was I hope I can fix this dumb tan-line. Annabeth wants us to go to the beach tomorrow.
He then proceeds to completely forget about the stupid tan because he's come face-to-face to Polybotes‘ broadly-grinning, basilisk-infested face, and it looks like the Giant is gearing up for round three. Percy thinks the Giant looks surprised to see him, and so rather than waste that opening, he grits out a “son of bitch ” and attacks, swinging a sharp blade into Polybotes’ smelly face as the waters around rise to follow.
He doesn't use this curse on principle and he'll throw sharp objects if anyone tries it on him , but given that Percy has personally met both of Polybotes’ parents he's giving himself a pass on this one.
Polybotes sort of elbows him towards the wall in a backwards scramble to get out of range of Percy's sword, and Percy takes an airborne moment to wonder, Wait, hold on, where are my pants?
Polybotes regains his footing. Percy puts a pin in that thought for later. If he, you know, survives.
Facing Polybotes yet again is both easier and harder than expected.
On one hand, Percy fears this is starting to be a thing , like with him and Asterion (if they're not first-name basis by now, then what's the point?) And with it being a thing , these fights stop being particularly challenging. It probably also helps that Polybotes is scrambling like he's never seen a sword before (which, whatever, Percy is not gonna complain about an advantage), and that Polybotes has stuck to flinging around arcs of poison like back in their first battle — slapping them away feels more like a reflex and less like tugging on something that Should Not Be Touched.
But on the other hand, Polybotes is stronger . Like, actually strong. When he gets enough of his bearings to throw a punch at Percy (and misses), the cavern they're in shakes so much with the impact it feels like a magnitude four earthquake.
Percy jabs his blade hard into the giant's stuck hand, and runs away when the giant wrenches his whole arm back. The giant cries out in pain, looking down at his stabbed palm in what might be horror. The sword remakes itself in Percy's grip — which, okay, didn't know Riptide could do that — could Riptide do that? — and Percy backs up more before he can get smashed into a pancake.
Oh yeah, and here's another hand for you. Percy currently sees a grand total of zero gods in this weird underground cave place. With how much he's been running around, he's basically examined every corner of this place, and it's just him, the fountain — oh hey, there's the drachma he threw into it — and the giant going berserk in the background.
And a tiny crack in the ceiling where some light is filtering through. Hm.
Ask Apollo for help? Percy ducks, swipes, and misses. Polybotes roars even though Percy never makes contact, the big baby.
Cabin 7 says it's been hard to reach their dad lately, but Percy would like to think that a) they're on good enough terms that Percy would not get smote immediately upon contact and b) a third Gigantomachy is enough for the guy to drop whatever it is he's busy with and respond.
Percy gets as close as he can to the crack in the ceiling and hopes for the best. It's not like he knows how to pray to a god without food on hand.
“Oh Apollo, guy with a sweet ride, master… er, speaker of haikus,” Percy starts praying, but is immediately drowned out when Polybotes cries out something like, “ MOMMY, THIS ANT WON'T DIE !”
The translation may be a bit liberal, but that's because the guy is having a sobfest in Ancient Greek. And Percy means ancient . What he's been learning under Annabeth's tutelage compared to whatever just came out of the giant's mouth is like comparing Italian to Latin.
And then the ground itself rumbles something back like “You can do it, baby, Mommy believes in you,” also in weird, staccato, ancient Greek, and Percy is officially not in Kansas anymore. And between Polybotes seemingly forgetting he ever spoke English, Gaea being very much not asleep and not homicidal, and Percy feeling distinctly like weakened prey being used to teach a wolf cub how to hunt, Percy is going to take a leap and guess that he's not really in the twentieth century either.
And while it's still definitely not the second Gigantomachy, Percy has a sinking suspicion it might not be the third either. He's just not sure the alternative is necessarily better.
Polybotes is wearing a chiton. Percy is wearing a chiton and therefore pantless. What in Hades — nothing on him has pockets! Where did Riptide even — Percy looks at his hand and does a double take at the gleaming blue sword he finds there.
That is not Riptide.
The sword glints back in a way that reminds Percy distinctly of someone rolling their eyes. Rude.
Percy doesn't think anything more of it, because Polybotes the… newborn Giant?... has regained his confidence again, and this time he actually makes contact.
The graze of Polybotes’ palm sends Percy crashing back first into the cave wall, and then face first into the floor. He can't pick himself back up for a moment and instead groans, bruised and bleeding and probably broken somewhere too. His vision swims.
Polybotes, meanwhile, is holding his pricked thumb like it's the world's most traumatic injury. He proceeds to say, through the hissing of his beard, “ I will torture you something something, son of Poseidon! The gods are all something something Solstice! No one will save you from me!”
Percy thinks he's got the gist of it. He's pretty sure he's heard this spiel already, but maybe being born and killed then born and killed again doesn't do a whole lot for your language skills.
Polybotes charges him again. Percy haltingly gets himself back up on his feet.
And in the face of ugly and near certain death, Percy makes a decision.
•••••
“She has approached the edge of my realm again, a few days ago,” says Hades. He sneers, and the shadows of his temporary throne curls itself around him. He also makes a valiant effort to ignore the piercing stare of his younger brother. And his older sister turned mother-in-law. “Meeting with the Pit again, no doubt. And yet no monsters have made their ascent through my realm. What of the twins?”
“We've seen nothing, Lord Uncle,” responds Artemis, and from across the room her brother frowns. They both avoid looking directly at the seat next to their father. “Unless there remains entrances to the Pit we are unaware of, nothing yet stirs.”
Hades leans back. “Then I still cannot say what it is they are planning.”
“Not a great lookout, are you, Lord Hades?” Ares snickers. Then he stiffens, and turns his head away towards Apollon on his other side. “... Never mind.”
Hades flares his nostrils. “Tell that whelp of yours to keep his tongue,” he warns Zeus. “Another word and I'll keep it for him.”
“By all accounts, we see that the Earth Mother continues to stir,” Zeus says, completely ignoring the minor scuffle. “Though she is far from the heights of her power, she is undeniably a threat. I propose…” Then Zeus sighs, and a good portion of the room looks towards him in anticipation. “Apollon, what are you doing?”
The god in question jolts up. “Oh, uh. Lord Father! No, nothing, everything is fine.”
“That's not what I asked,” Zeus says, and surreptitiously leans a little more towards his wife. “Either answer properly or cease making that face. Unless there is something you'd like to say to me in particular?”
“No, no,” assures Apollon, nervously. “Nothing related to this meeting at all, I've just been… uh, receiving some weird prayers? They're rather incomprehensible and I hesitate to say they were aimed at me but I'm the closest in the vicinity, so… oh. It just stopped. Huh. Please, carry on, Lord Father.”
Zeus does not continue to speak, because the humidity in the air swells. Several of the Olympians tense up. “Since it appears we're done with repeating our discussion from the last solstice,” grouses Poseidon, staring daggers into the side of his brother's profile before swiveling his gaze onto his least favorite of his brother's children. “Why don't I get a turn? Brother .”
Zeus looks like he's heavily considering blasting his brother to bits, but he relents. “Very well. Poseidon, what topic do you want to bring before the council today?”
“I think it's about time that thieving daughter of yours returns my fountain,” Poseidon answers viciously.
Athena bristles immediately, and turns to her father. “Lord Father, we've long established that I have taken no such thing!”
Before Zeus can open his mouth, Poseidon snarls and slams the butt of his trident on the ground. The room shakes, slightly. “End this farce, niece! My divine fountain has been stolen away and replaced by a cowardly mouse, from the heart of an insolent city that you matron! You would reasonably take pride in claiming you have no inkling of its whereabouts?”
“I do not claim to revel in the disgraceful theft that's taken place within the bounds of my city.” Athena says, looking like she's bitten into a lemon. “But it is not my theft. What in my father's name would I want with your fountain?”
Poseidon laughs, short and unkind. “You, the purported goddess of wisdom, cannot think of a single thing you can do? A fountain with a sliver of my divine essence, when you yourself are barred from ever entering my waters? Truly, nothing ?”
“Ooh , drama ,” says someone. It's Hermes.
Athena rises to her feet, face as thunderous as her father's. “I want nothing of your realm!” Then she catches herself, and sits primly back down. “But as a matter of wise counsel, Lord Uncle, I encourage you to look towards those whose domains align closely with yours, if you wish to speak of advantages to gain.”
“Yes,” hisses Ares, gleeful at the implications, but he wilts a bit at his father's warning look.
Poseidon slams down his trident again for emphasis. He glowers. “Don't you dare . I've been to that fool city of yours, niece, just last week. The replacement that was fashioned out of rock was an exact mimicry, with details not possible by any minor god's hand. Do not cast your aspirations onto my subjects, or seek to sow dissension among my ranks.”
Athena looks back at him like she wants to strangle the living daylights out of him.
Before the dignified goddess of Wisdom can launch herself off her throne at her uncle, one of the minor goddesses screams, “Message for Poseidon!”
The non-bickering Olympians snap their eyes to her for her outburst, and Zeus says, thundering, “Not the time, Iris.”
The goddess responds by burping up a small rainbow. “Oh, sorry,” she hiccups, covering her mouth and the message pools onto the floor. “Oh wow, that was something potent .”
But no one responds to her, attention caught by the image her rainbow unveils. The first thing they see is an enlarged forehead, followed by bellowing as the creature on the other end rears back to show something none of them have ever seen before.
It's a massive beast, matching the Hundred Handed Ones in stature, with the legs of a drakon and facial hair teeming with unshed basilisks. Trenched into the cracked earth in the middle of a collapsed cavern, with sunlight pouring in at all angles to highlight his monstrousness, there is no doubt what this was.
Gaea's reckoning given flesh. A bane of Olympians themselves.
The giant gingerly touches his forehead, where a new sear mark is impressed upon it like a scar. The earth climbs up his scaled legs and the wound begins to heal. As do the slash marks on his forearms. “ You dare !” He roars. “ You dare !!!”
The image begins to flicker as the rainbow on the other side is ended. “Hold the connection!” Zeus commands the goddess, and without seeing her response he turns to his son. “Where is that creature?” He demands of Apollon. “How many more are in the vicinity?”
“Sorry, father,” says Apollon, face pinched and glowing in concentration. “I should be able to see him, but something obscures my sight. I need more time!”
“Earth Mother's work, no doubt,” agrees Demeter distractedly, eyes glued to the trampled foliage.
“Useless boy,” utters Hera under her breath though no one misses it. Artemis growls. Hera ignores her and eyes the Giant in the image in disgust as his vibrant green beard slowly fades to grey. “Look at that beast,” she says, voice dripping in venom. “If this is the Earth Mother's best work, I'd shudder to think of her worst.”
“I'm sure you know all about that,” says Hephaestus mildly, tinkering with something at his throne. Hera ignores him too.
“ You thought you could kill me, son of Poseidon? ” The black-and-white visage of the giant shouts, and that finally draws the attention of the god. Poseidon turns away from his niece to look at the picture on the floor, brows knitted in confusion. “ You thought invoking some minor goddess would be enough aid to best me? I should bury you in Tartarus for the insult !”
“Quite rude,” Iris comments, but she doesn't seem particularly insulted.
“You sent one of your sons to face this beast?” Zeus asks his brother stonily. “You didn't think to inform the council of the threat facing us first?”
“I have never seen this thing in my life,” Poseidon protests.
“Is it really a threat if a godling is enough to handle it?” Ares snorts. “All that anticipation, and for what? This ?”
“I do not enjoy agreeing with a beast,” interjects Athena. “But he's not wrong to say he's hardly been bested.”
For once, Poseidon does not rise at the perceived insult in her words. He instead scours the image intently. “All the sons I know of are accounted for,” he says, almost to himself. “I know not who this Giant refers to.”
“Expand the image,” Zeus orders, and with a shrug, Iris does.
The Giant reaches up, and he touches something only just barely comes into view. It looks to be a large lens of water that immediately turns dark and murky when his fingers dip into it. It splatters immediately onto the ground by the giant's feet, hissing upon contact with the earth.
The gods frown, and some turn towards Poseidon in askance. The god in question looks grave.
The giant proceeds to fling the poisonous dripping in a direction out of sight. More hissing follows.
“Wait, is that —?” Hermes begins, leaning forward from his throne, and as the image expands they soon learn that it is .
“My fountain,” says Poseidon. Then steadily, rage steals over his features. “That creature poisoned it.”
The Giant pulls his feet out of the cracked earth, and steps in the direction he had sent the poison. “ Stop running !” he orders. “ There's nowhere for you to go !”
“The Giant's actions are too targeted for him to be meant to oppose the whole council,” realizes Athena. She straightens up even more than she already is, half perched on the edge of her throne. “I suspect he is meant to be a bane for you alone, Lord Uncle. It would explain it if this were all an attempt to strengthen him by incorporating your essence. As for the counterfeit fountain — ”
“The Earth Mother,” says Zeus. “It would not be the first time.” Nothing more needs to be said there; this is a story they all know.
Something luminescent comes flying into the picture. It's swift, but gods have sharp eyes. It is doubtlessly a sword, a powerful sword at that, but it's not a craftsmanship anyone seems to recognize.
Then, something strange happens. The blade sinks in and the skin on the Giant's shin splits. Amidst the cries of the Giant, the blade sinks some more, the skin cracking deeper before the earth intercedes again, climbing up to seal the wound. The blade slips out and the Giant kicks it away with prejudice in the opposite direction.
“I won't kill you.” The Giant promises, darkly. “When my brothers and I win, I will bring you to my father and bleed you out for hours, from sunrise to sunset, until you near your last breath. Every night you'll drink from my father's fiery waters until you heal, and I'll do it all over again in the morning!”
For the first time, something responds to him. “ Go to the crows, ” someone says, hoarse and dark and dangerous , and Poseidon leans forward in his throne. By the puzzled look on his face, there's no recognition in it.
“Aha!” cries Apollon, and the light in the black-and-white picture brightens considerably.
“ Enough ,” a third voice says, and everyone stands to attention at the Earth Mother's dulcet tones rumble through the Earth. The picture dims again, and Apollon looks a little like someone slapped him. At the Giant's protests, she continues, “ The Olympians have found us and you aren't ready yet, darling. ”
Between one blink and the next, the Giant disappears. A rumpled patch of dirt marks his former position.
“ And you, creature of Poseidon, perhaps I have underestimated you. Perhaps I've neglected to see that you are no ordinary godling, and that divine feats are in your blood. ”
At Zeus's look, Iris starts to shift the image's field of view to the direction the glowing sword flew in from.
They find a being, sized like a mortal boy, covered in grime, locks covering his face and dripping an indiscernible mixture of blood, water, and poison. He's breathing heavily, almost doubled over as he grabs at his ankle. The area is swollen and at an undesirable angle — a painfully mortal injury. He is also very slightly glowing.
“ Perhaps this is enough for you to ascend,” the Earth Mother muses, and the throne room ripples with tension. Self-ascension is still a barely precedent concept, with Dionysus presenting the only case a little over a century ago. “ Go ahead. I don't mind . I encourage it. The Olympians will find no ally in the monster you'll become. Can you feel it? Your birth fountain, poisoned. Your breath, agonized. And your growing resentment… It will serve me well. Rise, child. I'll await you .”
With those parting words, the Earth Mother retreats. The sun's light bears down on the wreckage with renewed force. Some vapor rises with the kicked up dust, and with that the image returns to color.
The blood dripping out of the boy's many cuts appear to be a mix of red and gold. The boy lifts his head a little, hair still curtaining his face and then says something stunned and monosyllabic. He then repeats the sound again, turns onto his knees and then struggles to lift himself up.
Zeus frowns severely, and he stands up only to find the business end of a trident pointed at the ground before him. “ Poseidon ,” he warns.
“That child is born of my fountain, not even for a day,” says Poseidon, eyes glued to the being in the vision on the floor. “Before he has ever met me, he has already fought my enemy.”
“You heard the Earth Mother,” Zeus says, uncharacteristically patient. Then again, Poseidon has a certain fame when it comes to his children that may require a bit more tact. “You can see with your own eyes that she did not exaggerate.”
And he speaks the truth. Unlike Dionysus’ rather abrupt ascension in the middle of a drink, this new godling seemed to be struggling his way to godhood, form distorting in small bursts, blood dripping off him, viscous and vicious and turning incrementally more golden. This was no easy, seamless rise. This was a bitter, despairing spiral, and there was nothing good to be found at the end of such a thorny road.
But there was a pattern foretold by Poseidon's epithet as the Father of Monsters, and so the surrounding gods only find themselves mildly surprised when Poseidon orders, “Apollon. Nephew, where is that child?”
Zeus’ eyes are flinty when they turn towards his son. “Don't say a word!”
“Brother, think this through,” Hades interrupts smoothly, and several gods look to him with an expression of wide-eyed surprise. He keeps his dark eyes on Poseidon. “While it is unfortunate for his life to be cut so short, he has done us a service and he will certainly achieve Elysium. I will guarantee it. Is that not a better future than an eternity in opposition to the gods?”
Poseidon's brows furrow, face unreadable. Olympus waits with a bated breath except for one, Demeter, who says, “I thought he was born of a fountain? Would he even reach the afterlife if he dies?”
“Sister!” several voices snap. Hera continues, “Demeter, do you not see the urgency?”
“Well, I'm just stating the facts. Hades does so love to lie…”
“Apollon,” Poseidon calls, above the rabble. “You will not tell me where he is, will you?”
Apollon looks back at his uncle in a manner eerily reminiscent of a deer at the wrong end of his twin sister's bow.
Poseidon growls, sweeps his trident in a loose arc, and departs in a burst of vapor.
Zeus curses out, “Fool,” and he turns to his son. “He won't reach that creature before me. Tell me where to cast my bolt.”
“Um,” says Apollon.
“Brother, please,” pleads a crackle of fire. Zeus ignores it, until the voice says, “My King, I beg of you, look at him .”
The fountain-born has dragged his battered form back to his place of birth. Out of instinct, perhaps, to fix what is growing wrong within him, but the fountain will not help. It is poisoned; they've all seen it.
Something deep blue and luminescent slowly takes form in his hand. It's the sword from earlier.
Artemis is the first to recognize it. “That's a weapon of condensed immortal essence,” she says, suddenly keenly interested. “I have seen dryads and naiads craft similar, but mostly daggers and knives. This is the first I've seen a blade of that kind so long and balanced.”
Hephaestus finally drags his eyes away from the woven metal grasshopper forming in his hands. “Decent craftsmanship,” he agrees. “Could use a specialized grip around the hilt. Maybe a counterweight, but not a significant one.”
“First claim of the spoils,” says Ares, grinning.
“You'd have to go through Lord Uncle for it,” Hephaestus points out, and seems bitterly amused when Ares instinctively recoils.
Through the image, the fountain-born slices open his forearm. Hunched over his birthplace, legs bent haphazardly behind him, he bleeds his metallic-orange ichor-blood into the waters of his father's sculpture.
A hush falls over the room. Self-ascension was barely a concept, despite the god that had been quietly sipping his wine on the throne all this time. But ascension itself has long become a song and dance at this point. Choosing not to ascend is… wholly singular.
“He must have been born a daimon,” Hestia crackles softly, mournfully. “The personified spirit of our brother's patronly gift. But he was born into a battle he could not win, and so he cast his immortal essence into a blade so that he may go down fighting.”
“And for that he earned an ascension of merit,” concludes Aphrodite with some interest. She turns to smile at Ares besottedly, and he looks back at her with a raised brow. “And yet. What a pity! If only these circumstances were different. If only he didn't take after the rest of his father's children. He could be such an incredible story…” She sighs, languid. “Well, surely I can find someone else with this character. Someone more handsome. I'm feeling rather inspired…”
A few seats away, Athena mutters, “A gift to patron a city… I wonder…”
“I always thought male nymphs were simply satyrs,” Hermes says uncertainly to his favorite brother, meeting Apollon's eyes over Hephaestus’ head.
Apollon shrugs back at him, equally unsure.
Zeus says nothing and does nothing, because the image on the floor says it all. The fountain has returned to its clear, tranquil waters. The boy's arm now bleeds a sluggish red. Perhaps it was a case of fighting poison with poison. Perhaps it was that the willing ichor of even newborn, malformed gods was still one of the few conduits without equal. But the boy has undone what they did not know could be undone, and Poseidon appears into the crumbling cavern to find his fountain restored and his newest son collapsed beside it, now dying in a decidedly mortal way.
It should be comedic, the way the Poseidon in the image pauses, evidently thrown off. He approaches and kneels down gingerly by the figure of his son. The boy stirs a little and utters a monosyllabic sound, different from the one before.
Poseidon hesitates. He looks towards the fountain, drags a disbelieving hand through its pristine waters, and then turns back to the boy. “ My son ?” he asks, cautiously, gently placing the same hand onto the boy's face and slowly swiping the thumb.
This is not a Poseidon that's often seen. This is not the Earthshaker, not the Stormbringer, not the unpredictable God of the Seas. The younger gods have never seen such a Poseidon.
The boy croaks out, “ Dad .”
Poseidon's eyes widen.
In the next moment, both they, the fountain, and the sword resting within it are gone.
In the ensuing silence, it's an unexpected god that finds his words first. “So,” begins Dionysus, one hand cradling a chalice of wine and the other idly twirling a strand of dark, curly hair. “Is it time for the festivities?”