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Neptune was well aware that falling into bed with a woman that bore the same soul as his former lover was not a particularly smart idea. It had not been done before—likely for good reason—and doing so would be tempting not only the wrath of his wife, who had never liked Theano and would surely not like Livia, but also the Fates themselves. Perseus, son of Theano, had led a long, yet grief-stricken life and, in the end, his godly parentage had been little more than a footnote in his history. The Greeks knew him as a Champion of Apollo; the Romans did not know him at all.

But Neptune remembered, with less clarity than Poseidon, the sight of sea-green eyes blinking open and the tired, smiling face of a lover. And, Chaos help him, Perseus had been Poseidon’s most promising hero child. Neptune wanted a bit of that glory, a bit of that love, for himself. 

He took Livia to bed. Not the one time, either, but many, until one day she invoked his name and gave him the news he had been waiting for: she was with child.

Yet it did not bring her the same joy it did him. Livia had the soul of Theano—and the memories, as well. She remembered the way her first incarnation’s son had inherited powers beyond his father’s ability, the way blood seemed to bend to his will. She did not wish for this child to suffer the same fate. And Poseidon was a God of the Sea, of saltwater, which blood had a very little amount of. Neptune was a God of Water; he could not ascertain that a semideus born from him would not be able to control blood. But what did it matter? The boy would certainly grow to be a fearsome legionnaire. Mars would certainly like him. And, if not him, then Bellona; she reveled in violence and bloodshed more than the Progenitor of Rome. 

Yes, yes, his son would be great! But Livia still worried, so Neptune turned to the one person he had wanted to avoid at all costs. The downside of Livia retaining Theano’s memories was that she remembered, quite clearly, which God had shown up for her son when it mattered. Neptune did not make any excuses for Poseidon, who had certainly let the boy and his mother down, but it did rankle him that she would trust a Greek God over a Roman. Only for his son would he allow the disrespect. Apollo would set her mind at ease and give his son a chance to be born, he was certain of it.

He was wrong, it turned out. Apollo did not set her mind at ease, at first. Rather, he— empathized with her. Sat down at her table for hours to regale her with tales of his own children. He had two Roman sons, from what Neptune could remember, twins. It was not them that he spoke of, but his Greek children. 

Unlike most of the other Gods that had been syncretized with the Roman pantheon, all of Apollo’s memories remained vivid; a consequence of not being truly Roman like the rest of them. He was Greek. He would always be Greek. And for this reason, Neptune did not wish for his son to grow up with Apollo’s influence like Perseus had. 

And yet it seemed like that was exactly what awaited him. Livia seemed absolutely taken by Apollo, by his words. So much so that, when he lay a hand over hers and told her that the greatest gift was being able to love, she agreed. She had not yet decided if his son would be born, and he knew better than to push, lest she feel cornered and make the wrong choice, but she appeared more amenable to the idea. 

Their son was born on the eighteenth day of Augustus, his birth overseen by Juno Lucina herself. Neptune stayed just outside the birthing room throughout the twenty-nine hours of labor—an unnecessary amount of time, in his opinion—waiting for the child’s first cry. When it did not come, he entered the room.

Juno was holding his son, looking over him with a critical eye. Then, she seemingly made up her mind and gave him one hard pat across the back. He still did not cry, though his eyes were open, the clearest blue. “What is wrong with him?” Neptune boomed, at the same time as Livia asked, 

“Is he alright?”

Juno ignored him, but she gave Livia a positive answer and laid the child onto his mother’s chest. “The Sun God shall bring news soon.” she said, just as the door opened. 

Apollo crossed the room in three strides, stopping briefly only to greet Juno. Then he looked at the child’s mother and said, “He is reborn.” 

The words were grim, and both he and Juno seemed to be waiting for Livia to deny the child. It was a right reserved for the father, but neither of them were paying him much attention at all. Neptune wisely kept his mouth shut, not wanting to incur his sister’s wrath. Finally, Livia spoke. She looked briefly at their child, nestled into her chest, then at Juno and Apollo in turn. “Then his name shall be Perseus.”

Indignation rose in him. His son would not bear a twice-Greek name when himself and the mother were both Roman. No, no—the boy would already go without a full name, being that he had no mortal father; Neptune would not be shamed further by his son bearing a foreign name. His name would be Agrippa, and he told them so.

Juno levelled him with a look that could freeze their brother’s domain twice-over. “ You will interact with this child twice, if that, in his lifetime. His name shall be what his mother decides.” 

“His name shall be Perseus.” Livia repeated, and so it was.

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔♆:･

Contrary to Juno’s belief, Neptune saw Perseus three times by the time he was six. It was difficult to keep himself away, when he knew how powerful the child born of Poseidon and Theano’s union had been. He was intent on not making their mistakes—he would be there for his son, even if it meant going against the unspoken mandate that he should not be involved. It was easier said than done.

His Perseus seemed to carry traces of Poseidon’s Perseus, but none of the bits that would make him a feared warrior. He was loyal to his mother. He was kind to his neighbors, which included Apollo’s twin sons. The boy-god was smart; he placed his own children near another, more powerful, semideus with the ability to protect them from the more unsavory parts of their world. Apollo’s twins were older by four years, however, so they eventually left him behind for camp. 

Neptune watched closely when it was finally Perseus’ turn. The boy was wolf-like, a natural-born hunter. And though Neptune had never been made aware of Apollo’s influence tainting his son, there was pride in his eyes and in Juno’s when Perseus successfully passed his first trial.

Neptune was not a beast like his Greek counterpart, he was not wild and unrestrained. He had been drawn to Livia for her serenity that was like the calmest waters. Their shared child had always been emotionally intelligent, if sensitive. He had attitude—did not flinch even when Neptune attempted to terrify him into displaying more virtus —but that seemed to be contained and specifically aimed at his own father and the mortal men that insulted his mother. 

This Perseus, suffering Lupa’s trials, was nothing like that. This Perseus could not control the blood that flowed through a wolf’s veins and make her faint. This Perseus was not confident enough to cut into his palm and throw off their scent. His Perseus was not Poseidon’s Perseus, but he was Apollon’s Champion and Theano’s son all the same.

Neptune had never thought him dangerous like Poseidon’s Perseus. He had thought the boy weak, had led himself to believe the boy would die in custody of Lupa and her wolves. He was wrong. 

By the time that he reached the Roman Camp, Perseus’ name was known. Perseus Luporum, they called him. Perseus of the Wolves. And despite bearing the mark of a trident on his arm, Neptune could not shake the feeling that his son was more Apollo’s than his.

Chapter Text

Juno Lucina had seen to the births of many children, mortals and semidei alike. Most of Mars’ children were born in her presence, and even Vulcan had been known to call upon her to tend to the rare lover that bore him a child, and yet the invocation of her name, on a rainy day in Augustus, brought her pause. 

She had never been called to oversee the birth of a nephew before. Ceres handled matters on her own, Pluto had not yet lowered himself to the levels of their brothers, and Jupiter would not dare. That left Neptune. Neptune who had had his eye turned by a mortal woman, to the annoyance of his godly wife and children. Neptune whose mortal lover was now praying to her. 

Had it been a different mortal, she would have sent her blessings and left it at that. Neptune’s Livia, however, was interesting. She had been a Greek mortal, in her past life, lover of Poseidon, mother of Perseus. Not the Perseus that had slayed Medusa, but the other one—the Champion of Apollo. And that was unheard of. This woman, this soul, was capable of great things. Terrifying things, even, given the stories that surrounded Perseus the Greek Champion. 

Juno oversaw the birth of Neptune and Livia’s son while Apollo conferred with Pluto and the Parcae. It was a formality, more than anything; the boy was almost definitively the same soul. 

His birth was marked only by his mother’s sigh of relief. He did not cry, but when Juno looked him over he was merely looking at her with beautiful blue eyes. Transfixed and entirely calm. This was a child that had already known the weight of life before. This was a child that did not feel the need to mark his entry into the next one with tears. He was calm, and healthy, and perfect, and she made sure to tell his worried mother as much.

And when the Sun God came with the confirmation of their suspicions, Juno felt the need to lay a blessing upon the boy. Perhaps he would grow healthy and strong without the aid of a God. Perhaps he would be the warrior his father so clearly wished he was and bring him honor. But the conflation of the Greek pantheon with their own had given her some access into Hera’s head, her thoughts and memories, and Hera had liked the boy. Had liked how fiercely loyal he was to his mortal mother over his godly father, how he treated women as worthy, how he had nearly agreed to marry a girl he did not love just to protect her. Hera believed him to be honorable. Honorable men deserved to live.

Perseus, named for his first life, would be a healthy baby. She could not guarantee his happiness—that would be left to his mother, who would surely do her best to ensure it—but he would be safe from illness for the first seven years of his life. 

She would watch him for seven years, ensure his infancy was a suitable one. Perhaps it would not be great—she could not guarantee greatness anymore than she could happiness—but it would be the best she could make it, and she had no doubt that Apollo would fill in any gaps that she left.

Perseus, son of Livia, would grow up loved indeed.

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔♆:･

There were no snakes throughout the first seven years of Perseus’ life. There were no monsters. Those would come later, once Juno stopped pulling strings in his favor. For now, the boy’s biggest worry was whether or not his mother would let him play in the stream that rushed behind their house. Usually, the answer was no; Livia was a stern mother. She did not have the resentment towards Neptune that Theano had had towards Poseidon, but she still did not encourage her son to use his powers if it could be helped. She was devoted to her son, devoted to Juno and Minerva, and known to occasionally pray to Apollo, but Neptune’s name went unsaid in her household. 

She showed herself, sometimes, to the boy. Would sing him lullabies to soothe him to sleep while his mother, a tailor by trade, worked in the back room. She always burnt the first garment to honor Minerva, even when it would have earned her quite a few denarii should she have kept and sold it. Livia was an honorable woman, and she would raise an honorable son with Juno’s help.

He told her how pretty she was, how nice. He did not fear her as the Queen of the Gods, as the Protector of Rome. He called her Amita—the sister of his father—and addressed his offerings to her in that form, as well. Perseus, son of Livia, was a devotee of Juno. 

He burned for her the second-best of every flower he picked (the best one being reserved for his mother to place in her hair, always) and the best cut of meat on his plate. It was often not a good cut at all, as Perseus and his mother were not of wealthy origins, but the smell of it was nice all the same, given it was a gift from her favorite semideus. 

Oh, but she was not the only deity that Perseus considered worthy of his devotion. He was her favorite, but Juno did not dare delude herself into believing that she was his. See, the son of Livia made the acquaintance of Spurius and Numerius, the twin sons of Julia and Apollo, when he was only four, and they might not have ever met their father but that did not mean they didn’t adore him all the same. They had an older sister, too, a Greek daughter of Apollo who told them all stories. Juno did not need the gift of prophecy to know who Perseus’ favorite was. She had only to look at the boy, at the wide-eyed fascination that he displayed only when Apollo was the subject of conversation. Little Perseus would never meet Apollo if Neptune got his way. But it was not Neptune that spent time pulling on the strings that made up Perseus’ life. Neither was it Juno.

The Parcae, for reasons she would never be able to understand, wanted Perseus, son of Livia, to meet Apollo, son of Latona. And so he did. Juno had not yet made herself disappear from Perseus’ life, despite the boy having grown out of infancy two years earlier—it pained her to think that he would be without protection once she turned her back for good—so she was present when a recently-turned nine year old Perseus ran into the God of Light. Literally.

He should have gone crashing to the ground. He would have, had it been anyone else. But Apollo had always had infuriatingly quick reflexes—certainly, it made him all that more difficult to punish—and it took him no time at all to right the child. Her child. He smiled that easy smile of his and said, “You ought to be more careful, kid.”

Perseus only stared back, wide-eyed. Then he nodded, quickly, nearly toppling himself over with the force of it. “I will!” he agreed, and then ran down the hill to shout for Spurius and Numerius. The twins had been sent off to the Legion at a younger age than what was expected—Spurius had a prophetic gift, and Numerius would not let his brother go without him—but they returned every year, without fail, to visit their mother. And Perseus.

It had been odd to her, and still was now, that two boys of fourteen could get so attached to a boy so much younger. Yet she could hear their laughter as they reminisced on everything the other had missed while they were away. They were far away enough that Apollo could not be punished for going against the rules—he was not interacting with his children, though she could see clearly that it pained him to withhold his love.

Juno hated all of her husband’s illegitimate children on principle—she and Hera differed in a lot of things, but not that—but she tolerated Apollo the most. Perhaps because he was not truly Roman, not truly a son of her husband, or because he was not unfaithful, or simply because he loved his family as fiercely as she wished her own children would love her. They did not speak, content to stand at the top of the hill and watch their charges in silence. The silence said more than words would be able to.

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔♆:･

She took her leave of Perseus on the eve of his sixteenth birthday. She had overstayed her welcome by nine years, nine years of loving and being loved by a semideus that owed her nothing. He still called her Amita, even now. He still gave her flowers and offerings and was always pleased to see her. It had been wrong of her to stay so long—Neptune would be furious if he ever found out—but she had not been able to help herself. Perseus was her child as much as he was Livia’s, in a way. She had seen him be born. She had seen him grow up into the man he was now—the man that spent many of his hours in Julia’s household, helping her tend to her newborn son, the man that learned a woman’s trade to help his mother with her work. 

She could not bear to watch him die. And he likely would—for all that she admired his character, such a gentle temperament would not help him in the Legion. Lupa would certainly destroy him, break his bones one by one, and then feast on them. She had kept him alive throughout sixteen years—she could at least give him a tool to survive another on his own. 

Her last gift to him was a spear. But her last words would not be said for many, many more years. 

Chapter Text

Lupa had never met a boy quite like Perseus Neptunius. He was a gentle beast of a boy—for beast was the only thing that could accurately describe the frame of him, the muscle hidden beneath the skin, the strength with which he wielded his weapon of choice, a spear, fitting for the boy that was more Juno’s champion than Neptune’s son. Lupa knew it well that the most dangerous of warriors were those who could boast both strength and stamina, both empathy and apathy. The boy was no wolf. Very few of the boys who came to her seeking to be made into men were. Even fewer of them managed to become one with her pack by the end of their training. Most of them were little more than domestic pups, capable of barking and biting but not well enough to survive into their twenties, let alone past them. There was, of course, that son of Apollo, the young warrior-turned-augur. Yes, that one had been worthy of her favor. Only eight years old and already so wise, so much smarter than many of the men that preceded him. Spurius had been his name. Spurius Apollonius, Augur of Rome. She had never met another quite like him. He and Perseus were— solitary, in that regard. Spurius had been strategic where Perseus’ actions would likely be instinctual, not born of himself but rather the Perseus that came before him.

Such different people had never been born of the same soul, she was sure. She had not met the Greek Perseus—unlike the Gods, Lupa was wholly devoted to Rome—but she had heard many a tale of him, the bad more-so than the good ones. The Roman Perseus had all of his previous incarnation’s compassion and none of his fire. He did not make an effort to be good, to not give into power and anger—he simply was. This, she knew, could not be changed. But perhaps it could be… altered. Maybe he did not wish for power or glory, but he surely did wish for his mother’s safety and happiness. And his mother would only be content knowing that her only child, in turn, was safe and happy. So perhaps this was her angle. Appeal to the boy’s compassion instead of his rage. 

It would be some days before her training method was set in stone—it tended to vary from boy to boy, though more often than not several of them had the exact same training in a different order—in order for her to get an accurate feel of the boy and his motivations. She could not properly train a semideus from boy to man without first learning the type of boy he was, isolated from his God-given powers. And so she watched him, the way he would sit on a log surrounded by her wolves with the calmness of a boy who knew wilderness, the way his hand would drift over the heads of them, never quite meeting its mark, because these wolves were not his wolf. He would be a fun one to train. Her brethren so rarely got to toy with the semidei. 

She herself was a legendary figure of Rome—the mother wolf who had kept Remus and Romulus alive—but not divine, not any different than the other wolves if not for the fact that the Gods entrusted her with their children. They did not provide her with the means to communicate with said children, however, so the semidei were always forced to learn her ways. The results were almost entirely always a complete disappointment.

But Perseus would be different. Perseus was not a wolf, would never be a wolf, at least not in the way his father clearly wished for him to be. He was not the biggest nor the strongest, he was not the hunter. Perhaps he was— the nurturer, like she was. So many, mortals and immortals alike, discounted them. Weak, they would say. A liability. But was it not Lupa who they trusted to train them? Was it not Lupa who had given the progenitor of Rome a chance at survival? It was. And it was Lupa who culled the failures, as well, the ones who truly would never manage to be anything but a liability to the Legion.

Only fools would look at Perseus and think him one of them. So it was settled, then. She would train the boy as her own mother had done to her, and let his fate seal itself. 

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔♆:･

Her first tests were simple enough, an attempt at familiarising herself with his abilities. She learned only a few things, though. He did not turn to his powers in moments of desperation; he could run quite fast; he was decent with a sword, abysmal with a bow, and extraordinary with a spear. He had the upper body strength of a poor boy with a working mother. A cleverness that struck her as reminiscent of that son of Apollo. He was quite adept at weaving, and often used the landscape to his advantage. Perseus, son of Neptune, was an amalgamation of many Gods that were not his father. 

The secondary tests pushed his limits and her own. He would not attack the wolves if the threat was only to himself. And so Lupa gathered a group of pups, squealing and alert but not yet old enough to go off on their own, and gave her wolves a single command. 

Perseus had no way of knowing that the pack would not harm their young. And Lupa, for all of her experience, for all the time that she had spent watching this boy and learning about him, had not considered that he might have been watching her, too.

The wolf stare, as it was called by the mortals, was a difficult thing to emulate if one was not, by nature, a wolf. Like many things about them, it was also misconstrued. The stare was not a threat. The stare was a warning. So many semidei failed at it. And if they could not manage the wolf stare, if they could not cool their heads enough to issue a warning and defuse situation, what business did they have in the Legion? Lupa was not in the habit of creating cold-blooded killers. Romulus had killed his brother over a silly dispute. Such was the way of humans, not wolves. Had they stayed with her, had they been given more time to grow into what they could have been, such a thing would have never come to pass. A pack would never turn on their own for such a small offense. It just was not something that they did. 

But human nature was complicated, and godly nature even moreso, and Lupa would not allow such a disgrace to fall upon Rome, so the semidei that failed, that did not respect the stare as a warning, well. They provided a hearty meal for the pack, so they were useful to Rome at least in death. Perseus was not one of these semidei. Perseus stared a ravenous-looking pack of wolves down without a single lick of fear. 

He passed, of course. Lupa made it known to him that he could go, now, find his way to the Roman encampment and join the Legion. A son of Neptune. She hoped they treated him with respect. Knew that they would, because Lupa had vetted each of those little humans herself, and knew they were only the best of the best. 

Perseus looked at her, just once, and she thought that that was that. But the gentle beast of a boy turned back just to bury his face into her fur as he wrapped his arms around her neck, and it wasn’t Lupa’s first time being hugged by a semideus—wolves were Apollo’s sacred animal, his children tended to like her—but it was the first time being hugged by a child not of the Sun God. Then he was on his way, and Lupa found that she would actually miss him. 

But Perseus was meant for greater things than the Legion, and something told her he wouldn’t be Roman when those greater things happened, so maybe it was time to do as the Gods did and involve herself with the Greeks.