Chapter Text
All It knew was the cold and the darkness.
The apartment was cold.
The heating and hot water had been disconnected in the fall when the gas bill had remained unpaid. Gabe only bothered with the water and electricity because he needed it to go to the toilet and watch TV, and even then, it was always late. Even in the harshest of winters It wasn’t allowed a blanket. Gabe said they were for good children just like warm clothes and socks. Hot food was a no as well. That was for Gabe. Food in general was for Gabe, but It had learned that while a discarded chip or piece of mouldy bread could be stolen from the ever-guarded kitchen, hot food was an unreachable temptation that It dare not even hope to obtain. The windows were broken, half boarded up with glass covering the ground (stuck in Its’ hands, Its’ feet) allowing strong drafts to flow through the halls during the cooler months.
When it wasn’t the height of summer, where 40° days would melt the road and blister skin, the icy wind and sleet would batter the windows and freeze Its’ small hands. The overcast sky blocked the little warmth It could have gained form the suns meagre raise as it attempted to shine through boarded up windows. The snow in winter streamed through the broken and semi-boarded-up windows leaving It damp and frozen, while rain and hail seeped through the cracks in the fall and spring. The ground was cold to Its’ bare feet (It’d grown out of the broken old shoes two months ago) and the wind stung Its’ face. It wasn’t allowed outside. It’d never truly felt the tough of the sun on Its’ face, the summer breeze on Its’ cheeks. It got so sick one year that It though It was going to die (It lived, unfortunately).
The apartment was dark.
Its’ room was dark and damp, mold long since taken residence upon the walls. Calling it a room was generous when it was really just a repurposed laundry cupboard with a pillow in one corner and a ratty t-shirt and jeans in the other. The once white walls where now a sickly shade of yellow with patches of black. It tried to stay away from the black, It knew it wasn’t good for It, but as It grew, and the cupboard became smaller, it because increasingly hard. It was lucky to have the cupboard It knew. Gabe could have made It sleep in the middle of the floor (on the bed of glass again). Gabe could have made It sleep under his bed, or on the cold tile of the bathroom floor (a floor It knew so well after Gab-). It could have been made to sleep on the fire escape or in a cupboard in the kitchen. But instead, It’d been given Its’ own space that was just for It (untrue, Gabe could still come in, could sti-).
It thinks It knew warmth once. Once when It was small, there had been someone who had held It, who had given IT warmth and kindness. Once, It had been allowed to revel in the warmth of the sun, been allowed to seek out the comfort of a blanket, of warm food and cozy blankets (had known touch that didn-). Its thinks It had a name once too. Sometimes, int Its’ dreams, It hears a woman calling out to It, calling It Percy. But that all felt so far away from where It was now.
The lock had been in place for three days now. The lock had been in place for longer before, but usually It was allowed to prepare, It was given a bucket or a piece of mouldy bread. It didn’t get anything this time. It lay there, in the dark and damp, dressed only in Its’ too small t-shirt and dirty boxers. Its’ feet bare and cut (red and swollen form the glass still imbedded in them), hands heavy and weak (left sprained, right permanently disfigure). Gabe had been angry (he was always angry). It had been too loud and Gabe couldn’t hear the game (lies, It was silent, always silent. Did It even know how to talk?). Its’ stomach was grumbling, and It badly needed the bathroom. It’d managed to sneak a few chips form an almost empty bag a few days ago…
Gabe was still outside in the living room, the TV on full blast as the commentators debated the actions of those playing as if they themselves where the experts on a game they had never even attempted. Snores, equally loud, could also be heard. Had he forgotten about It?
It closed Its’ eyes. The pressure in Its’ bladder was getting bad now but it couldn’t do anything yet. This was Its’ only pair of cloths left and it could afford to get them dirty (they were already trashed, It doubted they could get much worse). Gabe would probably just take them away and forget to give It some more (there would be not forgetting for It, not after last ti-). Its’ stomach was cramping, and Its’ throat was raw. Even if the door was unlocked, how would It move. Its’ hands and feet felt on fire and Its’ head was fuzzy. Its’ eyes were wet. Had It been crying? Where had Its’ body gotten the water to do that?
There was a crunch and thump, snapping It out of his daze. Its’ boxers were wet and Its’ stomach was still cramping. Its’ tears increased, silently falling down its’ face like waterfalls of sorrow. Its’ shirt was wet at the hem. It wouldn’t be able to keep either. The cupboard opened.
“Look at the mess you’ve made brat. Guess you’re goanna have to earn some new cloths”.
There was more than tears on Its’ face by the end of the night, but It had some new cloths and It was clean. It silent cried Itself to sleep in the darkness of Its’ locked cupboard. The darkness offering the limited safety it had started to find comfort in.
Artemis and Apollo were the patrons of young boys and girls respectively. They aimed to protect as many as possible form the horrors of the world. Apollo was the patron of Camp half Blood. The safe place for Greek demigods where they could be children, while learning to defend themselves form the outside world that seemed to be against them at every turn. Artemis had her Hunt, her girls that defended the defenceless, hunted monsters and lived in partial immortality at their goddess’s side.
Artemis’s Hunters were aware of the conditions of their immortality before joining the hunt. They understood what was expected of them form the moment they said yes. Forgo the company of men, protect their fellow sisters, follow the commands of their goddess and defend those who are defenceless. Immortal unless killed in battle or by their patron, and forever Virgins. What many were unaware of was that a hunter, under the right circ*mstances, may ask their Lady Goddess for permission to leave the hunt either temporarily (while keeping their vows, lest they be cursed and forsaken) or permanently.
Sally Jackson had Joined the hunt at the age of 15 when her mother had been killed in the Salem Witch hunts of 1692. A daughter of Apollo herself, Sally was already proficient with a bow as well as being naturally inclined to the arts of healing. Artemis, not one to leave her niece behind and in need of a healer, had offered the young girl a position in the Hunt.
Sally had thrived in the company of her sisters in arms. She had bonded with her father and Aunt; she had built herself a life with the hunt and all those in it. But…. the late 20th century had brough about changes to laws and social hierarchies. Women were no longer in the shadows; they could live and be who they wanted without their husbands dictating their every move.
So, in the summer of 1992, with the consent of her Father, her sisters and, most importantly, her patron and Aunt, Sally Jackon left the hunt for a little cabin in Montauk.
Everything the light toughed, he saw. Everything that reached out to touch the light saw him. Apollo kept track of all of his children across the millennia. He knew each intimately, even if they did not know him. He could tell you every detail of all his children’s, and their children’s lives as easily as he could recite an epic poem. He mourned each of his children like it was his first loss, he grieves for the ones that knew him and the ones that didn’t. he feels their pain, their elation, their happiness and their sorrow. Such is the curse of his mortal heart.
When Sally Jackson gave birth to the prince of the sea, he felt so many conflicting emotions, he didn’t know what to do with himself. There was joy for the new life, sadness that she would never be able to join her sisters again, anger at the laws preventing Poseidon form helping her any further, hope that he would accept his newest grandchild, and so much more.
Baby Perseus was beautiful. He looked like an exact copy of his father (black hair and oceans for eyes), but his face was all his mother. The boy seemed to glow in the light of the morning sun (his sun on his grandchild) and Apollo knew he would grow to be a handsome young man (should he survive that long).
Everything the light toughed, he saw. So when Sally Jackson (his precious and wonderful daughter) was gunned down in a dirty New York alleyway on the evening of the winter solstice, he saw it in vivid detail. He could not go to her, could not help her soul find its way to his Uncle as he had done so many times before due to this Chaos-Damned meeting. He saw as the bastard drunk took his tiny grandson (not even 2 years of age) form the arms of his slowly dying mother and whisked him away into the approaching night.
He saw Poseidon clench his fists in rage, (the seas rage and storms descend) equally powerless to help his son. He looked to his Uncle, the one he had stood by and with for centuries. His Uncle looked back. A mutual understanding was formed.
Should that man step one foot near an ocean, take one step outside during the summer months, he would find himself facing the wrath of two Olympians. Perseus would be returned to them, Ancient laws be damned. Gods were selfish creatures, but humans, humans could be the real monsters of the world.
