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minweber · 28 days

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Musings on Custodes: Nobilitas Terra

Ah, the now famous “all Custodians begin their lives as the infant sons of the noble houses of Terra” line from the 8th edition codex (not reproduced in the 9th one, btw). It has now experienced the kind meteoric rise in quotation previously enjoyed only by biblical verses in times of major church schisms. Let’s talk about the part of it that’s actually interesting though.

So Custodians are drawn from the children of Terra’s nobility. It is apparently not exclusive and other sources are allowed on Custodes’ own discretion, but this is both the traditional and the main one. It seems that originally the Emperor was doing something of a mamluk/janissaries thing with them, taking infant children from the families of his potential rivals as both hostages and soldiers that could be raised loyal only to him. Later, when his power grew to so far outstrip that of Terra’s aristocracy as to make any internal challenge of it inconceivable, it instead became prestigious to submit a child of a family to this service - not conscription, but an offering to the golden idol of humanity instead.

So surely, in 42nd millennium, with the Emperor’s eclipsing presence… changed, if not gone, there must be some sort of interesting dynamic between the Custodians and the bloodlines that spawned them? Well, the codex seems to dismiss the idea out of hand, stating that there is no real way for nobles of Terra to recognize their scions once they become Custodians - which presumably means that there is no grounds for interaction? And sure, I can recognize why the official lore in its current state isn't interested in that: Custodians are fixated on the Emperor to the exclusion of everything else, and the Terran nobility itself is a fairly faceless thing in the lore, one of which we don't really know enough about to build any kind of investment from their perspective.

But here we are all about the things that could yet be, rather than the things that just are! And I honestly think a bit of lore expansion in this direction could be pretty interesting!

Between the origins of the Rogue Traders and the Custodians themselves it seems that, much like the priesthood of Mars, some clans on Terra were indeed once powerful enough to make the newly ascendant Emperor deal with them in terms other than total subjugation or destruction. Would the meteoric rise of the Imperium during the Great Crusade grow or diminish their powers? On one hand - the previously mentioned growth of the Emperor's power in relation to them and the whole new "breed" of imperial elite he was literally creating (I know that in modern lore there is some speculation about what were actually his plans for the Astartes and the primarchs post-Crusade, but however things would have turned out for them, had he his way, I doubt it would have resulted in even a modicum of power returning to the hands of his once-rivals)... But on the other - during times of obscene growth and expansion rich and powerful tend to grow even more so, and I doubt that grimdark future avoids this tendency. So I will go out on a limb a little and say that while during the rise of the Imperium the power of Terran nobility may have waned in relative terms, it probably grew in the absolute ones.

And the following ten thousand years of sitting at the top of a stupidly expansive feudal confederacy probably did not hurt them either!

In the days of the Era Indomitus, then, these vague "noble houses of Terra" must be some sort of force to be reckoned with - politically, culturally, and probably even militarily. Likely on a galactic scale. And the personal guard of the Emperor, the supposedly most advanced beings in the entire Imperium, the living symbol of his power - are staffed almost exclusively by the scions of those houses. Do you see my vision? Do you agree that something simply must be there?!

Custodians are the Emperor's representatives and envoys, the single most powerful military force on Terra and the organization in full undisputed control of access to the most holy site in the entire Imperium, a place from which, technically, ALL authority within its borders is derived. Even without the bloodline connection there should be some kind of a relationship between them and the other powers of the throneworld! Even if we look at the pre-codex, fully palace-bound version of Custodes that care for absolutely nothing other than the Emperor's corpse physical safety - they still recognized that the events on larger Terra influence this safety and need to be at least reacted upon. And in the modern version they have never even been that shut-off. Even before the lifting of the Edict of Restraint, Solar Watch patrolled the Sol system entire, Aquilan Shield departed on their mysterious protector missions and the Emissaries Imperatus were busy being a diplomatic corps, for fuck's sake. I find it hard to believe that they would simply ignore Terra's political players, leaving them to do whatever unless someone rolled up armed to the Imperial Palace. So there definitely would be interactions - and once that hook is in, the fun begins.

Are custodians willing to "stoop down" and play nobility's games with them? Do they even have aversion to doing so? Surely, with all the talk about their talents beyond head-chopping, they are capable of scheming with the best of them? And if doing so is the most efficient way to get the job done - why would they object? And if they are no strangers to political manipulation and the noble families desperately want the prestige that comes with having produced a Custodian - why wouldn't the demigods indulge them and use it as a tool? Especially since they - if we keep the codex idea of it being impossible to recognize surrendered infants as the Custodians they become - hold all the cards and can basically present any of their number as a scion of this or that family? And while we are at it - do they themselves actually know? I imagine it must be not that important to them, but are there any records kept? Could you be a 200 hundred year old Custodian fresh out of training (a random example - like so many things, it is not known how long the creation and training of a Custodian takes) and be suddenly told that the aging matron of a noble house with whom you have to go and negotiate is actually your biological mother? Would that stir something? Curiosity, at least? Or is the Emperor’s light so absolute that it can blind one to even the most deep-nested human impulses?

Do Custodians remember sins and glories forgotten by the tapestries of gold and jewels? Do they watch some relatively minor and unimportant house with baffling prejudice - all because someone from it almost outdid the Emperor in something more than ten thousand years ago? Do some bloodlines enjoy unseen protection due to secret deals that have passed out of all human memory?

What about the internal politics of the organization? Millenia of drafting from a relatively closed pool of families means that some Custodians are related to each other - does that matter to them in any way? Even if the golden demigods are completely free of prejudice and superstition - which their history of paranoia kinda tells me they are not - genetics do play an objectively huge part in their existence. Is more expected of those drafted from families that produce more Custodians than others, or have spawned some especially renowned heroes? Once again - is it even public knowledge amidst the Custodes?

And what about the nobles themselves? Do they seek favor of the Adeptus Custodes? Is such a thing even possible? Do they view them as another player in their political games, or are they more of a force of nature, a condition that everyone has to deal with and adapt to? How does the process of submitting children even work nowadays? Is it compulsory? How many are taken from each family/genertaion? Do any struggle against this harvest, or has the honor of the thing completely overshadowed any resentment that they might have had?

Basically what I am saying is that, for the purposes of worldbuilding, interaction between systems is always better than the lack of thereof. And if one were looking for the ways to expand Custodes' lore - this one feels like a great source of characterization for them.

#a tangent that wasn't really worth putting in the main text #Is Terran aristocracy actually the most ancient and powerful within the Imperium?#It seems logical at a first glance #but Terra has collapsed into barbarism during the Age of Strife #while many other worlds - though not as powerful at its outset - have survived with their social hierarchies relatively intact #the knight worlds being the most of obvious example #so there probably should be a ton of aristocratic families throughout the Imperium that can trace their lineages far beyond those of Terra #love to imagine the kind of bickering that could exist due to that #musings on custodes #adeptus custodes #warhammer 40000 #and a slightly more cursed one to follow #Terran aristocrats mad thirst for custodes right?#well any Terrans really #I mean come on #we do it here and we have never even seen one #and doing so gotta awaken something in people #but then... if you are an obscenely rich and powerful noble you kinda have resources to act on it #not with custodians themselves obviously #but with all the wild genetic engineering stuff going on within the Imperium #surely its not impossible to modify a person into being roughly the same size and looking like a custodian #without all the powers stuff - which is supposed to be the hard part #especially for a... very driven client #imagine bursting down into the dungeon of a traitorous nobles palace to cut them down in the name of the Master of Mankind #and finding out that they have a gimp genetically engineered to look like you #I'd cut down on interactions with regular humans too

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to-fly-with-clipped-wings · 2 months

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A Sea of Sorrows -> Act 1, Part 1

Act 1: the Fall of the Gods

Dear Percy. This was the year the Gods fell from Olympus, and I fell from you. I miss the us from that year. I wonder, did either of us know what was in store?

Series Summary: A chronicle of the moments you fell in love with your enemy, Percy Jackson. An epilogue to your fate and an epitaph to your grave.

AKA in a universe where you are a traitor to Camp Half-Blood. This is an ode to the boy that led to your downfall: Percy Jackson.

Series Masterlist

Percy Jackson Masterlist

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

i. Against all odds, you would say that you were looking forward to the Yancy school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Yeah, you didn’t really care about art or architecture or the weird little naked statues of the gods (you definitely didn’t appreciate that), but you were looking forward to your first extraction mission as a demigod — even if this little outing of yours couldn’t be considered a quest, and even if it was long overdue.

See, the thing was. Being undetermined was a disease in the world of Greek mythology, and it was a disease that followed you like the plague. it was a curse when your Godly parent refused to claim you, refused to acknowledge you. You were cursed from the start, cursed to run around, seeking kleos, and for what?

For absolutely nothing.

That was something no one let you forget. From your spot on the floor in Cabin Eleven (there wasn’t enough space for you to have an actual bunk), to the brown mass of curls on Grover’s head that frantically kept glancing back at you to make sure that no monster had snuck up on you during the last thirty seconds he hadn’t been looking at you. It even took Chiron about three years worth of convincing to let you go out, as he used the same reason (excuse) over and over again: you aren’t claimed. You don’t know how to defend yourself. It is too dangerous.

That’s what it always boiled down to.

You weren’t claimed, fine. You could live with that. Probably. You didn’t need to be claimed to be able to fight either. Since your mother’s passing four years ago, you had become a year round camper so you had more training under your belt than, say, ninety percent of the Apollo cabin. Yet, even they were allowed to leave camp and get up to all sorts of nonsense.

Were you not enough for your godly parent to look up from whatever divine duties they needed to do? Were you not good enough for your godly father to come down to save your mother when she was on her deathbed? You weren’t even sure if your father knew your name.

You weren’t claimed, and it bothered you. And clearly, it bothered the entire camp too. Not being trusted to do quests or missions, being sent pitying glances from your spot at the Hermes table, limiting your value to who your godly parent was as if that was the only thing that made you, you. Maybe you should’ve just been grateful you were a demigod at all, although sometimes you seriously doubted that. Perhaps you were even just a mortal girl with exceptional Clear Sight.

Who knew? (Well obviously the gods did, but they were stuck on their thrones in Olympus doing who knows what.)

Anyways, you forced all those stray thoughts out of your mind. It did you no good to wade in your sorrow, especially if no one else thought it was enough to care about. You despised your father, but you could keep it to yourself (for now).

You sent Grover a small smile when he glanced back at you again.

Next to you, Percy Jackson, pulled a face.

Percy was a thirteen year old boy. With staggering sea-green eyes, black hair and tan skin, he was the half-blood Grover had called Chiron out for. For a year, it had been you, him and Grover fighting your way through the hell-hole that was Yancy Academy. Between failing classes, cheating off each other during tests (and failing those anyways because apparently both of you sucked at academics equally) and throwing dirt into Nancy Bobofit’s eyes, whenever she threw her weird bits of peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwich on Grover, you would say that you and Percy were probably each other’s closest friends. Throughout the year, you and Percy had become each other’s anchor. You shared the burden of academic challenges, often finding peace in the fact that if you were going to fail, at least you’d do it together.

There was a certain comfort in Percy’s company, a sense of acceptance that was rare and maybe even precious. He never looked at you with eyes of thinly veiled judgement that others often did, nor did he offer unwanted pity, that felt more like a burden than a comfort. It was probably because he had no idea of his demigod heritage, but with Percy, you were just you. Unclaimed, perhaps, but never unseen.

You liked Percy’s company, and considering he was your best friend, you were impatiently waiting for the day Chiron gave you the all clear to return to Camp Half-Blood. There you and Percy could spend your days picking strawberries, sparring, whatever it was you two wanted to do. And hopefully, Percy would end up being unclaimed, or maybe even the son of a minor god, so you could ride out your days in the Hermes Cabin forever. Maybe one day, you would even be promoted to getting a bunk. That would be especially great.

“Excited for the trip, Major?” Percy grinned at you.

(Major was the name Percy had started calling you out of the blue when the two of you first met. You didn’t know what was going through his head when he’d thought of it, or if had even been thinking at all, to be honest, but it unfortunately stuck.)

You sighed, tilting your head on your seat so you could glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Ahead of you, Grover squawked when Nancy Bobofit threw another bit of her sandwich at him.

“I’m going to kill her,” muttered Percy, his eyes darkening at the red-headed girl. You patted Percy’s knee, trying to stop him from leaping at Nancy on the bus. She sucked, but it wasn’t worth Percy getting expelled from Yancy just yet.

Chiron — sorry, Mr. Brunner, led the museum tour.

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before. Ancient Greek armour (that you knew weren’t that ancient), pots with little dancing figures painted on them, steles with, to no one’s surprise, weird naked statues of gods running across them. It was really nothing special, just the usual artsy stuff mortals were crazy for, but you did get a kick out of Percy snapping at Nancy when Chiron was rumbling about something to do with Greek depression or something.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Percy gave her his nastiest stink-eye.

Everyone laughed. You nudged Percy’s shoulder, and he turned his gaze to you, kicking your shoe in retaliation, before remembering that Chiron and Mrs. Dodds were still there, and they didn’t look all that happy with Percy’s interruption.

Mrs. Dodds was an interesting character. She despised Percy with all of her being (not heart, you weren’t sure if she had a heart), but you would say she had a soft-spot for you. Like whenever she gave Percy after-school detention for blowing up a bin or something, you would turn, smile at you and give you this weird melted candy bar that tasted oddly like hot fudge and sea salt?

While the chocolate was a much appreciated gesture, you didn’t enjoy the way she snapped at Percy, and you agreed that there was something off about her. Like in the way she wasn’t exactly… normal? But you doubted anyone would listen to you anyways, and if Chiron hadn’t picked up on it, then it probably wasn’t important.

“Mr. Jackson,” began the centaur in disguise. “Did you have a comment?”

“No, sir,” said Percy, his cheeks burning red.

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. “Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?”

Percy looked to where he was pointing. He nodded slightly, indicating that he knew the answer to that question (if he didn’t that was fine anyways, you would’ve just whispered it to him). “That’s Kronos eating his kids, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Brunner said, raising an eyebrow. “And he did this because…”

“Well… Kronos was the king god, and —”

“God?” Mr. Brunner asked.

You flinched slightly when Percy said it; you didn’t think the gods would be willing to hold back if they caught him making that little comment. The gods had incredibly short fuses, and it was often their temper that caused the most destruction — like when Ares shot that one archduke back in 1914 and started World War 1.

“Titan,” Percy fixed. “And…he didn’t trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—”

“Eeew!” squealed some girl from behind you. Honestly same, random girl, same.

“—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans,” Percy powered through, “and the gods won.”

Nancy Bobofit mumbled, “like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”

You didn’t like Nancy much, but there was probably some merit to her question. The gods cared so much about themselves, that one day they probably would manage to hijack mortal job interviews into a pop quiz of ‘what is Aphrodite’s favourite brand of perfume’ or ‘write a one thousand word essay on why Zeus is most supreme god, explaining clearly why his brothers Poseidon and Hades suck ass.’

You rolled your eyes.

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Brunner said, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

“Busted,” Grover muttered.

“Shut up,” hissed Nancy, her face even brighter red than her hair.

Percy looked pensive for a moment, the most pensive you’d ever seen him apart from when he needed to decide between blue cookies or blue jelly beans. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Chiron sighed. “Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld.”

Kronos. The name sent chills up your spine. The Titan lord who had once ruled before the gods, now a whisper from the past, yet his legacy lingered like a shadow. As Chiron recounted the tale, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of foreboding, a sense that the history of the gods and Titans was not as distant as it seemed.

Your gaze shifted downwards to your trembling hands. You clasp them together to try and steady them. The tales of gods and Titans, of heroes and monsters, they all seemed like distant echoes of a world you were forced into but never truly belonged. You felt the weight of your unclaimed status, a constant reminder of your place, or lack thereof, in this mythological tapestry.

You watched Percy. His fate was yet to unfold, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. He had a path, albeit unknown to him, but you… you were adrift in a sea of uncertainty, a ship without a sail.

The gods, those mighty beings who played with the lives of mortals and demigods alike, they were the root of your turmoil. How easy it must be for them, to watch from their celestial thrones, to judge and to ignore the pleas of their children. Your mother, a casualty of their indifference. She was a life that could have been saved.

And yet, despite the anger that simmered within you, a rage that threatened to boil over with each passing day, you found yourself paralyzed. To hate the gods was one thing, but to act against them? That was a line you weren’t ready to cross. Not yet.

So you clung to the fragile hope that one day, perhaps, they would see you. That one day, your godly parent would claim you, would acknowledge your existence. Until then, you were a torn heart caught between the desire for vengeance and the need for acceptance.

In the days to come, I would stand by you as you discovered the truth. But, when the weight of your destiny became too much to bear alone, my greatest regret was that I could not stand beside you. Your bond was a testament to the strength that friendship and loyalty could bring. Mine was a testament to the darkness and hatred of our world.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

ii. The days after that were a tumultuous mess. You hadn’t understood them yourself.

There was an emergency call back to camp. You and Grover had pulled up to Percy and his mother who were at Montauk Beach, stolen his step-father’s car, drove it all the way to Camp Half-Blood in Long Island, got attacked by Minotaur of all things (it was your first time seeing a monster in real life), then Mrs. Jackson had gotten killed Avengers: Infinity War style and finally, Percy had somehow slain the beast.

He had passed out for a couple of days after that. You took care of him in the infirmary, spoon-feeding him ambrosia, checking his temperature and redressing any bandages. Sometimes, Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, would come in to critically assess Percy with her storm-grey eyes, as though he had mortally offended her or something, before telling you to readjust his pillows and stalking out.

Annabeth scared you a bit (a lot), but with the arrival of Percy and the possibility of him being the one to take her on a quest outside of camp, she had begun to hang around you more often. She was very passionate about architecture, and was also pretty funny when she didn’t look like she wanted to slit your throat.

You were pretty happy that Chiron had recruited you and Annabeth to show Percy the reins at Camp Half-Blood.

(Although, you weren’t entirely sure why he had asked Annabeth as well, considering that Percy knew you better than he did her, and she had the tendency to freak out new campers. But you guessed it had to do with your ‘lack of understanding of Greek mythology because you were undetermined.’ Like you could control that)

Anyways, you and Annabeth caught Percy up to speed about Camp Half-Blood, and you were only about half-way through when Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, stumbled across you and decided to graciously give Percy the ‘half-blood initiation ceremony’, which was really just sticking his head in the toilet. Before you could fist-fight Clarisse however, what happened after that was what you liked to call The Great Toilet Incident of ‘05, which you were certain went down in camp history and cemented Percy’s place in the darkest parts of Clarisse’s pitch black heart.

“I’ve got training to do. Dinner’s at seven-thirty,” Annabeth said flatly, still dripping wet. “Just follow Major to the mess hall.”

You looked at her in surprise. You didn’t know how she picked up the nickname. You guessed that Percy really did talk a lot in his sleep.

“Guys, I’m sorry about the toilets.” said Percy, not sounding very sorry.

“Whatever.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

Annabeth looked at Percy sceptically.

The toilet thing probably was Percy’s fault, but you found yourself opening your mouth to defend him anyways. “He doesn’t know how to control his demigod side yet. He only found out he was one of us hours ago.”

She gave you a crippling stare, before sighing and nodding. “Percy, you need to learn that this is your home now.”

“No it’s not!” he protested, crossing his arms.

“It is, Percy,” you offered him a meek smile. “It’s our home, for kids like us.”

“You mean, mentally disturbed kids?”

“I mean not human. Not totally human, anyway,” you said. “Half-human.”

“Half-human and half-what?”

“I think you know,” prompted Annabeth.

“God,” Percy’s brows furrowed for a moment before his eyes widened with realisation. “Half-god.”

You nodded. “Your father isn’t dead, Percy. He’s one of the Olympians.”

“That’s…crazy.”

“Is it? What’s the most common thing gods did in the old stories? They ran around falling in love with humans and having kids with them. Do you think they’ve changed their habits in the last few millennia?” Your tone grew bitter as you spoke and you glanced at the ground, trying to hide your glare.

“But if all the kids here are half-gods—”

“Demigods,” Annabeth said. “That’s the official term. Or half-bloods.”

“Then who’s your dad?”

You raised your head to look at them. You thought that he probably should’ve been able to guess Annabeth’s godly parent by now — she was basically her mirror reflection after all.

“My dad is a professor at West Point,” Annabeth said. “I haven’t seen him since I was very small. He teaches American history.”

“He’s human,” you summarised to Percy.

Percy looked confused again.

“What?” snarked Annabeth at him. “You assume it has to be a male god who finds a human female attractive? How sexist is that?”

“Who’s your mom, then?” Percy crossed his arms.

“Cabin six.”

“Meaning?”

Annabeth straightened. “Athena. Goddess of wisdom and battle.”

Percy regarded her, and then turned to you. “Who’s your parent, Major?”

“Ah, well.” You laughed nervously, scratching your cheek. “Er, you know how the kids back in cabin eleven were talking about being undetermined? That’s me. That’s why I’m still stuck in the Hermes cabin, because I haven’t been claimed yet.”

Percy’s eyebrows shot up, and he took a step closer, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, something that didn’t need words. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice as steady as a ship in calm waters. “Being undetermined doesn’t make you any less of a demigod, right?”

He looked at Annabeth who nodded sincerely. Even if she hadn’t agreed, you didn’t think for a second that Percy would have cared. That was just the sort of person he was.

“And who knows,” he continued, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile that seemed to chase away shadows, “your godly parent might claim you any day now. Until then, I’ve got your back in cabin eleven, alright Major?”

You felt a swell in your chest, a tide of emotion that left you momentarily speechless. You were touched. It astounded you how Percy could be calm — gods, somehow comforting you when he had just been through what were the worst few days of his life. You couldn’t help but crack a smile. Percy had this way of making the world seem okay, even when it felt like you were holding up the sky.

“Thanks, Perce,” your lips split into a smile. “I’ve got your back, too.”

The two of you grinned at each other before realising Annabeth was still there.

“Do you know who my father is, then?” Percy asked.

“Undetermined,” Annabeth said, “like I told you before. Nobody knows.”

“Except my mother. She knew.”

“Maybe not, Percy.” Annabeth frowned. “Gods don’t always reveal their identities.”

“My dad would have. He loved her.”

You watch Percy, his face a mix of hope and confusion, and you can’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness. The gods, they’re so distant, so wrapped up in their own affairs that they forget the very children they bring into this world. They claim love, they speak of duty, but when it comes down to it, where are they? Not here, not when Percy needed them, not when his mother needed saving. Not when anyone needed anything, but themselves.

It’s a harsh truth. The gods are selfish, caught up in their eternal games, their politics. They don’t bother to save a mother, to comfort a son, to reveal their identities and embrace their children. They leave you all to fend for yourselves, to figure out the world without a guide, without the assurance of a parent’s love. He believes in a father’s love, a love that should have shielded, should have saved. But it didn’t, and the silence from above speaks volumes.

But you, you won’t let them get to Percy. Because unlike the gods, you know what it means to care.

Don’t you?

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

iii. That night, as the world around you faded into the quiet hush of slumber, a curious sensation took hold—a dream, or so it seemed, yet not quite. Dreams were fleeting. They often slip through the fingers of your mind, vanishing from your memory once you woke up. But for some strange reason, you felt the trickling trail of deja vu climbing up your spine.

You think that you’ve had this dream before. Probably.

A shiver of recognition danced up your spine, a whisper of memory that felt like an old friend—or perhaps a ghost from the past. It was a dream that had etched itself into the grooves of your mind, returning with the silent stealth of a cat prowling in the night.

You strained to recall the last time this dream had visited you. It could’ve been a year ago, a month ago — even last night. But you did know that you’d had it. This dream had treaded the halls of your sleep before.

In the realm of dreams, you found yourself wandering through an ancient forest, the moonlight casting ethereal shadows upon the ground. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the whisper of leaves. The moon, a sliver in the sky, provided scant illumination, casting long, haunting shadows that danced between the ancient trees. Your footsteps were muffled on the forest floor, as though the earth itself conspired to keep your passage secret.

As you ventured deeper into the heart of the woods, a creeping fog began to rise, slithering between the trunks like a living being. It seemed to follow you, to surround you, and with it came a cold that seeped into your bones. The mist grew denser, a tangible presence that drew closer with every passing moment.

You reached out, fingers brushing against the cool vapour, and felt a presence—an ancient, powerful force that had been lurking in the corners of your dreams for as long as you could remember.

And then, without warning, the forest fell away, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a clearing. The mist swirled here, gathering strength. From the heart of the mist, a figure materialised. It was tall and imperious, its form shifting and wavering as if woven from the fog itself. Its eyes, when they met yours, were bottomless pits of darkness, and you felt yourself falling into them.

“Child,” it spoke, and the words seemed to resonate with the very fibres of your being. “I have watched you, and I know the suffering you’ve been dealt by the gods.”

“They have wronged you, as they have wronged me,” the figure continued, the mist swirling with every gesture. “They sit in their celestial palace, blind to the struggles of those below. But I see your potential, your desire for justice. Together, we can make them regret.”

In the quiet of your dream, your heart stirred. You did not know who this figure was or what he wanted from you, but his words reached you. The gods, those distant watchers, had become but silhouettes against your tribulations, their figures blurred by the tears of your unanswered calls. Beings who had turned their back on you, refused to acknowledge when it mattered. Left you unclaimed, left your mother to die, left Percy’s mother to die and since the beginning of time, left humanity to suffer in a cyclic torture.

And, so close, was the embrace of the mist — echoing your fury, validating your resentment.

“Why should I join you?” you asked, though part of you already yearned for the vengeance he promised.

“Because your rage is a weapon that can reshape the world,” the mist replied, its form growing more defined, more commanding. “The gods fear what they cannot control, and they cannot control the fury of the heart. Join me, and we will turn that fury into a force that will shake the heavens.”

The dream held you captive, the reality of it as undeniable as the mist that enveloped you. The mist’s words were a poison, sweet and lethal, but before you could utter another word, as the dream reached its peak, as you teetered on the cross-roads of a decision that could alter the course of history, it began to unravel.

The forest, the mist, the towering figure of the mist — all faded into the ether, leaving you alone in a barren land of tempestuous silence.

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream clinging to you like cobwebs. An anger still simmered within you, stoked by something you could not quite place your finger on. An unsettling feeling rose and fell with every breath you took.

What just happened?

You tried to think back to your dream that night, but as you’d found yourself everyday for the last couple of months, you couldn’t remember a thing. Well, maybe except for a pressing throb within the depths of your mind.

Strapping your head-piece securely on, blue plumes spilling from the top. Your armour was strapped on and you were decked out in metal from head to toe. You double-checked that your sword was tucked into your sheath before joining the Athena alliance in their march for the Capture the Flag match.

You quite liked Capture the Flag. It was one of those games where you had to do something and everyone got to run around and play — albeit, Camp Half-Blood kids did run around like headless chickens most of the time.

Percy scrambled to catch up with, tripping over his shin-guard that was a few sizes too big for him. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you grinned at him.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked. “Got any magic items you can loan me?”

You shook your head. “Nah. Sorry. Magical items are things you get from your godly parent when they feel like it. I haven’t got anything.” you waved at your basic sword for effect. “That’s why I usually go with one of the spare swords from the training shed.” You pointed at his pocket. “You’ve got Riptide, though, haven’t you? That’s more than enough.” Percy shrugged. “I don’t have it anymore, it vanished. I’m stuck with a regular, boring sword like you.” You frowned at this. Didn’t Chiron give it to him? He should still have it, shouldn’t he? “That’s strange. Just make sure Clarisse’s spear doesn’t touch you, it's electric and stings like hell. Annabeth will handle getting the banner from Ares.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Okay, Major.” He said ‘Major’ with the same tone you would call someone ‘Bossy’.

You laughed before catching him by the strap of his armour when he tripped over again. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Border patrol, whatever that means.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “That’s easy. Stand by the creek, keep the reds away.”

“What’re you doing?” You rubbed your chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m supposed to be a decoy for Luke when he runs for the flag.”

Percy looked at you appraisingly. “I guess you do look like him. I see how that would work.”

He swerved to avoid getting a faceful of the dirt you’d kicked up at him with your shoes.

Percy then started chasing you down to the creek where the Athena alliance were planting their flag, similar to how the satyrs would chase the dryads near the strawberry patch albeit a lot slower because of his armour that was triple his body weight.

You stopped when you reached the silver flag, causing Percy to topple into you and send the both of you flying into the ground. You laughed, tugging the boy up with your hands and punching him in the shoulder. He huffed before waving at you and walking down to the creek to assume his duty of border patrol.

You went to stand by Luke.

Overall, you would say Capture the Flag was a success.

The Athena win streak was not lost this match, and you got to beat down one of the Hephaestus kids with your sword, which was always a pretty good bonus. The blue team cheered loudly, carrying Luke on their shoulders as he waved the Ares flag about in the air. You were going to join them when you saw Percy, drenched in water, arguing with the air.

“I told you. Athena always, always has a plan,” said the air before shimmering and revealing Annabeth with her invisible yankee cap.

“A plan to get me pulverised,” snapped Percy. His arms were crossed as he stared down the daughter of Athena.

“I came as fast as I could. I was about to jump in, but…” She shrugged.

“You didn’t need help?” you suggested, popping up between them.

Percy’s glare dropped as he saw you. “Sup, Major. I’m guessing decoying for Luke went well?”

“The best,” you agreed before noticing the wound on his arm. “How did you do that?”

“Sword cut,” He said, rolling his eyes. “Stupid Clarisse and her pig-headed minions.”

“No,” Annabeth interjected sharply. “It was a sword cut. Look at it.”

You watched, incredulous, as the blood disappeared. Where a gaping wound had been, only a faint line lingered, and even that was fading fast. In moments, it dwindled to a mere scratch, then vanished as if it had never been.

The smile slipped from your face.

“I—I don’t get it,” he said.

Annabeth was deep in thought, face wrinkled in concentration, and you could only imagine the intense mental gymnastics happening behind her gaze. “Step out of the water, Percy.”

“What—”

“Just do it.”

Percy emerged from the creek, hair plastered to his face and body bone-tired, but strangely enough, completely dry. He swayed on his feet, and you reached out to steady him, your touch firm.

“Oh, Styx,” Annabeth cursed. “This is not good. I didn’t want…I assumed it would be Zeus.…”

You could only meet Percy’s gaze in a muted horror.

Of course you’d picked up on Annabeth’s train of thought. But the revelation left you reeling. You couldn’t believe it. I thought… of course they wouldn’t stick to the oath. This —... the one thing! How could they? What?

Your jaw clenched, and your grip on Percy tightened unconsciously.

Percy opened his mouth but before he could say anything, a canine howl reverberated throughout the forest.

Everyone tensed and Chiron barked out “Stand ready! My bow!”

Above you, a monstrous creature crouched on the craggy ledge, its silhouette massive against the sky. Its eyes burned like coals from the depths of a forge, and its massive jaws bristled with teeth, each one as lethal as a freshly honed blade. It stared down at you with an intensity that pierced through your body.

A hellhound. Your eyes widened, gripping the handle of your sword.

Nobody moved except you, who yelled, “Percy, run!”

You tried to step in front of the boy, your sword clutched in between your fingers. The hellhound barked, and although you expected it to forget Percy and redirect its course to you, it dove past you (ignoring you completely) and ripped into Percy’s armour.

You didn’t look back as Chiron and the Apollo cabin took care of the hellhound, focusing on Percy whose chest was blooming with deep, red bloodstains.

“Percy!” You cried out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your fingers fumbled with his chestplate, trying to ignore the slick, warm blood that coated your hands.

“Di immortales!” Annabeth exclaimed. “That’s a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don’t…they’re not supposed to…”

“Someone summoned it,” Chiron announced, trotting over. “Someone inside the camp.”

The dead body of the hellhound melted into the shadows, presumably returning back to the Underworld, only, you didn’t care. What you cared about right now was Percy Jackson who was drenched in blood with a horrific gash torn into his body.

“You’re wounded,” Annabeth told Percy as if no one knew that. “Quick, Percy, get in the water.”

You draped Percy’s arm around your shoulder, helping him step into the creek with little protest.

“Chiron, watch this,” Annabeth said.

As Percy staggered into the creek, the water seemed to greet him like an old friend. The blood that had painted his clothes a grim crimson began to dissolve, carried away by the gentle current. You watched as the gruesome wound in his chest closed before your very eyes. The torn flesh knit together, leaving not even a scar behind. It was as if time had reversed, as if the claws of the hellhound had never touched him.

But that wasn’t the part that stunned you the most.

“Look, I—I don’t know why,” Percy tried to apologise. “I’m sorry.…”

“Percy,” Annabeth said, pointing. “Um…”

There was a sign above Percy’s head, an unmistakable one that no one did not know. A hologram of green light, spinning and gleaming. A three-tipped spear: a trident.

“Your father,” Annabeth whispered. “This is really not good.”

“It is determined,” Chiron stated solemnly.

Campers knelt around you, even those from Ares’ cabin, though they did so grudgingly.

“My father?” Percy was bewildered.

“Poseidon,” said Chiron. “Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

A shadow was drawn upon your face, eyes fixated on the trident above Percy’s head. The throb in your head returned and all you felt was a torrent of fervent, quivering, absolute rage that coursed through you.

I know that it wasn’t your fault, Percy, but at that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else.

iv. Being a demigod was a curse.

It was a relentless burden, especially when you had been confined within the walls of Camp Half-Blood for four years, and still, your divine parent remained a shadow, unclaiming and aloof.

You found yourself in the misty lands of your forest dreamscape. This night, the mist gushed and swirled around you, almost preparing to engulf you within it.

You lifted your face to the heavens, rain simmering on your face like little angels doting you with frigid kisses, each drop mingling with the silent tears that trembled down your cheeks. It was almost as though you were praying, but you knew better than that.

Prayer had once been a solace, a hope, but now it felt like a bitter reminder of divine neglect.

You didn’t pray often, actually, you avoided the thing all together. Why pray to gods — a god, who has forsaken you? You lifted your face to the heavens, rain mingling with the tears on your cheeks. Prayer had once been a solace, a hope. Now, it was a bitter reminder of divine neglect.

Your heart seethed with a silent fury, a hatred for the gods who had ignored your existence, even as they favoured others. The injustice of it all burned within you, a fire that no rain could extinguish.

Beyond the visceral surge of anger, there was a profound sense of betrayal — a feeling that the gods had once again overlooked your years of waiting and longing for recognition.

With a heavy heart, you spoke into the storm, “You could have saved her, but you didn’t.”

The words hung in the air. “My mother. She was one of your most faithful, but, when she needed you most, you turned away. Why? Was her devotion not enough?”

The silence that followed was your answer. “You say you watch over us, you care for us, but where were you?”

Your voice broke as you continued, “And what about me? For years, you ignored me — you still ignore me. For years, you left me to fight for myself in a world that you created. I don’t understand. We’re your children, aren’t we? Aren’t we supposed to matter to you? We deserved better.”

“You’re supposed to be our parents. We deserve someone who would fight for us, who would value our lives. But what do we get instead?! Fucking selfish deities, with all the power in the entire goddamn world who leave us to suffer and die in some sick game you orchestrate just because you can!”

“You don’t understand! I’ve waited my whole life for just a sign from you. Our whole lives revolve around you! What more could you want from us?” The tears of the sky dripped onto your shaking form. “You claim Percy like it’s a joke to you. Two days after he learns you even exist, you take him into a world you’ve barred me out of for my entire life!”

The thunder seemed to mock your pain, and you trembled with a mixture of cold and fury. “You take him from me, like I haven’t suffered enough. You take, take, take until there’s nothing more to give! What do you want from me?!”

You were screaming at the sky now, head pulsing with nothing but red-hot rage. “I’m done waiting! You’ve shown me exactly what we mean to you — nothing!”

Something clasped your shoulder.

Turning around, your heart caught in your throat. Your eyes trembled, pupils dilated at the sudden contact. As you turned away, a presence enveloped you, not the warm embrace of a father, but the cold touch of something ancient and powerful.

A dark mist surrounded you. The air crackled with static, a lingering feeling of something you couldn’t quite name.

“I can help you,” he whispered, his words slithering through the air. “The gods have overlooked you, ignored your potential. But I see it. Together, we can overthrow them, claim the justice and recognition you deserve.”

You stood still, the realisation dawning on you like a cold sunrise. This was Kronos, the Titan King, the very essence of time and treachery. The air around you grew colder, the mist swirling with a newfound intensity.

The mist around you thickened, and Kronos’s voice became more insistent, laced with false promises. “I can help you,” he whispered again, the words slithering through the air like a serpent.

“Think of it,” he continued, the mist now taking on a more convincing form, a figure of authority and power. “With my aid, you could rise above the gods who have wronged you. Your suffering will not be in vain. We will make them pay for their indifference. Pay for how they left your mother all those years ago, how they abandoned you and your fellow demigods for their own selfish desire.”

You felt the anger and sorrow within you stir, manipulated by his words. It was a dangerous game he played, but in your heart, the seeds of rebellion had been sown.

“Join me,” whispered Kronos.

“Yes,” you found yourself saying, the word escaping your lips before doubt could take hold. “Yes, I will join you.”

With a resolve born of grief and betrayal, I turned my back on the sky and walked away. That was the moment I swore my life to Kronos. It was the moment, I think, that sealed our fate.

I wish I could’ve said sorry to you, Percy, when I had the chance.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

Random fun fact: Major is anti-government and hates taxes 🥶😊, she also likes liquorice

taglist!!! (comment if you want to be added): @itzmeme

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