✩ ━━━ all the lessons of a flightless bird, an addendum by hypnos and his little prince.

THERE IN LEMNOS, ISLAND IN THE NORTHERN AEGEAN SEA, HERA ENCOUNTERED SLEEP, THE BROTHER OF DEATH. She clung fast to his hand, spoke a word, and called him by name: 'Hypnos, lord over all mortal men and all gods, if ever before now you listened to word of mine, so now also do as I ask; and all my days I shall know gratitude.'

A conscious part of him was aware that he had a fever. Fleetingly, he felt strands of hair adhere to his forehead, the sensation of sweat trickling down his temples like phantoms haunting his skin. Unbearable discomfort pervaded his body, a quiet pain more excruciating than anything he had ever experienced before. Still, he dreamt of Hera, a resplendent sight with her crown forged with the purest gold, her regal figure graced with jewelry that glistened under the sunlight. Swathed in flowing robes and a cloak of peacock feathers draped over her unyielding shoulders, each iridescent plume gleaming with vibrant hues, the queen proved breathtaking as she grasped Hypnos' hand and requested, "Put to sleep the shining eyes of Zeus under his brows as soon as I have lain beside him in love. I will give you gifts—a lovely throne, imperishable forever, of gold. My own son, he of the strong arms, Hephaistos, shall make it with careful skill and make for your feet a footstool on which you can rest your shining feet when you take your pleasure."

Hypnos, still and soft, spoke to her in answer. "Hera, honoured goddess and daughter of mighty Kronos, any other one of the gods, whose race is immortal, I would lightly put to sleep, even the stream of that River Okeanos, whence is risen the seed of all the immortals—he had read the Iliad a hundred times, countless, from an early age until now, enough that he could recite passages from memory—but I would not come too close to Zeus, the son of Kronos, nor put him to sleep, unless he himself were to tell me."

In his delirium, he thought of Heracles, both blessed and burdened by the capricious whims of the gods, their favor a double-edged sword that elevated the man to unparalleled heights one moment and then cast him into the depths of despair the next.

Heracles, the mighty hero whom Hiroki had thought of as the epitome of strength and bravery—simply because Disney had made a movie about him and Hiroki could remember resting on his father's arm, watching the animated tale unfold on the screen, thinking just like Heracles, I won't let you down, father!

A hand touched his forehead—the gentle warmth emanating from those fingertips enveloped him, comforting and reassuring. Hypnos spoke in his mind: "That time I laid to sleep the brain in Zeus of the aegis and drifted upon him still and soft, but your mind was devising evil, and you raised along the sea the blasts of the racking winds, and on these swept him away to Kos, the strong-founded, with all his friends lost, but Zeus awakened in anger and beat the gods up and down, looking beyond all others for me, and would have sunk me out of sight in the sea from the bright sky had not Nyx who has power over gods and men rescued me."

"I reached her in my flight," he replied, his mind drifting to his grandmother. She had held him closely, just as his father had once done, but her affection, although sincere, always seemed to come with painful claws that left scars carved into his skin. "And Zeus let be, though he was angry, in awe of doing anything to swift Nyx' displeasure. Now you ask me to do this other impossible thing for you."

Then, in turn, the lady ox-eyed Hera answered him, 'Hypnos, why do you ponder this in your heart, and hesitate? Or do you think that Zeus, aiding the Trojans, will be angry as he was angry for his son, Herakles? Come now, do it, and I will give you one of the younger Kharites for you to marry, and she shall be called you lady; Pasithea, since all your days you have loved her forever.' So she spoke, and Hypnos was pleased and spoke to her in answer: 'Come then! Swear it to me on Styx' ineluctable water. With one hand take hold of the prospering earth, with the other take hold of the shining salt sea, so that all the undergods who gather about Kronos may be witnesses to us. Swear that you will give me one of the younger Kharites, Pasithea, the one whom all my days I have longed for.'

The hand on his forehead moved away; He bore the pain in silence, refusing to cry out, but that part of him, the one that had grown to fear loneliness, throbbed with an indescribable anguish, a deep, nameless ache that had gnawed at the core of his being since he had been born.

"Is he having a nightmare?" He heard a voice ask—and it wasn't Hera, who gazed at him triumphantly in the haze of his dream, and it wasn't Hypnos, whom he could not look in the eyes without feeling a sense of shame. It was younger than any voice he knew—and he thought of Ethan, but it couldn't be him—and a panic so overwhelming washed over him, threatening to drown him—but the hand returned, in his hair, soothingly brushing away the sweat that had gathered on his forehead, and another grabbed his own, cautiously, as if afraid that the coldness of his touch would startle him.

"In a sense," a reply came, still and soft. "It is different for my children, especially for my little prince. He bears a weight as heavy as you do, Nico. But that is in the past. Now, Hiroki, let go of your suffering. Have a sweet dream, my boy."

As the god spoke, the vision in his mind changed.

Perhaps it might not be what Hypnos had intended, but suddenly, Hera seemed frightened as golden-linked chains sprouted from the earth. They wrapped around her ankles and wrists, binding her tightly. She struggled against the restraints, her eyes wide with fright, as the ground split open and seemed to swallow her whole.

He tried to reach forward, but when he touched the chains, it turned into a string, and the world around him changed; Lemnos melted away into a swirling nebula of colors, and the grass beneath his feet transformed into wooden floors, and walls rose up around him. In the softly lit bedroom, he stood beneath a star-strewn ceiling, the bed draped with a thick canopy reminiscent of clouds at the edge of dusk. Lanterns, akin to fireflies, cast a gentle radiance as they floated in the air. Along the walls, thousands of storybooks lined the space, their spines glistening in the soft light, while an assortment of toys, varying in shapes and sizes, were scattered across the carpeted floor. The room carried an uncanny sense of familiarity, as if he had stepped into a dream or a distant, forgotten memory.

On the other side of the closed door, he could hear the faint sound of laughter echoing through the halls—Naoki, his soul knew—and his hands trembled, but he was holding something soft.

He looked down to find a tattered, old teddy bear in his hands, its worn fur matted and its button eyes barely hanging on. He recognized it, with or without the ripples of the Lethe washing over his memories. Still, he thumbed over the stitching on the ribbon that was tied around the bear's neck.

His mother had helped him sew it, but just barely.

Γιος του Ύπνου, spelled the brightly colored red yarn.

Son of Sleep.

It was untidy, the stitches were slightly crooked, and the thread turned out too thick for the lightweight fabric, but it was perfect.

When he had presented it to his father, all those years ago, the constellations within Hypnos' golden eyes had sparkled so dazzlingly that Hiroki had laughed for five full minutes—and back then, everyone used to tease him about how he should've been a mama's boy—just like the lady at the candy store had teased about her own son—but each time Hiroki peered at his father, he saw the brightly colored galaxies that illuminated the enormousness of the universe. Hisa loved him, but Hiroki knew that, no matter how clumsily he stitched the letters of his name, his father would forever regard it as a work of art. No matter how poorly he behaved with his brother, no matter how many times his mother had to scold him, or whatever truth there was to the mean names the other kids at school called him, Hiroki knew that his father's affection was unwavering.

After all, his father is a god.

His love is eternal, just like the star clusters that will never cease to shine in the night sky.

He slept with that truth tucked safely in his heart.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The second time he was conscious, a voice was singing.

He didn't recognize it, but the woman's voice was low and affectionate, like a gentle lullaby. He didn't hurt for once; instead, he felt a sense of sereneness wash over him.

Still, he couldn't quite open his eyes. The thought of the brightness that awaited him was too frightening. He couldn't quite remember the last time he had slept so peacefully, free from the weight of the world.

He wanted to sleep forever—to stay in this blissful state where suffering and obligation couldn't reach him. To remain in bed for the rest of his life and more, wrapped in the comforting embrace of tranquility. The outside seemed distant and unimportant compared to the solace he found within his dreams. But the singing stopped, and the discomfort in his body returned. The silence in the room became suffocating.

"He seems sweet." The woman spoke softly then, humming as she stroked his hair. "He carries himself with such kindness, despite the cruelty of others. It's a testament to the nurturing he received from his father, is it not, my love?"

"I failed him." Hypnos' voice resonated through the discordant echoes within his mind. "I was... not enough to protect him from the world's unforgiving cruelty; I am sorry, Pasithea."

"And why do you apologize to me?" Pasithea questioned, her voice filled with tenderness. "You were not the one who brought harm upon him. You cannot take upon yourself the guilt of others. It is not your fault, my love, that the world can be vicious and unforgiving. Your dedication to your child is unwavering, and you did everything in your power to keep him safe. As your wife, there is nothing more that I could ask for."

"It was my mother," Hypnos sounded shattered. "My brothers and sisters—my boys allowed it—Morpheus—they turned a blind eye to her actions, and now Hiroki suffers because of it."

He wanted to argue—to defend himself and his family against the blame that Hypnos was placing on them. Nyx made him stronger; his relatives taught and supported him throughout his life, helping him whenever he sought guidance. He has survived so far because of the House of Midnight. Hypnos had not been there the way Aither or Hemera had; Hypnos only thought of Hiroki and returning him to a home that he had long outgrown, but Eris, Momus, and Oizys cared for him regardless of whatever name he chose to go by.

Truthfully, accepting the love of his grandmother felt more manageable compared to that of his father.

Micah understood that Nyx valued power above all else. As a half-blood, he knew that only strength would secure her affection without question or doubt. Any sign of weakness would risk being forsaken—just another mortal who failed to meet her expectations. It seemed like a systematic equation—he was powerful, therefore he was loved—and that reasoning made sense within the confines of her expectations.

The notion of trusting Hypnos' unconditional love now felt unfathomable to him.

He was not Hiroki. He could no longer be the boy Hypnos had cradled since his very first breath.

He had—hurt people. He had killed. He tricked, lied, and betrayed. He had become someone unrecognizable, someone who no longer deserved the unwavering love and support he once received from Hypnos. He was not good; he was irredeemable—like Antaeus or Tantalus, his sins enough to forge a temple of skulls and haunt his every waking moment.

"Let's talk another time, my love. It seems he is awake," Pasithea said then, her voice soothing as she settled down beside him, causing the mattress to shift with her weight. A familiar floral fragrance filled the air, settling his racing thoughts as memories of the royal-blue starry blossoms that Hypnos used to bring home flooded his mind.

"You are safe," Pasithea whispered, her voice a tender lullaby, while her gentle touch swept a strand of hair away from his forehead. On the opposite side, Hypnos sat—and he hasn't had parents for a while, forcing himself to be satisfied with the way his grandmother gripped his shoulders fiercely whenever she hugged him and the reserved care in Sally's eyes whenever the woman saw him, but in that moment, as Pasithea sang to him and Hypnos gripped his hand, he felt a sense of belonging that had eluded him for years.

He slept dreamlessly.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

And when he awoke, a surge of anger blazed within him, fierce enough to extinguish all the candles in the room—the Onerei dropped one by one, like flies, as if struck down by an invisible force, and the bouquet of flowers in Hypnos' hands shriveled and withered, seemingly aged within mere seconds. The temperature within the cave dropped significantly, causing a chilling breeze to sweep through the air.

The god let out a resigned sigh and brushed off his hands.

With a soft whistle, the Onerei reappeared; quivering and trembling, they swiftly scattered and flew away, vanishing into various corners of the cave.

"Why am I here?" Micah demanded, disregarding the strain in his throat. His words emerged hoarse and feeble, each attempt to speak causing a shooting pain through his chest. He must've been unconscious for a long time. Still, he pressed on. "Why am I in the Underworld?"

"You were injured," Hypnos answered. "I brought you home to keep you safe. Being in the Underworld will allow your injuries to heal faster. For the rest, do not worry."

"Do not worry?" He laughed bitterly, attempting to sit up, each movement sending waves of agony through his body. He could only manage to lift his upper body off the bed, his muscles trembling with the strain, while his legs remained unresponsive. "Fuck off!" he spat out, frustration and anger lacing his words as Hypnos moved closer to gently ease him back onto the bed.

"You lost your wings—"

"—You think I can't fucking tell—"

"You lost your wings," Hypnos repeated with increased volume, his eyes reflecting a solemn heaviness. "The wounds on your back were infected. They could've been preserved if you had sought treatment earlier, but you did not. The Asclepiades had to amputate them to save your life. Ambrosia was not an option either; you had consumed too much. One more drop, and your organs would've burned from within."

With gritted teeth and clenched fists, Micah's frustration was evident in the tension in his body. Every muscle throbbed with a dull ache, the pain spreading through his body like an unrelenting fire. He had attempted to move, pushing himself until he became lightheaded and breathless in the process. "Why are you telling me this?" His tone was rigid. He had worked relentlessly to release his anger; Ethan used to cower in its presence, rendered mute each time with wide, fearful eyes, while Percy would endure it with the hollow gaze of someone who had witnessed it far too early and often in his life. He won't allow his anger to control him any longer.

But the sight of Hypnos made him feel so... Juvenile, like a child donning a heavy coat, pretending to be an adult. Hypnos, with his calm demeanor and patient gaze, had a way of unraveling Micah's carefully constructed walls.

"So?" Micah urged aggressively. "I truly apologize; I wasn't born more like you, Lord Hypnos. I'm so sorry that I was born weak and mortal and had to crawl through life like a fucking animal while you stayed home playing house with memories of the son you failed to protect."

Hypnos did not approach him. He remained at a distance, his expression resembling the unyielding marble of the thrones on Olympus, utterly untouchable by Micah's attempts to provoke him. "You cannot take care of yourself," the god said. "You relentlessly seek ways to throw away your life because you do not want the responsibility of being the one to end it. But I am your father, and I will not be an accomplice to your self-destruction."

He stilled. "You don't know what you are talking about." Micah's voice trembled, his exhausted eyes burdened by the tears that teetered on the edge of spilling over. "Do you think you are doing me a favor? Coming back into my life and taking me to the Underworld or whatever the fuck you think will solve everything?

"You were killing yourself," Hypnos interjected. "So yes, Hiroki, I do think I am doing yourself a favor by stopping you from hurting yourself further—"

"Fuck off!" He shouted, incapable of coming up with a cutting retort or any cruel words that could inflict as much pain on Hypnos as a mere look from the god had done to him. "Stop saying that like you know me!"

Hypnos stood by as his son—gaunt and covered in bruises, his lips cracked and the skin beneath his eyes dark and sunken—struggling to shift positions on the bed where he had lain for weeks, the sheets tangled around his emaciated frame as fresh blood seeped through the bandages swathed around his torso. "Fuck off!" He screamed, grabbing a hold of the pillow and hurling at him. "Fuck off! You don't know anything!"

"I know what Percy and Icelus have told me," Hypnos said calmly, allowing each pillow to hit him without taking a step back. "I know what I am seeing right now—I know what you have nightmares of, Hiroki. You are ill, and no amount of screaming or pillow-throwing will alter the fact that you are sick. And I will help you, because I am your father, and I love you—"

"Go away," he pleaded as Hypnos placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. A torrent of tears streamed down Hiroki's face as Hypnos guided him to lay down once more. He had reopened the lacerations on his back. Whatever energy he had regained in his slumber had quickly dissipated like morning mist under the unforgiving sun. "I don't want your help, I don't need it," he choked out, his voice laced with desperation. "Just leave me alone."

"I love you," Hypnos assured softly. "And I will take care of you."

"I don't want you to," his son cried. "I don't deserve it,"

"You do," Hypnos affirmed, adjusting the pillow beneath his son's head.

His child gazed at him with half-lidded eyes, utterly fatigued, much like he used to be as a child, weary from playing all day. With a tender gesture, Hypnos reached out and brushed the hair off his son's forehead, a gesture filled with comfort and love. "You might not believe you deserve it, but that doesn't change how much I care for you. If it becomes too much, please endure it for me. I know it's a selfish request, but I cannot stand to see you suffer." The god spoke softly as Hiroki's eyes fluttered shut, his voice carrying a mix of sadness at his son's stubborn reluctance to sleep. "You are my son, and I will do whatever it takes to alleviate your burdens and grant you peace."

"Olympus," he tried to say, but words were already fading from his mind as sleep claimed him.

Hypnos sighed; the mere mention of the word was enough to drain his mood. "Sleep," he said, "and you will see."

So he did. The realm of dreams unveiled itself before his closed eyes, a shifting mosaic of colors and forms that danced and melded together. It was a dimension where, as a son of Hypnos, the constraints of reality melted away and he reigned supreme, second only to his father and brothers. Drifting deeper into slumber, a wave of tranquility enveloped him, replacing the weight of his injuries with a forgotten sense of peace.

Micah did not allow himself to sleep often, partly out of fear of what could happen to his body in the real world and partly because of the irresistible allure of the dream realm. With each venture into his father's domain, he became more captivated by its allure, losing himself in its boundless possibilities and infinite beauty.

He found himself at the entrance of Olympus, but all that remained was a crumbling ruin of what it once was. Untamed Pegasi roamed the scorched earth, and the gods and goddesses who had tended to the animals and maintained the grandeur of Olympus were nowhere to be seen.

"The gods are hiding."

Micah's eyes flickered to the side.

Phobetor and Phantasos appeared silently, as if conjured from the emptiness of the air itself. His father must've summoned them, or perhaps, they had been waiting for him.

"And Morpheus?" He questioned as Phantasos smiled slyly at him, his silver eyes gleaming with his innate mischief. "Older Brother disappeared as well, leaving us to clean up the mess."

"He is well, but Father is dissatisfied with him. He is merely waiting for the right time to make his return," Phobetor responded, his voice filled with a hint of discontent. Micah averted his gaze, feeling a wave of shame engulfing him. Despite the haze of fever clouding his memories, he could recall his behavior towards his brother. If the god of nightmares was upset with him, he did nothing to indicate it.

Micah headed to the wreckage.

"Be cautious," Phobetor warned, as if aware of his brother's thoughts. "They may have abandoned Olympus, but their power still lingers in every corner of the land."

On any other day, Micah might have dismissed Phobetor's warning as an exaggeration. However, he acknowledged his brother's concerns with a nod and the ghost of a smile. "I'll be careful," Micah assured in response.

"Brother, do not scare him without reason." Phantasos remarked, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Most of them are at Camp Half-Blood, unable to do anything. Apollo is more or less human now—his children are looking after him. Hera and Zeus have sequestered themselves in their respective cabins and are refusing to come out. Hermes is missing, and Dionysus vanished somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains."

"The Oneiroi will find them soon enough," Micah recognized, and Phantasos winked in agreement. "We always do, little brother."

Micah allowed himself a second to process the information. With the razing of a number of the thrones, chaos had descended upon the gods, leaving them vulnerable and scattered. In the privacy of his heart, he harbored an unspoken fear of asking for details pertaining to Nyx. The events that ensued after he lost consciousness on the night of the war remained a blank space in his memory; in the fragments of what he did remember, he could only recall Hypnos' anger.

"Oh, call me Clovis now, brother!" Phantasos laughed then, draping his muscular arm over Micah's shoulders. The sudden touch startled him; Micah hadn't noticed the trembling of his own hands until that moment. His brother merely smiled kindly and ruffled his hair.

"What do you mean by that?" He asked mindlessly, distracted by the way his brother's fingers carelessly brushed against his scalp—without any reservation or hesitation, like Phantasos had done when he was a child—before they had grown distant under the expectations of the House of Midnight.

It was a comforting gesture; his heart ached.He missed his brothers.

At a distance, Phobetor maintained a solemn expression, his eyes fixed on them. "Phantasos is monitoring Camp Half-Blood in your absence," he revealed. "I remain at Camp Jupiter; little has changed."

Micah did not know what to think. "Why?"

He had despised his time at Camp Half-Blood, but Nyx had insisted that it was essential to grasp the dynamics between the Olympians and the demigods. She had been right, and he had grown fond of certain treasures he had come across there, but if Micah could help it, he would never step foot in that place again. Since Olympus had fallen, he assumed the demigods held no significance for the House of Midnight. He could not come up with a single explanation for his brothers' ongoing oversight of the half-bloods.

His two siblings shared a look. Phantasos opened his mouth to speak, but Phobetor held up a hand to stop him.

"We will meet in the upper realm when your wounds are healed," Phobetor said decisively. "There is much to discuss. We cannot risk being overheard."

Micah, too worn out to protest, nodded in agreement. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to lean against Phantasos for a sense of grounding. "So what now?" He asked warily.

"For now, you rest." Phantasos replied. "After that, I guess we are taking over?"

Micah raised an eyebrow.

"No." Phobetor appeared exasperated. "We wait for Father to give us further instructions. He will guide us on our next steps."

The question was heavy on his tongue. It was as if his heartbeat had slowed down, each pulse echoing in his ears with uncertainty. Micah hesitated before mustering the syllabus to ask, "What about grandmother?"

Phantasos' smile wavered. "Brother," he asked, "what do you remember of that night?"

Micah shook his head wordlessly. He had grown accustomed to the sensation of not remembering; the chasms in his memory were vast. He could recall his mother's name, but her face remained a hazy image in his mind. He could describe the playground where he had spent his childhood, but the recollections of playing there were faded and distant. Dreaming allowed for brief moments of recollection that surfaced from time to time, offering glimpses into a past he had forgotten, but those instances were fleeting and elusive.

He had not dreamt of that night yet.

It lingered, shrouded in darkness within his mind, unreachable and untouched by his slumbering consciousness.

Phantasos' hand rested gently on top of his head once more.

"Grandmother is cursed, brother." Phobetor revealed. "Father's weapon was used against her. She remains imprisoned in an endless slumber until Father wills otherwise."

Micah's throat tightened, a knot of dread forming within him. The weight of Phobetor's revelation pressed down on his chest like a leaden anchor, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

A harsh truth dawned upon him: there was nothing left to be done.

For the first time ever, bereft of the orders of Zeus or Nyx, he found himself utterly lost, with no one to report to, no plan to forge, and no purpose to fulfill. Micah's mind raced, desperately trying to find a fault in his brother's words—that Phobetor had lied, and his grandmother would surely call for him again. But Phobetor's words echoed in the ruins of Olympus, haunting him with their undeniable truth.

A sense of nothingness seized him from within.

"Oh," he replied, his voice barely audible.

His voice sounded shaken to his own ears, distant and hollow. He walked away from his brothers, walking towards the wreckage—the Pegasi continued to fly overhead, wings beating against the wind as a reminder of the world that once was. He was not truly there; they did not sense his mindless stumbling or the way he searched for a fire, possibly, or remnants of something larger. The winged horses continued to fly, and he could not find anything but growing moss creeping up the broken stones.

Nyx was asleep.

The Olympians lost their power.

As he stepped over fallen columns and broken statues, his heart sank deeper. He needed something tangible to hold onto, something that could anchor him in this new reality.  But all he could see was the decay and ruin that surrounded him.

Everything he had known had crumbled, and he had been unconscious.

"Brother," Phobetor called out; even if he did not voice it, Micah could hear the concern in his tone.

The scent of smoke seemed to fill his nostrils. His hand instinctively rose to his nose, and though he knew it wasn't real, he could feel the phantom sensation of blood trickling down his face.

"Percy's birthday was coming up," he said abruptly as his brothers drew nearer. "I—I haven't missed it since we met. How long was I out? What day is it?" Micah's voice trembled. "I need to know if I still have time to get him a gift."

Each breath felt painful, as if ash was coating his lungs. He coughed, trying to clear the fictitious smoke from his throat, but it only worsened the burning sensation. He could barely breathe as Phobetor took hold of his wrist, but that touch only served as a vivid reminder of that night—his heart pounded relentlessly in his chest, exacerbating his panic. He closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the memories of the fire, the tendrils of Nyx's shadows, and the fear in Percy's eyes, but they surged back with an intensity that was almost tangible.

The crackling of flames echoed in his ears, the heat searing his skin once again.

Arms, comforting and familiar, enveloped him in a reassuring embrace. He clung to Phantasos as if holding onto an anchor in a tempest, a desperate plea conveyed through the grasp of his trembling fingers.

"I don't know what to do now," he choked out between breaths. "I don't know, I don't—I don't know—"

And Micah hadn't clung to his brothers in such a way before—he was a rotten dog, his grandmother had explained, with rotting canines, vicious and cruel, willing to lay down his life in the hope of garnering a mere fleeting glimpse of his owner's acknowledgment—but Hiroki had been fragile, moved to tears by the mere sight of squashed bugs or the thought of a stray cat, an innate sensitivity redolent of delicate glass, prone to shattering at the slightest sense of impact. Grieving, constantly grieving, forced to endure an unexplainable hollowness since his very first breath, burdened to carry an aching void within his chest until his last. It's within this gut-wrenching intensity of emotions where Hiroki and Micah have always blurred into each other, resigned to an overwhelming capability to feel, so much so that it claws the air from his lungs and squeezes his heart until he feels the unbearable weight of his humanity.

Then his brother chuckled softly, concern brimming in the corners of his eyes. "Crybaby," he teased, but there was genuine love in his voice, and he asked, "Why are you crying now? Did I not tell you all those years ago that it breaks my heart to see you like this?"

He wanted to remember, but his desperate attempt only led to further anguish as he realized he couldn't recall, causing an outpouring of more tears. "I don't know what to do," he cried.

"You don't have to," Phantasos told him. He lightly lifted his brother's chin; he forced the corner of his mouth into a small smile. Micah glared at him through wet lashes and tear-filled eyes. Phantasos only grinned as he continued, "We'll face this together, just like we always have."

He looked away. "But grandmother—"

Phantasos rolled his eyes. "Don't worry! Why are you worried about that? Don't be. She's just an old hag, and we are young, handsome, and strong. We can handle anything that comes our way."

Micah's laughter came startlingly and without warning.

He felt no doubt regarding his brothers' affection, but for long, he had held the belief that their loyalty was tethered solely to their grandmother's sanction. They could care for each other, but their commitment to him was conditional upon her approval. He had witnessed countless times how Nyx's rejection could fracture their family. Hemera had been casted out for failing to meet her mother's expectations several times; Aither was shunned for years for voicing values that differed from Nyx's, and Hypnos was only considered family because of Nyx's love, otherwise abscent and excluded—so Micah had never faulted his siblings for prioritizing their grandmother. He understood more than most the power she held over their family.

To hear Phantasos disregard Nyx so candidly—to witness Phobetor's silent agreement—it meant everything to him. But he wasn't good with honesty yet, so he stepped away from his sibling, digging his palm into his eyes until the pressure became unbearable, and said, "Brother, you're like a billion years old. I'm the only young one here."

"A billion? Ridiculous!" Phantasos exclaimed, shaking his head in playful denial. Allowing Micah to take his leave, he folded his muscular arms across his chest, his silver eyes glinting with mischief, although Hiroki recognized a hint of shrewdness lurking within. "I'm far from old," the god refuted, turning to their brother for validation.

Phobetor didn't quite smile, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he replied, "We are quite old in comparison, brother."

Micah listened to his brother's banter; the stirring of a decisive choice took shape within his heart.

And so, when his eyes fluttered open once more in the mortal realm, Micah found the conviction he sought.

"Lord Hypnos," he called out from where he rested on his stomach, the comforting embrace of sheep-wool sheets cradling him in warmth. His voice carried a tone of conviction as it resonated through the still air.

The god reappeared within seconds, his form coalescing from a gentle composition of golden sand. His expression was a tableau of wonder as he approached him with soundless steps.

"Yes, little prince?" His question came with a voice as soothing as a tender lullaby, delicately, and in the face of the discomfort and humiliation that came with being bedridden, Micah steeled himself and found the strength to speak. "I have a favor to ask of you," Micah told him. His father tried to veil the concern in his eyes, but he could easily discerned the depth of worry behind the façade. They were like the same, after all, two reflections cast in the same mirror.

"You believe that I am sick," Micah said, "That I need help; I will stay here and let you take care of me, but in return, I ask for one thing."

And Hypnos is kind—the only other kind person he could think of aside of a certain boy—his mouth poised to offer assistance without expecting any repayment or seeking anything in return, but Micah interjected before his resolve shattered under the god's goodness. "Ethan only has one dream, Lord Hypnos." He persevered, his voice wavering briefly before finding resolute steadiness. "I promised us that I would make it come true, no matter the cost. I will do whatever it takes to ensure Ethan's dream becomes a reality... so I am asking for your help."

As Micah spoke, he could see the compassion reflected in Hypnos' golden eyes. After all, Hiroki had been born from the unquenchable dream of a little boy yearning for a brother, a wish that had endured through time; Ethan's dream is just as meaningful, and it has been ignored for far too long.

"We need change, Lord Hypnos," Micah told him. "Don't you agree?"

The god's gaze traversed the slopes of Micah's nose, capturing the defensive intensity within his brilliant eyes and the discontented arc of his cupid's bow. Marks from past acne adorned his cheeks, and black roots emerged from his dyed hair. Even if he tried to morph his face into a false semblance of indifference, the god could see the hostility lingering beneath the surface.

He was perfect. He has been since the very moment he was created, from his first breath to his most recent heartbeat—and nothing could dim it. No scars, no anger, no loss or grief could ever take away his son's beauty. 

"Then it appears it's time for me to step up and personally ensure that Ethan's dream receives the attention it deserves," Hypnos mused then, his gaze tender as he observed his son's fierce expression.

Micah's nod was deliberate, as if he himself harbored doubts about his own words. "Then we have a lot of planning to do," he cautioned, his tone resembling a forewarning.

"After you recover," he said, and his son reacted with a troubled expression.

Hypnos couldn't dim his smile if he wanted to. He could laugh; as if denying his little prince anything had ever been a possibility.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Thousands of years ago, the god of sleep had withdrawn from the mortal realm, forsaking any sense of connection to the world. He had chosen to relinquish control, granting humans the liberty to navigate their own dreams, whether they found solace in them or were ensnared by their own nightmares.

Nothing mattered to the faithless god.

From a distance, Sleep had observed, concealed within the chilly walls of his cavern. On a particular night, when he dared to emerge from his seclusion, he gazed skyward, searching for purpose in the celestial expanse that once held profound significance for him. But the moon seemed distant, the constellations unfamiliar, as if they too had forgotten his existence.

A far-off star caught his attention, then. It beckoned to him teasingly, drawing him closer with its mesmerizing glow. Small and unassuming it may have been, yet it had an inexplicable pull that tugged at his heartstrings. Its fluttering radiance held a peculiar promise—a gleam that seemed to murmur something extraordinary. Something worth witnessing, even if it meant to keep going for another second, another hour—another night, another year, another long breath.

He had stared at that star until his eyes had grown weary with exhaustion, trying to find a rhythm or pattern to its flickering light.

A millennium had elapsed before Hypnos finally deciphered the mystery behind the star's peculiar radiance: it sparkled in perfect harmony to the rhythm of his son's laughter.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It took several days for him to regain the strength to sit up without the sensation that his spine might shred through his back. By now, the aroma of crushed poppies adhered to him like a second skin, and the medicinal paste Hypnos administered to his wounds was barely noticeable except for an occasional twinge as it spurred his body's healing process. He couldn't venture a step away from the bed yet, restricted to laying on his stomach still, and he dreaded the notion of rebuilding his weakened muscles so much that he avoided contemplating it entirely. However, si vis pacem, para bellum—he championed the tumult of war, so now he must dedicate himself to peace with the same fervor.

The collapse of Olympus and the disintegration of the House of Midnight in the absence of Nyx resulted in a significant power vacuum within the realms. With the Pantheon frantically trying to establish their authority and fill the void, Micah was aware of the urgent need to take action: Zeus would undoubtedly strive to reclaim his throne soon, and while he remained unaware of the nuances of the curse that had affected Nyx, he was certain that his family would not remain passive. It was critical for him to act swiftly and decisively before other gods or external forces could seize control.

He wasn't well-versed in the intricacies of peace, though, and Hypnos was driven by an illogical romantic idealism, so Micah sought the only individual capable of navigating the middle ground.

When Lord Hypnos called Nico di Angelo from Hades' palace, he arrived quietly and promptly, his shoulders tense and his gaze fixated on the ground. He absently fiddled with the silver skull ring on his finger, exuding a tangible sense of unease. Despite this, the familiarity in his stride as he approached Micah was evident, solidifying a suspicion that had been lingering in Micah's mind.

"You look half dead," the son of Hades said. His hair had gotten longer since the last time Micah had seen him; dark strands now obscured his eyes, partially veiling the hint of sadness that seemed to persist within them. He was too thin for his age, his black shirt and jeans hanging loosely from his skeletal frame as if they were two sizes too big. He couldn't overlook the weariness etched into Nico's features, a distinct shift from the youthful energy he had once possessed.

Micah bit his tongue and smiled. "You look like you're being haunted." He retorted, observing the shadows that seemed to dance around the boy's pale face.

He had meant it as a joke, mostly—the story of the twelve-year-old's victory over Minos became one of the most talked-about topics in the Underworld—but Nico's eyes flickered and widened, as though he'd let slip something he shouldn't have, and the slight tremor in his hands that never quite subsided after Bianca's passing suddenly became more noticeable.

"Why did you call for me?' Nico asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper. It wavered slightly, and he cleared his throat to regain composure. His gaze flitted nervously, avoiding looking at him directly. Micah's eyes narrowed, a surge of suspicion gawing at him, urging him to probe further and uncover the truth behind Nico's unsettling demeanor, but he refrained. He knew that delving into Nico's personal matters would only serve to distance him.

"Do you believe the Olympians deserve thrones?" Micah asked in lieu of an answer, his tone carefully neutral; before Nico could reply, he clarified. "Do you believe they should maintain power and authority over the rest of the pantheon simply because they are the sole occupants of thrones?"

Nico's brows furrowed as he contemplated the question. "None of the gods really deserve thrones," he finally replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Power and immortality don't automatically make someone worthy of ruling."

Micah smiled, a bit more genuine. "But?"

"But," Nico continued, "if a single god has a throne, then all of the gods should have one as well."

"Salus populi suprema lex esto." Micah agreed.

An annoyed expression crossed Nico's face. "I don't speak Latin."

"The welfare of the people shall be the supreme law," Micah translated. "The thrones led to an imbalance of power. It created a hierarchy among the gods, with one corrupt bastard reigning above the rest. The gods are so focused on their own status that they forget about the needs and well-being of the people who worship them and the children who are caught in the crossfire."

He knew it wouldn't fix all the issues in the pantheon, but it would be the foundational step towards restoring balance and prioritizing the welfare of the half-blood. "I called you because I have a proposal, Nico."

The son of Hades lowered his hand, releasing the grip on his skull ring, his dark eyes meeting Micah's with a sense of caution. "What kind of proposal?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism. "Please don't say—"

Micah broke into a grin. "Democracy!"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When they first met, Micah had taken it upon himself to homeschool Ethan to the best of his abilities. No relative of his would be boring, he had explained; Ethan believed it was because he simply loved the sound of his own voice. Regardless of the real reason, he had been adamant to teach Ethan; he knew for certain that Camp Half-Blood was not teaching the campers economics or anatomy in between 'monster assault techniques' and wall climbing. It had been easy at first—most subjects came easy to Micah, be it mathematics, biology, or anthropology—and Ethan had been sweet when he was small, eager to prove that he could excel in these subjects as well. When he had gotten a bit older and the parenting guide Micah had been following religiously advised him to introduce more challenging material, that's when things started to go downhill.

One topic had nearly driven him insane: political science.

It wasn't that Micah himself failed to understand the subject, but rather that Ethan instinctively knew too much. The sight of Ethan holding Plato's Dialogues instilled more fear in Micah than Kronos himself. They were never quite able to move on from the basics as a result of Ethan constantly delving into complex theories and concepts that were beyond Micah's threshold of patience. In the end, they had to stop their lessons before his cousin had the chance to radicalize him completely.

He had picked up some knowledge from Ethan, however, such as the insight that the Greek gods didn't possess a structured government that was comparable to human societies, despite the enormous influence classical Greece and Rome had on modern western politics.

On occasion, like on the summer solstice, the Olympians would convene and discuss matters that concerned them. Personal biases, alliances, and the will of Zeus—who determined what would ultimately happen using his own interpretation of the law—frequently influenced decisions. As an ambassador, Micah had witnessed firsthand how the current structure of informal aristocracy often led to conflicts and disagreements among the Olympians and the minor deities; individual interests and desires always clashed, and as a result, there was no true sense of fairness or equality in the decision-making process. Democracy dissolved into despotism when power was concentrated in the hands of the influential few, leaving the rest voiceless and ostracized.

He had read enough of his younger cousin's countless essays to know that there was no perfect system of governance. Each had its flaws and limitations, but a balance of power and representation, as Ethan had determined in one of those papers, was crucial for a fair and just society. 

Ethan dreamed of an Olympus where everyone, from minor gods to nymphs and half-bloods, had an equal opportunity to participate in the decision-making process, regardless of their social status or wealth.

Micah wasn't the natural-born leader he had dreamt of becoming as a kid; he was taught to carry out orders, no matter how unjust or immoral they may be. He has killed and devoured like a rabid dog without hesitation, all in the name of blind loyalty to those who held his leash—and as Nico slept quietly at the foot of his bed, nestled amidst a collection of maps and scrolls, he couldn't deny the likelihood that he might continue down that path. Still, if he had to carry out one last command before being set free, Micah was thankful that it was Ethan who held the leash.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When Micah met Pasithea, he dug his nails into the meat of his palm so deeply that the moon-shaped marks bled. It hadn't been her fault; the Kharites greeted him kindly, with gentle smiles and soft-spoken words, but he had spent the entirety of the morning arguing with Hypnos over a multitude of issues that he could no longer recall, and the tension still lingered in his veins when his father's wife arrived.

"He is far too young," Hypnos had repeated for the umpteenth time, and Micah could feel the weight of his father's disapproval hanging in the air as if it were a tangible presence. "Why don't we ask Percy or one of the campers to take on this task instead? I've heard wonderful things about Annabeth Chase, and your brothers have shared that you are rather fond of J—"

"No." Micah's voice had dripped with venom, interrupting his father's suggestion before it could fully form. "Nico is the only one I trust to do this." And he knew he was being obtuse on purpose—that he had the ability to justify his decision and verbalize his reasons—but something ached so violently deep within his skin that he couldn't bring himself to speak any more on the matter.

When it came to Nico himself, he had embarked on the quest to find Themis with the nonchalance of someone fully aware that he was greatly overqualified for the task. His confidence was well-founded for a reason: Micah could agree with Hypnos until his dying breath that Nico was undeniably too young to be anywhere but on a middle school playground, sipping juice boxes and playing tag—but it wouldn't change that the life of a demigod was unkind. Nico had already endured more hardships and losses than most would ever endure throughout multiple reincarnations. His experiences had already left him with resilience and maturity far beyond his years. Micah cannot undo his past. The only thing he can do is stand by Nico now and try to build a better future for him out of the shit-covered fate they've both been handed.

If he were physically capable of taking care of all the tasks by himself, he would do so in a heartbeat. Yet Micah recognized that he couldn't shoulder the entire strain single-handedly with his current stand. Regardless, he knew the son of Hades—he knew Nico found it almost impossible to place his trust in anything that hadn't borne the evidence of his own effort.

But he did not know how to tell his father that; the words stuck in his throat like shards of glass, slicing through his voice and drenching his mouth with the taste of blood.

He had missed Percy's birthday.

Since regaining consciousness after the fever subsided, Hypnos adamantly withheld the duration of his time in the Underworld—days, he had suspected, if not less than a month—but Nico had mentioned that Percy's birthday had come and gone, the words stumbling out of his mouth in a rush of mumbled noises as he revealed that August had practically reached its end in the upper realm, and Micah had never wanted to die more than he did now.

So he had lingered in the bleakness of his own guilt and self-disgust, directing the Oneiroi to extinguish all the candles scattered across the chamber, their flickering flames a painful reminder of the celebrations he had missed. Hypnos stood at the doorway, his expression hidden from the angle at which Micah lay on the bed, but he could tell from the heaviness in the air that Hypnos was growing impatient with his attitude.

"My love," Pasithea called with a voice so melodious that it could soothe even the most troubled soul, but all it stirred in Micah was an intense desire to tear his own ears off. "He seems unwell, still. How about I return to my duties and let him rest? I can return another day, when my lady allows—"

"Aphrodite," Micah claimed, his voice muffled as he buried his face in the pillow, "is not your lady anymore. She is just a bitch whose throne I should've destroyed long ago." And he knew from his father's scolding that he should mind his manners and choose his words more carefully, with echoes of Hisa's disapproving voice ringing in his ears, but in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Phobetor and Phantasos said that the Olympian council had disintegrated. Half of the gods were rendered powerless, while the others hid in fear of the same happening to them. What authority did Aphrodite and Hera still hold over the Charites? Pasithea should now have the liberty to do as she pleased—whether it meant visiting his father for a thousand days in a row or journeying to the most remote corners of the universe just to get away from it all.

But they did not see it that way. Pasithea gasped, and his father fretted. As Hypnos began to offer explanations for his behavior rather than issuing a reprimand, an insult, or a beating like his grandmother would've done, Micah felt a surge of rage so great building within him that he managed to sit up despite his broken state. "I know my manners," Micah snapped, his voice laced with defiance as he managed to push through the pain enough to stand—and he knew he was being irrational, but he has never been one to accept forgiveness; he has done nothing to earn it, and he could only think of missing Percy's birthday and how he would forgive him as well, and he was aware that he was spiraling, but he thought of all of the birthdays Nico had spent alone, and he thought of Ethan—and he fell to the ground before he could even reach Pasithea, crumbling to the ground as the wounds on his back opened up again, fresh blood staining his shirt.

"I am Hiroki Matsuoka," he said to the goddess, his words strained as he struggled to draw breath. It was painful, but he looked directly into his father's eyes as he uttered the words that had tormented his dreams for years: "the son of Hypnos. I am nineteen years old, and I like reading. I'm very happy to meet you, Lady Pasithea."

Pasithea's expression was uncertain—she could never truly grasp the enormity of his outburst. Still, among all the attempts Micah had made to wound his father, it was those fragile strings of words that resonated most deeply. Micah watched as Hypnos' expression turned vacant; the spark that once illuminated his golden eyes extinguished like a dying ember.

Micah could see the pain in his father's expression unreservedly. Heartbreak was etched on his face, as if all the years of pain and torment had resurfaced instantly with those seemingly innocuous words. And he had done it deliberately—he had harbored a twisted desire to hurt Hypnos since their first meeting, and this desire had intensified over time. But now, as he knelt over, unable to move without feeling like he would die from the pain of his wounds, guilt swept over him like a relentless, suffocating fog, each labored breath a reminder that he was someone who should've died long ago.

His father remained kind; he lifted him gently and carried him in his arms without concern for the blood staining him. He lowered him on the bed with a tenderness Micah knew he didn't deserve. "I will send for Aceso," Hypnos said softly before quietly excusing himself, his voice the most subdued Micah had ever heard.

Pasithea cast a worried glance back at Micah, her eyes filled with concern.

Unsure, she followed after.

Left alone as he had hoped for, Micah was struck by a stark realization: hurting his father would never grant him the satisfaction he sought. It only seemed to deepen the wounds within him.

Maybe Hypnos was right—he was sick, but not in the way he had hoped.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Aceso tended to his wounds with firmness. She cleaned and bandaged each cut and bruise with frigid precision, careful not to cause him any more pain than necessary but with a forceful touch that conveyed her emotions clearly. When she did not take the initiative to speak, he broke the silence, his voice laced with an annoyance that he could only express to her. "You're free to express your thoughts, you know?"  He said, frustration evident in his tone. "I won't bite your head off."

Aceso paused, and without even looking at her, he knew that her hazel eyes mirrored an icy lake in the dead of winter, frozen and distant. "Your father loves you," she said finally, her tone leaving no room for doubt or argument. It was a statement of absolute certainty, as if she knew his father's heart better than he did himself. "Harming him will only continue this insatiable cycle of pain and suffering, child. There are healthier ways to seek the satisfaction you desire—ways that won't leave you feeling hollow and regretful."

Phobetor often called him a child in the same way Aceso did, as though he had impatiently pushed a child off a swing and now required a scolding for not knowing any better. He did know better. A slap to his wrist would not change the fact that he knew. Where did that leave him, then?

He closed his eyes, tired. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air—a delicate blend of floral notes and warm vanilla. Amidst it, he couldn't help but notice the absent aroma of crushed poppy seeds.

"I'm not hollow," he said quietly.

He has never been empty; he just lived better as a ghost, unfit for any kind of human relationship. Even in his sincerity, he continued to deceive others, always aware of how to manipulate his words and actions to retain a sense of control over those around him. He isn't real; how could others love him when he hasn't felt human in years?

"Then prove it," Aceso said, oblivious to the depth of his faults. "Show to me that you can find fulfillment in a way that doesn't involve self-destruction, Hiroki."

"I don't think I can," he admitted. "I already know that I am incapable of it. I only have the satisfaction of knowing that I am right in my own misery. It's the only thing that feels real to me."

He always expected others to leave him; there was something inherently incorrect with him, and he spent every second in the presence of others waiting for them to see it as well. And when they do leave—when they see him and all the filth inside—he lived for the sick sense of satisfaction of being proven right.

He was raised by gods. How couldn't there be something wrong with him when he was made of flesh and guts, his blood a hideous red when his brothers bled pure gold? His very existence was a constant reminder of his own inadequacy, a flaw that he could never escape. Of course others would leave him—and if they refused, too blind in their own kindness like Percy and Hypnos, then he would force them to, out of his desperation to protect them from the inevitable disappointment he would become.

"Lady Aceso," he asked the goddess. "Do you think there is something broken in me?"

Maybe an organ within him had rotten, spreading an infection throughout his entire being, putrefying every thought and action with maggots and decay. Maybe the goddess could open him up and cut out the worst of him, and he could go back to being Hiroki without feeling nauseous. His father would have his gentle son back that way, and Hisa wouldn't have to miss him any more, and Percy would be loved by someone who didn't need to spit out the words of others to resemble a human.

Everyone would be happier. But Aceso stared at him with pity, almost, and shook her head gently. "There is nothing broken in you," she said. "You are good, and you are trying, and I know it must be so frightening, but that is not an excuse to hurt others as well."

Micah wished he could die. "That isn't enough," he said. "I'm not enough. I need to be more."

"Sometimes," Aceso argued. "You are just a boy, Hiroki. That's all—just a boy."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He didn't feel like a boy when September arrived, draping over his shoulders the heavy fabric of an obsidian chiton tunic and placing upon his head a laurel wreath of gold. The crimson and shimmering gold himation over his left shoulder cascaded like the radiant tail of a silken comet, trailing behind him akin to a lustrous river of stardust as he walked. Upon reaching Themis, the goddess of justice, he stood tall, despite the ache in his muscles and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Nico stood silently by his side, a pace behind, his dark eyes observant as Micah bowed before the sober-looking goddess. The temple in which they stood was a grand structure, but it was neglected with its crumbling pillars and faded murals. Dust particles pirouetted in the sunlight that filtered through the crevices in the damaged ceiling, and Nico hadn't disclosed how he had come across the goddess, but the resolute set of his jaw conveyed that he had no intention of sharing the details, either way.

The goddess, encased in a gown woven from threads of celestial blue and silver, regarded Micah with an inscrutable expression. Instead of her scales, a sword hung at her side, emitting a soft glow that seemed to defy the dilapidated surroundings. Her eyes conveyed the weight of centuries, the wisdom of ages, and a hint of something profound—an obscured knowledge that appeared to ebb and flow in the depths of her being.

He would not cower before her.

"Lady of Good Counsel," Micah began, his voice steady and respectful. "I come before you seeking guidance and assistance in the pursuit of justice. I humbly ask for your divine intervention to help me navigate the complexities of this case and ensure that truth prevails."

His words lingered in the air, directionless, much like the drifting dust particles.

Themis regarded him silently, her gaze piercing through his very soul, as if assessing the purity of his intentions. 

"You carry the scent of blood." The goddess observed; Micah's heart skipped a beat.

"It's hard to wash away," he responded. "I seek your help while I try to slow the bleeding."

The goddess tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in contemplation. "And what led you to think that I would be willing to help?"

"The prosperity of a few has led to the death of others." He answered. "We are children of the Underworld, Lady Themis. We don't have mercy—only justice. I simply seek to uphold the divine principles that you embody."

"Why now?" The goddess inquired, her voice tinged with curiosity. "I know of you, Ambassador of Olympus. You served my former spouse faithfully. What has changed?"

He could answer in a million different ways, for a thousand different reasons, and with a myriad of slickened words to pick from. But in the end, he chose his words plainly.

There was only truly one answer in his heart.

"I lost someone," he admitted. "And I have nowhere else to place the love I had for him, except within the dream he left behind."

"Loss will not exonerate you," she said coldly. "You will face punishment along with those you wish to prosecute."

"That doesn't matter," he replied. "I'm not seeking pardon or forgiveness."

She studied him closely, and when he did not waver, Themis nodded solemnly.

With an elegant sweep of her hand, the desolate sanctuary underwent a breathtaking transformation. The once cracked and weathered marble floor seamlessly knitted itself together, reclaiming its original splendor. Pillars, once slouched in neglect, now rose proudly, standing in unwavering support of the sacred courtroom. Thousands of seats emerged from the ground in perfect symmetry, forming a semi-circular amphitheater that extended as far as the eye could see. Each seat was adorned with intricate carvings and plush velvet cushions, each row higher than the last. In the heart of this grandeur, an elevated platform took form, and upon it, the scales of justice gleamed conspicuously, catching and reflecting the gentle radiance of the sun in their polished magnificence. The scene was not merely a renovation but a resurrection, as though the very essence of solemnity and reverence had breathed new life into the once-forsaken space.

"Very well," Themis judged. "Then we must commence court at once."

Later, however, when they returned to Hypnos' cavern, Nico sat quietly on the lush grass where poppy flowers bloomed. Day and night were rumored to intertwine at that very spot, but the boy didn't seem to know; a question lingered on his tongue as he watched him instead. "Why would you be punished?" the son of Hades asked, his voice just audible amidst the waters of Lethe.

Micah knelt on the black river rocks, vomiting the pomegranate seeds from the depths of his stomach. "Because," he responded, his voice hoarse, "I thought I could be a god as well."

"And it didn't work?" Nico asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

Micah shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel the emptiness in his gut as he sat up slowly, the slow burn of pain returning as the influence of the pomegranates faded. "It did," he answered. "But I no longer wanted it."

He breathed in deeply, trying to calm the lingering nausea. 

"Because of Percy?" Nico continued.

Micah laughed a little at the thought.

He thought of Aceso. Just a boy. That's all—just a boy.

"No, not because of Percy," he replied, his smile fading. "I've always had this insatiable need to be more than human, Nico, but lately, I'm starting to realize that I'm actually just a child."

Nico let out a breath. He admitted, "I don't get it."

"I hope you never do," Micah said.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He wasn't certain if it was a lingering effect of consuming something intended for the children of Hades or simply his own powers behaving, but Micah fell asleep without noticing.

He dreamt of Ethan haunting him, unable to move on or enter the Fields of Elysian.

When he woke up, he was back inside the cave, the sheep-wool sheets soft against his skin.

Nico slept on the ground beside him, his peaceful expression evident as he curled up next to a familiar Hellhound, his chest gently rising and falling with each breath.

Uncertain about what to think, he merely covered the boy with the sheep-wool blanket and laid back down, letting himself slip back into a restless slumber.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

ADDRESSED TO THE ESTEEMED GODS OF THE GREEK PANTHEON,

YOU ARE HERBY COMMANDED TO PERSONALLY APPEAR BEFORE THE COUNCIL OF OLYMPUS ON THE FIRST DAY OF THE TENTH MONTH. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED TO DISCUSS MATTERS OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE THAT CONCERN THE WELFARE AND HARMONY OF BOTH MORTALS AND IMMORTALS ALIKE. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH THIS SUMMONS WILL RESULT IN SEVERE CONSEQUENCES, AS THE COUNCIL HOLDS THE POWER TO ENFORCE DIVINE SANCTIONS UPON THOSE WHO DISREGARD THEIR RESPONSIBILITIES. WE IMPLORE YOU TO HONOR THIS REQUEST AND JOIN US IN ENSURING THE CONTINUED PROSPERITY OF OUR SHARED REALM.

ISSUED ON BEHALF OF THE COUNCIL OF OLYMPUS.

SIGNED BY: THEMIS, GODDESS OF JUSTICE, DIVINE ORDER, LAW, AND CUSTOM.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Scarring webbed across the length of his spine, creeping upwards towards his neck and flickering out like tendrils over his shoulders. "It's hideous," he said, tracing the pink-colored lines with his fingertips. September would be over soon, Nico had shared; He was hardly able to remain on his feet without agony clouding his vision, let alone walk without the familiar weight of his wings to anchor him. When Aceso discovered that he had been secretly using pomegranate seeds to dull the pain, she scolded him so vehemently that not even Hypnos could pacify her. "Aphrodite wouldn't even allow a single scratch to remain on my skin." He continued, his voice subdued despite the discontent evident in his words. "And I am supposed to be okay with this?"

Aceso sighed with indignation, like she had expected this reaction.

"It may not be conventionally beautiful, but it is a mark of your survival."

He continued to study his reflection on the surface of the mirror. Due to his illness and prolonged stay in the Underworld, his skin had become pale, giving him an almost translucent complexion. Scarred tissue and luminescent veins glowed just beneath the surface of his skin. The goddess claimed their appearance would revert to their natural color once the ambrosia fully burned out of his system, but for now, he resembled a spirit that had swallowed a bag of glow-in-the-dark stickers.

"If I can't be beautiful," Micah decided then, "allow me to die."

"I'm done," the Asclepiades announced, ignoring his words as she took a step back. She had done everything within her power to heal him, but the effects of the ambrosia appeared to be largely irreversible without risking severe shock to his mortal body, or whatever the goddess had claimed. Micah hadn't truly paid attention to her explanation.

Instead, one thought kept echoing in his mind: would Percy still find him beautiful, even in this state?

It was a ridiculous thought, considering all else, but Aceso herself had claimed that he was just a boy, so maybe his childish thoughts were justified.

Micah couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension as he examined the bizarre strands of white hair that now highlighted his head. He hadn't bleached his hair in months—not since the last time he had seen Silena—and yet, here he was, with growing black roots and inconsistent streaks of white. 

"I'm hideous," he repeated, but it wasn't Aceso who responded this time.

It was Hypnos, who had been observing the situation from a distance so silently that Micah hadn't even noticed his presence until now.

He stepped forward with a gentle smile on his face, despite the sadness that lingered in his golden eyes.  "You look lovely," his father said, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. They stood together in front of the mirror, their reflections side by side.

It was strange, Micah realized. There were some things he couldn't change, like the curvature of his eyes and the shape of his mouth—features that he had thought ousted him as half mortal but now seemed to blend seamlessly with his father's ethereal beauty. It was strange, he thought. He had spent years trying to resemble the god, bleaching his hair, and trying to appear grander than what he truly was, only to realize now that they were already so alike.

"I'm sorry," he apologized abruptly, words falling from his lips like a shameful confession. "Dad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry—" He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know when he started tearing up, either, or why the thought of Hypnos being upset with him suddenly felt unbearable. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking.

His father's face softened. "It's okay," he said, wrapping his arms around his son. His shoulders trembled, but Hypnos did not let go. Tears welled up, soaking through his father's clothes, and his fingers unconsciously dug into his father's back, desperately and frantically, because all that he had ever loved ended with claw marks, and he was afraid that he would ruin this too.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he struggled to speak. "Get angry at me," he pleaded, unsure of anything. "Yell at me, punish me, hit me—I can't—I made a mistake, so get mad at me."

His father held him tighter, holding him as if trying to shield him from all the pain in the world. His voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "I could never be angry with you, my son." The deity leaned in, gently pressing his brow against his son's, their white hair interweaving like threads of moonlight as he vowed, "I love you. No matter what, little prince, I will love you."

"I'm sorry," He choked out, his breath hitching. "I didn't mean to cause so much pain. I just wanted to protect everyone—I just wanted to make you proud—but I only made things worse."

His father patiently brushed away the tears from his cheeks, one by one, even as they continued to flow endlessly. "Don't apologize again," he said. "These shoulders aren't as strong as they used to be; one more apology, and I won't be able to bear it."

"I'm sorry," He mumbled, and his father's expression was the same as it was all those years ago as he laughed, brilliant golden eyes filled with an adoration so sincere that he felt it in his bones—in his very soul, regardless of the name he went by, engraved on him forever.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

On the inaugural day of the trial, Micah was more preoccupied with coordinating his family's attire than the actual unfolding legal proceedings. Phobetor, with his dark skin coupled with mesmerizing golden eyes, exuded an innate regality in any garment he wore; Phantasos, however, boasted a lighter complexion and jovial eyes that resembled liquid silver, presenting a unique challenge in the quest for suitable accessories that would equally complement the distinctive features of both brothers. Luckily for him, Morpheus was still missing, so he didn't have to worry about his eldest brother's ever-shifting appearance.

Copper, Micah thought, had indeed been the perfect choice as he studied the assortment of rings that adorned his fingers. Not that it truly mattered, yet, considering the thick haze of dark-winged spirits that encircled them, concealing their presence from the prying eyes of the rest of the pantheon as they waited for the divine meeting to begin.

"Do you think Zeus will be put down?" Phantasos wondered, eyeing their father with concern as they stood in tandem outside the council chamber. Hypnos fretted visibly, walking back and forth, his brows furrowed in deep thought. The tension in the air was palpable, and the air was heavy with anticipation and unease as more and more gods and goddesses gathered in the sacred chamber. 

"As in the death penalty," his brother clarified pointlessly; still, Phobetor thought of the question deeply, his gaze weighed down in contemplation. "It's hard to say," he finally replied. "Perhaps not."

"Hopefully we'll be able to vote for it." Micah suggested; Phantasos nodded in agreement. "Father can suggest it to the council and see if they are open to the idea. Right, Father?"

At that, Hypnos nodded mindlessly. "Yes, yes," the god responded. "Anything for my boys."

Micah sighed and glanced at his siblings, but Phantasos shrugged, and Phobetor offered no answers. They knew the reason for their father's absent-mindedness: Thanatos had yet to arrive, even though the hour was growing late and the rest of their siblings had appeared in the council chambers, spread across the garden outside of the temple.

The absence of his father's twin was beginning to worry Micah as well, but before he could voice anything, a horn blared from within the chambers, interrupting the tense silence, and the massive doors of Themis' court swung open. No one greeted them; with a bit of hesitation, the deities stepped inside the chambers one by one.

Phantasos gently rested a hand on their father's shoulders, prompting Hypnos to glance up, a touch surprised, and then adjust his stance upon realizing it was time to proceed. "Come," Hypnos instructed. "Little prince, you take the middle. Phobetor, stay near your brother. We shouldn't delay any further. Let's not keep Themis waiting."

As they made their way through the grand hallways, Micah caught a glimpse of a familiar figure trailing behind Hades and Persephone's skeletal entourage. At once, Nico raised his head and locked eyes with Micah; the boy seemed uncomfortable, his expression tense. Micah, unsure of what could possibly be causing Nico's unease, raised his hand over his heart and drew a three-fingered claw outward.

Slowly, Nico mimicked him, carefully mirroring the gesture.

Micah winked and continued to walk with his siblings.

"You seem confident, brother." Phantasos commented, a sly smile playing on his lips. "What secrets are you hiding?"

"If thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain." Micah quoted as they stepped into the court, where countless beings of various forms and sizes were assembled, from deities to wind spirits and apparitions of heroes long gone. His eyes flickered with a hint of wickedness as he glanced at Phantasos. "No secrets, brother. I am simply not afraid."

Phantasos chuckled softly. They did not speak further as they made their way through the crowd, their presence drawing curious gazes from the mystical beings around them. Micah's confidence seemed to grow with each step, his sly smile never faltering. When they sat in a lowered row close to the podium at the front of the courtroom, Micah took the time to survey the room, his eyes scanning the faces of the figures seated around them.

Among the well-known appearances of figures like Athena and Eros, a multitude of unfamiliar faces piqued Micah's curiosity. Leaders from tribes such as the Mycenaeans and the Agikoreis sat with regal bearing, projecting an air of undeniable authority. Alongside them were representatives hailing from far-flung lands, including the Atlanteans, and even enigmatic beings whose origins lay beyond mortal understanding, all adding an air of mystery to the assembly.

A flash of red caught his eye from across the room, capturing his attention.

With a mischievous grin, Lady Pomona caught the apple that she had hurled into the air, and Micah smiled at the goddess as she waved at him. Above the deity of fruitful abundance, the Asclepiades sat in a hurry, the sisters of healing and medicine whispering among themselves as they prepared for the upcoming trial. Aristaeus, the god of beekeeping and cheese-making, sat further back, his gaze fixed on the lively conversation happening below. So many unknown faces filled the room, each with their own distinctive purpose and connections to the world of mythology. So many, in fact, that he did not even notice as Zeus entered the room, expecting a grand entrance, only to be pushed aside as Themis entered the room.

Micah raised a hand to his chest absently.

He couldn't figure out why his heart was fluttering.

Hypnos, mistaking his gesture for nervousness, grabbed a hold of his hand.

"Do not worry," his father reassured him. "Everything will be fine, but if you do not feel well, tell me, and we will leave."

He thought of Nyx, cursed with eternal slumber at the hands of a god whose cheeks turned gold at the sight of the Kharites. Micah nodded. "I'm okay as long as you are here," he said, and for once, he did not question the sincerity of his own words.

His father squeezed his hand tightly, a silent promise; he squeezed back, swearing the same.

They settled back and observed, taking in the scene before them.

Themis, the embodiment of justice, moved with purpose and authority, her measured steps resonating through the sacred courtroom like solemn hymns. Each click of her heels reverberated against the polished marble floor, emphasizing her deliberate stride and reinforcing her significance. The room, previously abuzz with chatter and movement, fell into a vast hush as her commanding presence seized everyone's attention. All eyes instinctively gravitated toward her, acknowledging her entrance with a sense of reverence.

Ignoring the judge's bench, she navigated with assurance toward the heart of the room, where the scales of justice stood bathed in a soft, ethereal glow.

With an expression of deference, she bowed before the balanced scales.

Then, in a moment that seemed to suspend time itself, she lifted her gaze and addressed the gathered audience with a voice that carried the weight of absolute certainty. Her words rang out with unwavering conviction, resonating across the courtroom, establishing her fidelity to the fundamental principles she represented.

"Let justice prevail," she declared, her tone unwavering and resolute. "And may truth guide our path towards the birth of a new Olympus."

The room held its collective breath as Themis, now seated on the judge's bench, surveyed the expectant crowd. With a nod, she allowed the Fates to blindfold her.

The scales shifted.

"Court is now in session."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

In the upper realm, October greeted him in the form of a cool breeze that whispered promises of change and new beginnings through the golden leaves, and it gifted him the incomparable sight of Percy impatiently waiting for him with a beat-up bouquet of supermarket flowers in his hands. His blue hoodie had bleach stains on it, and one of his shoelaces was untied, and even if the red carnations symbolized an aching heart, at least the red asters meant undying love and devotion. It didn't matter anyway; the bouquet ended on the ground as soon as Percy saw him.

Percy always wrapped his arms around him tightly, as if striving to confirm Zeus's fears by never letting go.

"I missed you," he whispered into the crook of his neck. "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you." His voice trembled, and tears welled up in his ocean-green eyes; and Micah wanted to tease him over the forgotten flowers, but he wasn't much better, he discovered, when he saw the bouquet he had been carrying end on the ground as well.

What did it matter, though? "I missed you," he said back, and he wanted to kiss him—he wanted to embrace him just as tightly, too, because the greatest blessing in his life was standing right in front of him, his other half, but there were a million words trapped in his throat, too many emotions to express all at once, and he wanted to hold Percy with all his might and never let go again—but Percy chose for him, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him into a kiss that stopped all his thoughts at once.

"Be my boyfriend," Percy whispered against his lips, his voice filled with longing. Micah exhaled softly, his eyes fluttering behind closed lids as he stood still, his lips slightly parted. Slowly and reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

It felt as if the universe had fallen into place, as if all the stars had aligned—and he barely managed to speak at all, but it didn't matter because his response was written across his expression, and Percy smiled at him like he has known all along.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Continued in 'And to those I love, goodnight.'

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

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up next: the lament of nico di angelo

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