✩ ━━━ wading in waist-high water, or the story of how percy and micah fell in love.

JESUS DIDN'T SUCCUMB TO THE LOSS OF BLOOD OR THE BRUTAL MUTILATION OF HIS BODY; HE DIED OF ASPHYXIATION.

It all began with his hands. Rusted spikes of tapered iron pierced through tendon and vein, cleaving flesh from bone as the blood of the Carpenter's Son dripped down the rough-hewn wood. The nails were driven into the upper meat of his palms; for six agonizing hours, he hung suspended. Under the endless pressure of his own body, his abdomen was slowly crushed, stretching and tearing further until he could scarcely draw breath, each attempt a laborious struggle for air, suffocating him gradually until he cried out, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"

Micah didn't dare draw a comparison between his own pain and that of Jesus, but as he stared at his hands, each knuckle covered in band-aids of soft yellows and pinks, he couldn't help but be reminded: the crucifixion of Jesus began with his hand, too.

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1. Crushing; the Piercing of the Hands.

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Micah is unsure of his age or if his name is truly his own.

Truth be told, he does not know much. Just rage and blurred memories that scatter in his dreams like a flock of morning doves fleeing from the growl of a predator. He doesn't know who his mother is or where his divine father has been all this time, only the way his grandmother's talons drag on the skin of his scalp whenever she visits him in the middle of the night and whispers to him, "My little prince." He may not recall who he was before awakening in Nyx's arms by the banks of the river Lethe, but deep within, he senses a calling to greatness—to something transcending his mere flesh and bones.

He may not know his age, his family, or where he came from, but he does know each hidden pathway on Mount Olympus and the warmth of the Phlegethon as its flames coil around the earth, flowing into the abyssal depths of Tartarus. He knows the real appearance of heavenly beings and the whispers they try to keep hidden. He knows that he is destined for more than just his bedroom at Camp Half-Blood—that his fate is intertwined with the gods themselves. It is the only truth in his life. His grandmother softly spoke it to him each night, like a lullaby of divine prophecy, a song his mortal mother wouldn't dare to sing.

He knows where the Fates will lead him. The unending light of the stars above illuminates the path of his destiny. For Micah, that knowledge is enough, even as the unnatural ache in his bones lingers and the blood staining his hair tarnishes to brown instead of the gold his grandmother had promised.

Beside him, Chiron worried, his vision clouded by a consuming sense of heartbreak and loss, unable to perceive the same future as him.

"My boy," the centaur called him, as if mocking him with a title that felt too heavy for Micah's waning shoulders; he is a brother and a grandson, never a child nor a son. "Please tell me what happened. At the very least, allow a healer to tend your wounds! I'll do it myself if you'd be more willing."

Micah kept walking, unsure of where he was headed but continuing blindly like a pilgrim on a sacred journey, pushed forward by the need to find a place to rest, somewhere safe, just for a brief moment. "I'm fine," he told the centaur, wishing to be left alone even if it meant bleeding out. He felt strange; his voice felt distant and pithless, carried by the wind and echoing in his mind with dissonance. "I like wild hellhounds, even if they bite on occasion."

The rhythmic pounding of Chiron's hooves on stone became a relentless drumroll, shredding through any semblance of thought or reason that might have remained in his mind. The world around him blurred into obscurity; at his side, where Ares had flayed the skin above his ribs, he could no longer sense the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers.

But, despite the black spots clouding his vision and the blinding sunlight from the sky above, Micah saw her—her figure muddled but unmistakable.

He stilled as he watched the brute daughter of Ares, his vision clearing as he watched the way she gripped black hair between her fingers and the desperate squirms of the scrawny kid at her mercy.

"We have an initiation ceremony for newbies," Clarisse taunted, a cruel smile twisting her lips.

The Fates, whose snake-like whispers coiled in his mind like the serpent in Eden, fell silent in unison, leaving only the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

And, for a fleeting moment, he remembered himself—the version of him who used to be weak.

Micah watched as the daughter of Ares dragged the boy to the bathroom, the way she dug her finger into hair and flesh, and recalled the feeling of bloody feathers being torn from his back.

A laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Tilting his head slowly to the side, Micah lifted an arm, indifferent to the gash on his side tearing open further as he stretched. He granted himself a few seconds to feel the sensation of muscles shifting beneath his skin. His resolve, unlike that of his exhausted frame, could not be weakened by pain. Ignoring Chiron's grim sigh and the sensation of blood pooling within his shoes, Micah took a deliberate step forward.

With no strength for a new fight but possessing an undeniable hunger for it, the taste of gore lingered beneath his tongue as he called out. "Enough with the barking, Clarisse!"

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Percy Jackson is twelve years old, and he just found out that his father is a god.

Not in the biblical kind, like Jesus and the apostles, but with a lowercase g, as in all those myths from Mr. Brunner's class. His father is the god of deadbeats, and there's a camp full of unwanted bad kids like him. And truthfully? Percy would've thought it was a case of mass hysteria—like those people from the plague in the 1500s who danced and danced until they all dropped dead 'cause they thought they were possessed by demons or whatever—if it wasn't for the way his mom had dissolved in a golden light before his eyes.

Percy is twelve years old; his only living family had just died, and everyone around him kept treating him like an idiot for not understanding what was happening. But how could he? Mr. Brunner was both a horse and a liar, unable to pick one struggle to focus on. Grover refused to tell him anything, either, preferring to gorge on tin cans, and Annabeth, the only person at the camp he would've liked to befriend? Well, she discarded him like a piece of trash the instant he failed to impress her.

He was all alone, a complete outcast, and Percy just wished some other monster would pop up and finish him off before Gabe showed up to make his life even worse.

With his luck, he would be a god too—Smelly Gabe, the god of bad hygiene and laziness.

Percy couldn't catch a break. But at the very least, he had one good memory from his time at camp.

"Thanks again," Percy murmured to the unconscious boy, trying to be gentle as he wiped away the sweat from Micah's forehead, recalling how the son of Hypnos had rescued him from Clarisse. His life had gone to shit, and his mom wasn't alive to scold him with a gentle smile for saying a cuss word, but at least he had this—taking care of fever-ridden Micah as a payment for what he had done to protect Percy. One thing to keep him from drowning himself in the lake or running away from camp altogether. He could handle this much, at least for now, even if it meant awkwardly fumbling through makeshift rag bandages and half-remembered first aid lessons to keep Micah okay.

Nobody had protected Percy from bullies like that before. Even if he kind of wanted to die, he would never forget how Micah dragged the daughter of Ares off of him and ended up with busted knuckles from knocking out all of Clarissa's teeth. It was the first time someone had ever stood up for him.

He wasn't about to let that go unreciprocated, no matter how awful he felt. It's not like he had much else going on in his life right now anyway, so why not spend his days looking after Micah? With his mom gone, there was no longer anyone to encourage him to aim for a brighter future, to push for greatness. He couldn't make her proud anymore. She was gone. All he had was this cramped cabin and the idea of a hero in Micah, until the older boy finally woke up and told him to go away too.

Percy sighed at the thought of the uncertain future ahead.

It seemed so.... repulsive, and miserable, and lonely without his mom by his side. And he did not want anything to do with any god, no matter how powerful and awesome his dad may be, because Percy had no interest in getting involved with someone who ignored his mom when she needed help the most. Plus, Camp Half-Blood has been awful so far, too, outside of the two people who didn't immediately make him feel ashamed for being alive. It isn't like Percy had ever asked to be a problem child, or a forbidden child, or whatever the horse and the potbellied bastard had called him. All he wanted was to find his mom and make sure she was safe—

A low groan escaped through Micah's parted lips.

Percy froze, his heart pounding in his chest, as he turned to see Micah struggling to sit up, using the black-feathered wings on his back as a makeshift support. "You," he uttered hoarsely, speaking quietly and almost unconsciously, "think too loudly."

His eyes remained shut tightly, a hand rising weakly to rub at his temples; all of his fingers remained tense and rigid, the broken skin of his knuckles tearing further. Percy had wrapped new Band-Aids around them earlier that morning, all pink and girly-themed, but they were already starting to come loose with the fresh blood seeping through. He reached forward clumsily, wanting to help, but the son of Hypnos flinched away from his touch, his wings bristling angrily, still struggling to regain his composure. "Just give me a minute," Micah whispered, his voice strained with pain and barely above a whisper yet the loudest sound in the room.

As his eyelids slowly lifted, revealing those strange champagne-colored eyes that had lingered in his thoughts since the moment Micah stepped in to protect him, Percy's heart felt like it popped. He tried to have a thought; he truly did, but all that escaped him was a subdued, "Uh, I'm sorry."

For the past few days, it had just been the two of them in Cabin 11. Annabeth told him that Micah was so awful that most people avoided him at all costs, even if it meant sleeping in the infirmary or on the porch of the Big House. Percy had doubted her; it all sounded too dramatic and unnecessary, but now that the son of Hypnos was finally awake, he sort of got it. There was this weird energy about Micah—a constant weight in the air that pressed on Percy's chest, threatening to cave in at any moment. It didn't make him scared, though; it just made him feel sad because Percy has been labeled a troublemaker, and a delinquent, and an awful kid for most of his life, too, for no reason at all. He refused to make anyone else feel the same way.

But his hands did shake just a bit as Micah's pupils contracted, shrinking into faint needles surrounded by pale gold as he became more aware. He fixed his eyes on Percy as if he could peer straight into his soul, his stare sending shivers down his spine. The air around them seemed too thin, suffocating Percy as he waited for Micah's response with bated breath.

But the son of Hypnos let another groan, less pained and more inconvenienced, as he shifted his weight, breaking the intense stare down between them.

"You don't need to apologize," Micah told him carelessly, the pale skin above his cheeks bruised and irritated, veins visible beneath the surface. His white hair, unkempt and wild, framed his face in a way that made him appear even more intimidating—but the corner of his lip rose subtly in a half-smile as he examined his hands. "It's my fault. Don't worry about it."

Percy felt his cheeks warm. He gripped the towel between his hands tightly, the fabric's roughness scraping against his skin. "It's Hello Kitty," he blurted out, nodding toward the bandages. "And that's Dear Daniel on your pinky, her boyfriend, in case you didn't know. I, uh, snagged 'em from Chiron. It's the only stuff he had. I'm Percy. Perseus, but, you know, I go by Percy. I mean, you wouldn't have known that before, but... now you do, I guess."

The son of Hypnos didn't burst into laughter or crack a smile, but there was a wry tilt to his head as he listened to Percy's blabbering with undeserving patience. "Perseus," Micah repeated to himself, as if testing the sound of the name. Despite his injuries, he somehow mustered the strength to sit upright, his gaze lingering on Percy with thoughtful consideration before remarking, "How scandalous."

He would've traded anything just to get a peek into Micah's thoughts at that moment.

"How so?" Percy asked, but Micah responded with a breathless laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He told him, "You look like your father. A name like that and a face like yours? It's bound to piss off a few gods."

Percy didn't know how to reply; unease settled in the pit of his stomach. "You know who my dad is?"

Micah responded defensively, as if Percy's surprise had offended him: "It's not hard to figure it out. You don't need to be claimed for me to know who your father is. I can see him all over you."

"That's not it!" Percy interrupted him. "I'm just surprised that instead of assuming I'm clueless because I couldn't solve three riddles and spot a lie first, you're actually admitting you know something." His response dripped with frustration, and Micah stared at him with a new sort of consideration, as if seeing Percy in a different light. After a moment of silence, Micah finally spoke:

"I don't like them either," he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gestured towards the outside, where Chiron, Mr. D, and Annabeth were waiting for Percy to make another mistake, reinforcing their belief that he's just a waste of their time yet again. "But it's the way things are done here. There's no changing people who think they are acting out of kindness."

"It still sucks," Percy grumbled under his breath. "Like seriously, it's not like I asked to be born or for that deadbeat to pretend I don't exist."

"You're right," Micah agreed, his voice softening slightly. "But sometimes we have to play the game in order to survive in this world." He paused then. "But I guess not all of us are the same—some people are born strong enough to create a new game altogether. You're one of them, even if you didn't ask to be born. It's up to you to decide how you want to play it."

"You're staring at me like I should be thinking about making some life-changing decision," Percy said cautiously.

"I'm not your advisor, Percy," he replied. "Your actions won't impact me in any way. Even if I were to tell you who your father is, it doesn't guarantee you'll be claimed. I'm just letting you know—status and power come with knowing your lineage."

"I'm so over this whole lineage and claiming business," Percy declared. "This place just plain sucks!"

"Being claimed is the first thing all monsters and the gods will notice about you beyond these borders. It's a part of who you are, whether you like it or not," Micah explained to him. "You should be thinking about it, even if you don't care about who your dad is. Your daydreams are loud—your nightmares even louder. They seeped through when I was asleep. I saw everything; your mom didn't die to the Minotaur, Percy. Monsters don't take hostages, so someone else had to be involved. And if you want answers, you need to be strong enough to get them. You might not care about the camp, but if you want the power to save your mom, you will need to get claimed."

Percy held his breath, scarcely daring to believe. "My mom... she's alive?" A glimmer of hope ignited within him, a spark of something he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. "How can I find her? What do I need to do?"

"Force the gods to notice you." Micah told him bluntly; he raised his hand to his neck, and disregarding the clasp, he pulled the necklace over his head. He held it out for Percy to see—at the end of the chain, a simple ring of silver gleamed in the dim light. "It has Nike's blessing. A few others, too," he handed it to him. "Take it; you'll need it far more than I will."

"It'll help my dad notice me?" Percy asked, a bit skeptical. The son of Hypnos shook his head. "It's for Clarisse and Annabeth. They're not going to make things easy for you after this."

Percy stood there, stunned, as Micah walked away, leaving his mind in a whirlwind of confusion. "Wait, after what?" he called after him, his voice desperate in his confusion. "You can't just drop a bomb like 'your mom's alive' and then bail! Where are you even going?" Percy called out, but Micah simply waved a hand in response without turning back. His wings glinted in the sunlight as he stopped by the front doors of the cabin, like stars in an afternoon sky.

"To the lake," the son of Hypnos told him. "You want to be claimed, don't you? I have a few ideas on how to speed up the process if you're interested. Ever tried walking on water, Percy?"

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At twelve years old, Percy found himself acknowledged by a father whom he didn't care for, a trident symbol appearing over his head like an ill-timed joke. A camper near the shore cried out about Jesus and the second coming of Christ, and Annabeth regarded Percy as if he were worth something once more. A sense of unease felt like it could drown him—the nagging feeling that he had done something wrong.

Clutching the silver necklace around his neck a bit tighter, he tried to shake off the unsettling sensation, but Chiron's voice sounded like a funerary dirge in his ears as he called out, "Poseidon! Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God."

It'll be fine, Percy kept repeating to himself; the world around him knelt, and at his side, in waist-high water, Micah erupted into the loudest laughter he had ever heard, the sound echoing across the lake like the song of a kingfisher. And it would be fine, Percy knew, because when light struck Micah's eyes just so, they blazed like the sun.

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"A fuckin' punk!" Ares raged. "A fuckin' pathetic bastard! I'll kill him next time! I swear by the River Styx, I'll rip him limb from limb! He'll regret ever crossing me!"

Beaten to the ground like a dying animal, coughing up red-tinted spit as he fought for air, Micah couldn't help but laugh at the thought of a twelve-year-old beating the god of war. Percy would make it to Olympus, he knew; he would return Zeus's lightning bolt and prove his worth as a hero, no matter how many obstacles stood in his way, because some people were natural heroes, born to defy the odds. Those who are born as pure as the son of Poseidon are destined for greatness. Ares, so steeped in filth, would never reach someone like Percy Jackson.

At the sound of his strangled laughter, his master turned to him. "You think it's so fuckin' funny, huh? You got some nerve, you little shit. But I'll break you; just wait and see."

Ares' fingers dug into his wings, a cruel glint dancing in his eyes as he tightened his grip. With a violent tug, feathers scattered in all directions as his cry of agony pierced the air. The god gripped his skull with enough force to make stars explode behind Micah's eyes; "You're not laughing anymore?" Ares mocked. "What happened, you fucking crybaby? Are you waiting for your daddy to come rescue you?"

Micah spat in the god's face. "You got beaten by a little boy," he grinned with gore-stained teeth.

A brutal fist collided with his nose, sending a surge of excruciating pain coursing through Micah's skull. His vision blurred, lashes stuck together as blood trickled down his face. "Such a smart mouth on you, just a fuckin' babbler. I'll quiet you down," Ares growled, his voice dripping with malice.

The pain was unbearable; so he closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips as he imagined Percy's triumphant return to Camp Half-Blood. The birth of a hero, the demise of gods—what he could've been, what he could've achieved if he had not been the son of Hypnos.

He knew it was over when something wet hit his face.

"Mutt," his master spat, kicking him one last time; Next to him, Aphrodite looked annoyed.

"Honey, I've said it before," the goddess sighed. "Don't handle him so roughly in my home! His face is too gorgeous; it is sacrilege to mar it in such a way! Come on, sweetheart, smile for me. I'm here now, so this meanie won't hurt you anymore."

As her nail grazed his cheek, Micah shuddered, feeling an unwelcome coldness seeping into his bones. The ache was relentless—it offered no relief for his injuries or the bleeding wounds, nor did it mend his broken ribs. Yet, his ripped nails regrew, because he would be ugly without them, and his once-darkened hair now glimmered with a radiant white hue, defying the hands of Ares that had ruthlessly torn at it earlier. Her blessing remained superficial, ensuring that despite Ares's onslaught, he wouldn't bear any scars, preserving his beauty and flawlessness for her divine scrutiny. "You're too pretty to be treated like this," Aphrodite cooed. "Oh, well! At least now you don't look so awful anymore, sweetie. Purple and red don't suit you at all."

She still left him disregarded on the ground of her palace of love, treating him as nothing more than a plaything for her own amusement and vanity. His body throbbed with pain as he lay there, thinking of hypocrisy and prophecies and the son of Poseidon, triumphant and unscathed.

Slowly, trembling, he raised a hand to block out the sun rising above him.

All the band-aids had loosened, lost amidst his beating, all except for one.

It remained unrelentingly around his fourth finger, ruined by rusting blood but still holding on. Deceptively healing him, a piece of plastic over a broken bone. It did nothing, yet Micah closed his eyes and smiled.

A thought struck him: His defiance meant nothing to Olympus, because he was just another shadow of the Underworld reaching for the sun. Percy is different, though; he didn't know to worship his father, or cower to Zeus, or look down upon Hades. He is one of them, yet Percy naturally insulted the gods with every breath he took. His mere existence was a rebellion, and with rebellion, came hope for change.

Hope is dangerous. Dangerous enough to make Micah wonder if enduring Ares's wrath is worthwhile if it means Percy can fulfill his destiny as a hero. Dangerous enough for Micah to convince himself that he could withstand the wrath of all the gods and the entirety of Mount Olympus if it meant Percy would be the one to challenge them with his impudence.

When did he become so selfless, willing to sacrifice his own well-being for someone else's success?

What a joke Micah has made of himself.

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Percy found him in the library.

He looked perfect, like a god. Percy was at a loss on how to approach him; it felt like a mere candle attempting to draw near to the blazing sun, slowly melting with each tentative step forward. But Micah's eyes flickered towards him—and a gentle smile graced his lips, brightening the room and enveloping Percy in a sense of being the sole focus of the universe.

"Congratulations," Micah said, resting his chin on his hand. The dust, illuminated by the sunbeams streaming through the window, resembled a halo around his head. "You completed your first quest. How did it go?"

As he settled into the chair opposite the son of Hypnos, Percy absentmindedly toyed with the necklace hanging around his neck. It carried a new addition—a camp bead, taken from its leather cord, showed off alongside the silver ring on the chain. "I swear I thought I was a goner at least seven times," he confessed, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Honestly, I don't feel all that heroic."

"It's not always about being the hero," Micah replied, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, it's just about making it to the end."

Percy nodded, his fingers tracing the camp bead thoughtfully. He kind of knew that, somewhere deep down; it's the same story for every main character on TV, just trying to survive until the end, no matter how much it hurt. "But honestly, I don't think I wanted to make it through to the end," he confessed softly. "I'm not too excited about heading back to that place. Manhattan, you know? Dealing with my crappy stepdad, the usual school drama, all those bullies... pretending like I'm just some regular kid."

He didn't know what he wanted to happen by opening up like that, but beneath the summer heat, there lingered a sense of finality. A subtle reminder that this might be his last opportunity to truly open up to Micah before the school year started. Percy didn't want to mess it up; No one had ever looked at him quite like Micah did, with unwavering attention, as if every syllable that slipped from his lips was significant.

"Then don't," Micah told him. "Poseidon claimed you—you are a prince, Percy. You have rights to a legacy that goes beyond quests and prophecies. Your father has a palace of servants and worshippers who will bow to you without needing to prove yourself. If you don't want your stepdad around anymore, then you have the power to make that decision now."

Percy's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you suggesting I should kill my stepdad?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. The son of Hypnos huffed a small laugh. "I'm not your advisor, remember?" Micah reminded him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I never said to kill him. I'm just letting you know that you don't have to follow the same rules as mortals. You have the blood of a god running through your veins, Percy. You have the ability to make choices that others cannot."

The silence stretched between them as Percy considered Micah's words; He thought about being called a troublemaker and being punished for things that weren't his fault. Until now, he'd never seriously considered living up to those accusations; he never wanted to bring more trouble to his mom. But he has more family now—strained and unconventional but full of power and possibility. Even if Poseidon didn't love him, he loved Sally, and that counted for something, right?

The son of Hypnos smiled kindly at him before returning to his reading, his thumb and forefinger tracing the texture of the old, worn pages. Percy observed him for a moment before telling him, "Hey, sorry for barging in. I just... thought it'd be cool to chill for a bit before I split."

Micah huffed a bit. "It's alright," he said teasingly. "But Percy, typically people say that before they start talking, not when they're about to leave." His thumb traced over the faded ink on the page again. "I've never really hung out with anyone before. If you want, stay a little longer. We can read together, if you'd like. I doubt you've actually been told anything beyond 'Save the world and defeat the bad guy' since you got here."

"Oh," Percy said, a little head over heels. "Sure,"

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Every day, he found himself in the library with Micah; the son of Hypnos devoured five books before realizing Percy hadn't even made a dent in the first one. Percy never mentioned the issue of dyslexia; instead, he feigned interest, pretending to flick through pages while his mind brimmed with countless thoughts he wished to share with Micah. He could be patient; Micah could read another book while Percy thought of one more conversation—of one more day in the library, of another week of rain-drenched evenings spent inside the Big House.

When Micah figured out his struggle, though, a hint of embarrassment crossed his face. "You should've told me instead of letting me waste your time," the son of Hypnos told him. "Go play volleyball with the satyrs or swim with the dryads instead. I'm sorry for not realizing sooner."

"No, it's okay!" Percy insisted, feeling too flustered to admit that he'd rather be stuck inside a dusty library with Micah than do anything else in the world. "I'm just practicing," he mumbled, attempting to downplay his true feelings. He wanted more. Micah tilted his head, still, studying him as if he didn't quite believe him, but he wasn't one to push if it wasn't necessary. Percy had learned that recently, adding it to his mental notes of Micah, tucking it in alongside Micah prefers hot chocolate over tea, and Micah always keeps a piece of candy in his pocket.

"Well," he said after a moment, "if you need help, I can go through some of these books with you."

Percy grinned. "I would really appreciate that,"

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Micah read calmly, his voice steady and unwavering, never stumbling over the words. Speaking came with ease to him, without a stutter, or an awkwardness, or an "uh" like Percy had to when he was nervous. He leaned more towards Latin than Ancient Greek, found Epicurus far more interesting than Socrates, and each time Chiron brought him fresh strawberries to eat, they were always covered in sugar and chocolate and whipped cream, enough to hurt Percy's teeth and wonder how long the sweetness stayed on Micah's lips, too. It was weird; he had never thought anything like that before. He never understood crushes or dating so young until he learned that Micah liked autumn over summer or winter, because the harsh glare of daylight against snow and all of the cloudless July days hurt his eyes. Percy had never thought of someone so much until he noticed how Micah reached for things with his right hand but preferred to write with his left. Micah didn't listen to music, not truly—the sound of a violin unsettled him, although the piano did so far worse. He loves Hellhounds, Percy memorized, collecting pieces of Micah to carry within himself like secrets; so he'll never hurt one, he swore to himself.

Percy is a kid. He knows he is, and he knows that this is a childish crush, something born out of innocence and admiration and a lot of hope—but he can't help it, because, sure, Micah could recite Sappho and Shakespeare like it meant nothing, while he could only think of stupid love quotes from Disney movies, but that didn't take away from the fact that Micah's smile made his heart race in a way he couldn't explain. It didn't make his feelings any less real, or any less important, or any less hopeless.

But it would be fine, Percy told himself; it'd be fine as long as Micah kept smiling at him like Percy was the only person in the world who mattered.

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Percy Jackson is twelve years old, and he developed the first crush of his life on a boy.

It isn't exactly a crush as much as a one-sided delusion. Micah is a bit older, a bit more mature, and definitely not interested in Percy in that way. But Percy didn't feel worried, exactly, because he isn't the best student, but he remembers one lesson in particular about Greek mythology:

The myth of how humans were created.

It was something the Plate dude philosophized about. Soulmates and the origin of love. According to him, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and two heads. But Zeus was scared of their power and split them in half, causing them to spend their lives searching for their other half. And at the time, Percy didn't care much about the myth, thinking it was just another strange story, until he saw Micah and thought, Oh, there he is.

Percy Jackson is twelve years old, and when he thought of Micah, a part of his heart just sort of knew: Oh, there he is. His other half, the missing piece of his soul. It is so easy to believe anything about godly fathers who loved from a distance and the thought of happily ever after when he only has to lay eyes on Micah and think, hello again, with a familiarity that sort of hurts. Gods are real, and monsters are real, but so are soulmates—because Micah is real, and ever since that day at the lake, he smiles at Percy each time they cross paths, as if they share a secret that only the two of them understand.

It felt like fate far more than any prophecy ever could.

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Summer ended. Percy returned to Manhattan; Micah left camp, too, but he didn't tell him where he was going. Chiron said he'd be back at the end of winter, like always, and that Percy could stay at Camp Half-Blood until then. All year long, too, if he wanted.

But a battered cardboard box awaited him at his doorstep. Through the door, he could hear his mom's pleading voice mingled with Gabe's awful shouting. His mind drifted to Micah's words—of how Percy held the power to make his own decisions and shape his own destiny now.

His dad had said it himself: Sally is a goddess among women. That would make Percy a prince, too.

They had no need to keep garbage from the past in their lives any longer.

With a deep breath, he picked up the box and walked back inside.

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His ribs ached. Every movement, every breath was accompanied by a dull ache, a persistent reminder of the hollowing pain nestled beneath his skin. Every step he took sent jolts of discomfort through his bones. With every inhale, his lungs filled with an indescribable heaviness, but for someone like Micah, a mere shadow of a shadow, it meant nothing. He moved through life untouched, akin to a ghost, impervious to the weight that burdened others. The echoes of pain were mere whispers to him as he pressed forward, the burning torches lining the corridors of Mount Olympus like floating lanterns guiding the dead, casting their seething glow upon his path.

In a secluded garden, untouched and forgotten in favor of the dozen others in Olympus, Poseidon waited for him with a restless flickering of his gaze, his troubled eyes mirroring the vastness of the ocean he ruled over. Under the searing blaze of the torches, a vision gripped Micah's mind—a frozen sea stretching endlessly, its waves arrested in time, glaciers of ice looming in the distance like towering giants.

The god before him cleared his throat.

With a vacant expression, Micah bowed; the words emptied from his hollowed mouth, devoid of conscious thought or faith. His ribs ached; it did not matter. "Lord Poseidon," he addressed. "Your call is a blessing bestowed upon me. How may I be of service to you, my lord?"

"My son," Poseidon said. "You met him—Perseus. What do you think of him?"

Micah stayed silent.

He is not like Jason Grace, a soldier worthy of being Lupa's chosen. Percy Jackson is young. For now, he's frail and without muscle; his endurance laughable; his demeanor rugged and uncoordinated, lacking the finesse of a natural fighter. Strategic thinking was not his forte, and his actions often betrayed a delay in response. He was emotional by nature, much like an unsettled sea, but when it came to physical strength, he appeared to be lacking—a feeble puddle, then, he corrected himself.

Mediocre, like all other demigods.

"He is kind," Micah found himself saying, suppressing the myriad of faults churning within his mind. "Loyal, if a bit naïve at times. But there is potential in him. He has a good heart and a strong sense of justice. With the appropriate guidance and training, he won't disappoint you, my lord."

Poseidon nodded thoughtfully, considering Micah's words. "Perhaps you are right," he mused, a hint of hope in his voice. "I hope you are able to look out for him and help him reach his full potential. I will reward you handsomely for your efforts, of course, if he becomes half as competent as you believe he can be."

Micah bowed respectfully.

"Of course, my lord."

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Following the piercing of his hands, his feet followed.

The nails pierced with a sickening finality, one foot behind the other. Blood trickled from his wounds as Jesus whispered a prayer for forgiveness and salvation. Despite the jeers and mockery from the crowd below, his love remained steadfast. Gazing upon the multitude, he embraced them with boundless compassion and forgiveness. Suspended on the cross, he uttered, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

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2. Infatuation; Piercing of the Feet

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Percy Jackson is thirteen years old, and life's taken a turn since becoming less of a camp reject.

Annabeth still dishes out her fair share of teasing, but every now and then, she cracks a smile when she thinks he isn't paying attention. Grover is a big satyr now, too, adventuring out into the world in the search for Pan. It would've been epic—like the best time of his life ever! Passing 7th grade without any monster surprises was a major win for demigods—except for one detail:

He hadn't seen his crush in months.

Percy Jackson is thirteen years old, and he thinks he would do anything to hear Micah laugh again.

To see him standing next to him , sharing inside jokes and secret smiles. He had a feeling the son of Hypnos didn't smile often; he did half-attempts, a smirk, or a slight grin, but never a full, genuine smile. Even when Percy had returned to Camp Half-Blood to tell him about the quest when the whole lightning thief saga had ended, Micah had only managed a barely-there twist of his lips before claiming he had to go. Percy wanted to know what it would take to make Micah truly happy—to see that genuine smile light up his face the same way it did that day by the lake.

But he had an awful feeling that he wouldn't be seeing it anytime soon.

Micah sat atop one of the collapsed Colchis Bulls, staring at the other with a frown. His hair had grown longer since the last time Percy had seen him, covering his golden eyes like a whitened veil; his wings were drawn tightly against his back, and the weight of the world seemed to be resting on his shoulders as he said, "You're being attacked."

Chiron's expression darkened, but he did not seem surprised by Micah's warning.

"How did you knock them out?" Annabeth questioned, her tone heavy with accusation. Micah arched an eyebrow, and her cheeks flushed, a glint of hatred flickering in her eyes. "They're made of bronze. They're inorganic; they should've been immune to your powers."

Hundreds of eyes stared at the son of Hypnos. Percy could feel the tension in the air as Annabeth's words sank in—the assumptions, the fear, the uncertainty. Everyone stared at Micah like he had been tried and found guilty.

Micah descended from the mechanical bull with a nonchalant expression, free of anger or bitterness. "But they're not," he said. "And you don't know the full extent of what I can do. So go ahead and celebrate being alive and well while I figure out how to save all of us again. I can't afford to waste my time with your misconceptions."

He strode forward before halting right beside Annabeth, wearing a peculiar smile that sent a shiver down Percy's spine. It was a ghostly expression, unsettling in its nature. "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of everyone," he murmured in a low voice. "But forgive me, I forgot your name—could you remind me?"

That, Percy thought, angered her more than anything else. Her jaw clenched as she glared up at him, rendered silent by his condescending tone. Before she could reply, Micah's eyes flicked over to Percy.

"Welcome back to camp," he greeted emptily, clearly relishing the tension in the air, a clash to the memory of their last encounter. "Let's hope this year won't be as eventful as the last, Percy."

Without sparing them another glance, he left.

Percy felt as though his world had been flipped upside down in the span of mere seconds.

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The poisoning of Thalia's tree destroyed any hopes of a peaceful second year at camp.

Still, Percy couldn't resist stealing glances at Micah, but the son of Hypnos remained oblivious, never once returning his gaze. "Zeus is upset," Micah said as they gathered in Chiron's office, his voice low and serious. He seemed so much older than Percy—so untouchable. "I convinced him to give you one more chance."

"You spoke to Zeus?" Percy asked in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. Annabeth gave him that look, as if thinking, Is your brain full of seaweed? But it was Chiron who answered, his expression tinged with the same sorrow as always whenever Micah was involved. 

The centaur's hands clasped together. "Micah is a counselor for the gods, Percy," Chiron told him; to the son of Hypnos, he lowered his head as he said. "Thank you, my boy. Your actions are deeply appreciated, and I will always be grateful for you."

"Don't thank me," Micah retorted, his tone tinged with irritation. "The poison used on the barrier comes from a monster in the depths of Tartarus. We need to figure out who brought it here before the entire camp starts blaming us children of the Underworld even more."

"You said it yourself; only a child of the Underworld could have accessed that poison," Annabeth added, crossing her arms. "Someone like you, in fact."

Micah wore a frightening expression, one Percy had never seen before. "Let's not jump to conclusions," Percy interjected, his thoughts still catching up—Micah, a counselor for the gods? "You  should know how on edge the camp is to be accusing anyone like that, Annabeth."

The daughter of Athena glared daggers at him. "You're defending him?" she asked incredulously.

"Micah is helping us! I know after Luke—" Percy began, but Annabeth interrupted him with a scowl scary enough to make him stop mid-sentence. "Don't mention him!"

"Enough!" Chiron interjected, the sound of his hooves pounding against the floor echoing in the room. "We must focus on the task at hand, not past grievances," he said firmly, silencing the room. "Unjust and baseless accusations will only cause more division among us. We must trust in one another and work together to protect the camp."

Annabeth fought back tears as Chiron gently brushed a tear from her cheek. "It'll be alright, child," he comforted her. "We will get through this together," he reassured them all, placing a reassuring hand on Percy's shoulder.

"Not without the barrier," Micah reminded them lightly, his gaze fixed on them as if they were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "We both know Camp Half-Blood was a graveyard before the barrier, Chiron. With the new surge of monsters appearing now, you stand no chance at all."

Chiron sighed heavily, his expression grave. "We need to find a way to restore the barrier and strengthen our defenses," he declared resolutely, casting a meaningful gaze upon each demigod present. "Our very existence hangs in the balance."

"So, where do we start?" Percy asked, glancing at Micah, but the son of Hypnos merely shrugged in response. "Don't ask me," he said. "It's been made clear that I'm not welcome here. If I suggest something, and a single thing goes wrong, it will only reaffirm any suspicions they already have about me."

"Is that what you tell the gods when you can't think of anything?" Annabeth asked sarcastically. Micah smiled sweetly. "Oh, of course not," he replied, his tone dripping with ridicule. "Olympus knows that Lady Athena and I have spent many hours strategizing together, so they honor me in pure gold for my insight, not in accusations and distrust. I do not need to prove myself to anyone, especially those who doubt my intentions. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll come up with something just as good if you put your mind to it."

Chiron shifted closer to Micah, but the son of Hypnos glared at the centaur, daring him. "This isn't pettiness," he warned Chiron, as if knowing what he was thinking. "I will not be involved. If something goes wrong and the hunt for another traitor starts, they won't look at the children of Apollo or fault Aphrodite's children. They'll come for me and every other child of the Underworld here. I will not do that to them."

"Since when do you care about others?" Annabeth asked him; Micah didn't say an insult, as Percy expected with dread, or even a sarcastic remark. Instead, he simply replied, "I care about family. You've made it clear that I am not a part of yours, so you will not be a part of mine either."

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Percy Jackson followed him to the library with an ease that revolted Micah.

At a young age, his grandmother revealed the truth of the world to him, instilling in him a sense of wariness toward others. Monsters could hide in the skin of those he trusted; jealousy and hatred could fester beneath the sinew of a smile. He could only trust his family. So for his own protection, Micah placed an invisible boundary between himself and the world. He was alone; he loved few; those he spoke to fewer. He maintained a calculated distance, ensuring that others would never draw too close.

Yet Percy grabbed him easily, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a grip that felt too familiar, too tight. He stared at Micah with dark brows furrowed in concern, his eyes searching for answers that Micah was not ready to give. "What's wrong?" Percy asked, as though they were old friends, as though Micah had always been capable of speaking so freely. But he wasn't—he wasn't.

Micah stilled, torn; he would be better as a ghost, he thought. A shadow among shadows, an embodiment of his grandmother's darkness. He felt far more like a failed creature, half-massacred with no hope of resurrection. He still belonged to his grandmother, though, even as a botched creation. And he couldn't bear to disappoint her, not after all she had done for him. So he removed Percy's hand from his and told the boy, "Why are you here? "

"You are upset," Percy told him, concern lacing his tone. "I just wanted to check in, make sure you're alright. And hey, don't pay too much mind to Annabeth. I guess she's just feeling a bit insecure since you're Chiron's favorite, and you're a tad smarter—"

"You still haven't figured it out," Micah remarked, amazed, and Percy wore the same expectant expression as before, as if he anticipated a different response and was caught off guard when Micah didn't adhere to the script he had written in his mind. "Figured what out?" Percy asked, confusion evident in his eyes, and Micah hated him.

"That we are not the same," Micah retorted sharply, his words laced with bitterness. "You still haven't figured out the difference between you Olympians and the rest of us. I'd be cursed if I even hinted at being smarter than a daughter of Athena. You'll be just fine, but I won't—I do not want to be cursed just because you can't be."

Percy's frown deepened, his sea-blue eyes narrowing like a tempest gathering on the horizon. He locked gazes with Micah. "I don't get it," he confessed openly. "But you told me last summer that you'd help me if I ever didn't get something. So help me now. What's the difference between us? Why is being an Olympian so important?"

Micah hated him—this child, a head shorter yet possessing a stare so potent it felt like drowning in the ocean itself. He had been so weak last summer. How had he grown so powerful in such a short time? How did he do it when it took Micah years to get to where he is now? How could someone like Percy ever comprehend the sensation of being nothing more than dirt under someone's shoe? The struggle to earn every morsel of respect and recognition, to fight tooth and nail for what others received as mere birthright? To be cast aside because of heritage, to be hated and misunderstood, questioned, never listened to, only judged and accused? It was a reality so far removed from his own experiences. It was a burden only children of the underworld could truly comprehend—the curse they had all been born into.

Unwishing, the son of Hypnos thought of him—of another boy, far younger than Percy but with the same cutting edge in his eyes, the same strength in his grip whenever he reached out for Micah.

The rage of unspoken words smoldered within him.

The world might belittle him and disregard his pain, but it could never, ever overlook the misery it had inflicted upon Ethan. Even if it required sitting with every individual on Earth, confronting the gaze of the ocean, the gods, and Lucifer himself, Micah vowed to ensure they all comprehended the depth of Ethan's suffering simply because he was born into a world that had already condemned him.

Unable to contain it any longer, Micah spoke.

Percy listened.

Micah told him about the thrones in Olympus, and the gods who sat upon them—the power struggles and betrayals that plagued the divine realm. Percy listened; he spoke of Hades, shunned by his brothers, and the palace they had built without him and those deemed lesser. Gods forced to fade into obscurity as their worshippers turned to new deities, forgotten, and Percy listened—he listened even as Micah forced himself to speak until his throat ached, and he listened to Micah even as he spoke of outlandish dreams, visions of a world where lineage were nothing more than roots connecting them to the past, where power was not inherited but earned through deeds and actions. Micah spoke, and Percy listened.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting long shadows across the room, the light of the candle flickering in the growing darkness. In the distance, the clamor of demigods preparing for night patrols echoed through the air. Micah did not want to go out; he could not go outside.

Percy did not see his fear. "Is that why your dad doesn't have a cabin?" He asked.

"We are not the same," Micah answered, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the ground as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. Anger tired him; he was not born to carry it within him. It wore away at his skin like a shroud over a broken body, leaving him exhausted and raw. It will never feel natural, even if his grandmother tries to convince him otherwise. He was not meant for anger, or for violence, or the burden of his family's history. It would kill him.

A foot brushed against his beneath the desk.

The son of Hypnos glanced up, and there was Percy, smiling at him, his face aglow with warmth as the flickering candlelight cast a gentle radiance over his features. "We are," he told Micah. "Or at least, we should be treated the same. I mean, my dad isn't any better than Hypnos—Lord Hypnos, or any other god for that matter. They should all have thrones, every single god. And demigods shouldn't be forced to stay in a random cabin just because their parents are considered less important."

Micah scoffed, feeling the weight of his own reality as the son of Hypnos. It seemed far too easy for Percy to say such things when he was the offspring of Poseidon, one of the most powerful gods.

Yet, Percy's foot brushed against his again, and his voice carried a genuine earnestness as he spoke. "No, I mean it," Percy insisted. "They all deserve thrones. We can make that happen, Micah. We can make sure every god and demigod is treated with the respect they deserve. You have the power to make a difference, too. We both do."

Micah remained silent; he didn't dare to voice his agreement, not in a world where ears could be listening. But the glimmer of hope felt dangerous, like a flickering flame in the darkness that could either illuminate a new path or burn everything to the ground.

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It's the duty of the son to bring honor and respect to his family.

Micah is the oldest demigod born to the House of Midnight; he has neither mortal siblings, nor any other demigod kin capable of sharing the burden. The weight of their legacy rests solely on his shoulders, a responsibility he cannot escape. His family is dying, fading each day without worship. He has to save them; it is his destiny, blessed with Nyx's golden eyes and the favor of endless gods. His family is waiting, and he feels so young, so ill-suited for the sacrifices demanded of him. He isn't the Messiah or a chosen one that the Fates whispered of.

He doesn't want to be—he doesn't want to be.

Micah doesn't believe in God, or gods, or any higher power that could possibly guide him through the cruelty of his life. He doesn't believe in Nyx or the falsehood that is his father Hypnos; he does not believe in Jesus, either, for all he thinks of pierced hands and sacred hearts that bled out salvation. He doesn't believe in anything in the world at all.

But he would bet on Percy, he thought. He would bet on Percy Jackson with all the hope in his faithless heart, and he would be okay, Micah thought, if he lost by his side, too.

─────────────────────────

That night, Percy dreamt of a winged ram and a crew of Argonauts sailing towards a new dawn, the ocean waves gently lapping at the sides of their ship as the stars above illuminated their path. He saw visions of Polyphemus and the sea parting at the hands of cyclops and sirens.

When he told Annabeth, the daughter of Athena stared at him with skepticism disguised as hope. "The Golden Fleece. Percy, remember the Gray Sisters? They said they knew the location of the thing you seek. And they mentioned Jason. Three thousand years ago, they told him how to find the Golden Fleece. You do know the story of Jason and the Argonauts?"

She asked him like she was expecting him to say something stupid, the words you are so hopeless prepared within her mouth, but Micah's soft-spoken sentences echoed in his mind, and Percy smiled. "I do. When Cadmus got to Colchis, he sacrificed the golden ram to the gods and hung the Fleece in a tree in the middle of the kingdom. The Fleece brought prosperity to the land; that's why Jason wanted it. It can revitalize any land where it's placed. It cures sickness, rejuvenates nature, cleans up pollution—it could save Thalia's tree."

Annabeth paused, nodding cautiously. "That's... right," she said under her breath. "But it's a little too perfect, don't you think? What if it's a trap? You dreaming of a cure for Thalia's tree, it just seems too good to be true."

He would have typically agreed, but today, as he glanced across the field to the roof of the Big House, he noticed the son of Hypnos watching over the world below like a guardian angel, his dark wings glistening in the sunlight like a million twinkling stars in the sky.

Micah turned to him, as if sensing gaze; he did not smile or anything like that—but when Percy raised his hand, waving it in greeting, Micah nodded once in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the horizon.

Percy smiled. "It's worth the risk."

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They readied themselves for the journey to the Sea of Monsters.

Micah stood silently beside Chiron, unspoken words lingering in the air as they made last minute preparations. Clarisse pretended not to flinch at the sight of him, while Annabeth regarded him with suspicion, her gaze unwavering. The son of Hypnos remained like a statue, unmoving and unflinching under their scrutiny.

But he reached out when Percy turned to leave, his hand hovering uncertainly before dropping back to his side. Percy stilled, meeting Micah's gaze; "Power comes with knowing your lineage," the white-haired boy reminded him, and he seemed to want to say more, but he remained vague, his expression incomplete. Percy understood what he was trying to say: to be safe, to take care, to be strong, to have courage, because that is what Micah associated with power and lineage and heritage. It would have been enough for him, but Micah bit his lip with uncertainty as he softly uttered, "You'll do well. You are—you, Percy. You'll do well."

"It won't take long." Percy smiled, crushing and infatuated, and a bit in love. "Join me on my next quest?" He asked, unable to wait for his return like he had planned; he wanted to do well—Percy wanted to do well with Micah by his side. And although he didn't receive the smile he had hoped for—nowhere near as bright as the one Micah had given him by the lake—Micah's expression softened, and he promised. "Ask me then. I'll say yes."

Percy grinned, leaving Camp Half-Blood with a newfound sense of determination coursing through him.

His next quest would be the most important one yet.

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For the first time in two weeks, Micah attempted to sleep.

For a son of Hypnos, slumber should have come effortlessly, but the weight of uncertainty lingered in his mind, burdening his eyelids with worry. His grandmother had taught him not to care for those who were not family—but the end of his life, Micah suspected, began when Percy Jackson smiled at him with the freedom of the ocean reflected in his sea-green eyes and spoke the words, "We can make that happen, Micah."

We are the same, he claimed; as if he could see the filth clinging to Micah's skin and all of the hatred beaten into him by his grandmother and still consider him worthy of friendship. We are the same, Percy swore to him, and Micah believed him, despite knowing it would be his downfall, because all his life, the son of Hypnos had longed to be clean. To be accepted and loved by others, to be deemed worthy of belonging and pure in spite of being him.

Micah wanted to believe Percy.

Micah doesn't know his age, or his real name, and he doesn't believe in God, or gods, or any higher power that could possibly guide him through the cruelty of his life. He doesn't believe in Nyx or the falsehood that is his father Hypnos; he does not believe in Jesus, either, for all he thinks of pierced hands and sacred hearts that bled out salvation. He doesn't believe in anything in the world at all.

But he wanted to believe Percy.

If anything in the world, he wanted to believe in Percy.

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Micah slept. He dreamt of a father whose tears mirrored rain cascading from an endless sky untouched by the warmth of the sun. "Little prince," the father wept, a blurred fragment of white and gold beneath the moon's watchful eye. "My little prince, where have you gone, my heart? Come back to me, my son. Please come back to me!"

Micah awoke with the taste of bile coating his mouth.

It hurt—it simply hurt. He had no metaphors or similes to describe the pain, only a raw ache in his chest that seemed to echo the father's desperate cries in his dream. So he abandoned his bed, desperate for the chill of the night to dull his senses. Thoughts of dying and memories of torn bodies in frigid snow, remnants of a past lifetime, offered more solace than the fleeting hope of finding peace through sleep.

Unlike everything else so far, their encounter was purely coincidental.

He stumbled upon her doubled over, retching at the base of a tree, hidden in the depths of the forest. Her complexion had a sickly pallor, with beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Micah recognized her immediately, though; the daughter of Aphrodite was beautiful, even with irritated eyes from crying and chunks of vomit clinging to the corners of her mouth. She is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, even as she wept as though the very fabric of her world was unraveling, her body doubling over with each sob as she struggled to keep herself from crumbling entirely.

"I'm sorry," she cried to no one, her voice hoarse and trembling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't want to! I swear, I didn't want to hurt anyone! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

He stood there, unmoved by her tears or the sight of her jagged, broken nails from frantic digging in the ground. A grotesque mosaic of dirt, blood, and vomit lay beneath her, her guilt staining the earth as she begged for forgiveness, yet he found no sympathy stirring within him. Silena Beauregard may have been the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, but it held no relevance. All he saw in her was Aphrodite incarnate, with her unwelcome caresses and sickeningly sweet voice whispering in his ear, murmuring praises and insults in equal dosage as she played him like a puppet on strings.

But Percy wouldn't ignore her, he thought. Percy would never judge based on someone's godly parentage. He would worry and ask her what had happened; he would offer her a hand to help her up, and listen to her without judgment. He would help her.

Percy would be good.

Micah wanted to be good, too. So he took a deep breath and kneeled beside the daughter of his abuser like a saint to a sinner, offering his hand and a soft voice, "Silena? Are you okay? Let me help you up."

─────────────────────────

"Itoko, you're so late!" Ethan accused, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat impatiently on the porch of Hermes' cabin. Micah offered him a tired smile, reaching out to tousle his hair affectionately. His little cousin didn't bother to pretend to protest, a warning sign as he leaned into Micah's touch, allowing the son of Hypnos to run his fingers through his silky hair.

An awful feeling gnawed at Micah's stomach, a sense of unease settling heavily within him. "I'm sorry," He apologized to Ethan, his thumb playfully squeezing his cheek. He expected Ethan to slap away his hand as usual, but instead, the boy surprised him by leaning into the touch, closing his eyes as if seeking comfort. He stilled as Ethan wrapped his thin arms around his waist.

"Ethan," Micah asked carefully, gently prying his cousin's face away from his chest to meet his gaze.

His little cousin's brown doe eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

"Ethan, what's wrong?" He whispered, his voice heavy; and Micah wanted to be good, too, just like Percy, but it felt so unattainable. It felt impossible to be good when Ethan cried and mumbled against Micah's chest, "They think I did it, Itoko."

Micah stayed quiet; they think I did it too, the truth burned his throat.

Instead of admitting that it hurt him too, Micah helped Ethan move to his bedroom in the Big House.

Another day passed. A Draco Aionius descended from the sky, razing a portion of the camp to the ground.

"I thought your powers worked against all monsters!" Someone accused when Micah had gone to investigate the aftermath. Another yelled, "Why didn't you stop this one?" Traitor, went unsaid; Chiron tried to defend him, but the smell of burnt flesh in the air was too overwhelming.

"Traitor," they whispered among themselves, and amidst them, Silena Beauregard tended to the injured.

She stared at him with wide, wide blue eyes—then she looked away, and Micah did, too.

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Camp Half-Blood is inhospitable—unwelcoming, as if it were rejecting them both.

A daughter of Aphrodite had poisoned Thalia's tree, yet she was able to smile at others without withering under the weight of guilt. A son of Hermes had betrayed his own family, yet they were the ones suspected, not trusted by the other campers. The tension in the air was suffocating; the mistrust and accusations hung heavy around them. His little cousin pretended to be okay with it, but Micah has known him for so long. He had been the one who taught him how to read, the proper way to wash behind his ears, how to tie his shoes—he had watched him grow up. Ethan was his world, and it made him wonder, How heartless must the gods be? Dismissing and neglecting the children they birthed when the sight of a single tear from Ethan felt like a stab to his own heart.

More than that, what fairness is there in this world? In a place where heritage overshadows innocence, what form of justice is there?

Micah is trying to be good. He is trying to be a good grandson and a good brother, a son, too, even if his father doesn't care enough to look for him; he is trying to be a good cousin, a source of comfort and strength to Ethan, and he is reading books and enduring the daylight despite the torment it inflicts on his eyes and the headaches it brings. He is trying to stop the awful thoughts. He repents, and he prays to God, and nobody ever replies, but it is okay, because he is trying to be good, and it should be enough.

But it isn't. It would never be enough.

Percy hasn't returned from the quest yet, and Micah is still filthy.

He told the son of Poseidon of a dream where all the gods had thrones, but he had lied.

No god deserved a throne. Not Hypnos, not Poseidon, not Nyx.

He refused to bow to gods who adorned the night sky with the memories of lives they had ended.

The son of Hypnos feels as though he's fifteen, but the truth is uncertain.

The world is ablaze around him, searing through his throat and scorching his lungs with each breath. It's not grief—he refuses to dignify it as such. If he could, he'd rid himself of these feelings entirely, unwilling to chase dreams that could never be fulfilled. His grandmother called it resentment instead, a poisonous bead of her blood coursing through his veins, unyielding to dilution. Destructive and all-engulfing; he has inherited her fury, and her shame, and a lineage's worth of disdain for a world that refuses to honor them.

Micah doesn't want to be the one to carry on her legacy of bitterness and rage.

But Ethan Nakamura cried in silence despite being so young, a child, yet aware that his tears meant nothing to the world around him.

Micah didn't aspire to be a Messiah. He didn't wish to inflict harm upon others, but for Ethan's sake, he would. He would bear the weight of their shared pain and carry it to his grave if it meant Ethan could have a chance at a better life.

It is grief, Micah knew; it is resentment, pain, and sorrow—and it is a just cause for war.

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The summer heat made it difficult for him to breathe.

Ethan slept peacefully, curling inward next to Micah's sitting form, unaffected. His black hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends from the humidity, his brow glistening with sweat even though he wore only shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Through the opened window, the sound of cicadas filled the room. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

Through the flickering of the light, Nyx materialized at the foot of the bed, her eyes glowing softly as she kept a vigilant watch over Ethan and Micah. With delicate precision, her talons hovered just above Ethan's forehead as she gently swept his hair away from his face. "He is sweet," she noted. "But he isn't strong. He didn't inherent as much as you have, my little prince."

"He doesn't need to be strong," Micah whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cicadas. "He has us to protect him."

His grandmother smiled. "Yes," she agreed, pressing a kiss to Ethan's forehead. "He doesn't need to be strong, because you are following everything I tell you to do, so we can protect him. You'll be a good older cousin and watch over him, won't you? And I will take care of both of you, no matter who tries to harm you. We'll ensure that neither of you ever has to face anything alone. Won't we, my little prince?

─────────────────────────

Clarisse arrived before Percy.

She held the Golden Fleece in her hand, and for a moment, Micah felt betrayed. Failed to, lied to, because he had sent those dreams to Percy—he had plucked threads from the Fates' loom to ensure Percy's success, going against his grandmother's warnings of visiting the dream realm. He had done it for Percy; yet here was Clarisse, claiming the prize that should have been Percy's.

He tried to remain calm. He was trying to be good, and clean, and kind, even if the thought of gutting Clarisse and taking back what was rightfully Percy's tormented his mind. He watched as the whole camp gathered at the top of Half-Blood Hill, cheering as the daughter of Ares draped the Golden Fleece over the lowest bough of Thalia's tree, a triumphant, toothless smile on her face. He hated all of them.

A cool breeze rustled in the branches and rippled through the grass, carrying a sense of clarity into the valley. Everything came into sharper focus—the twinkling glow of fireflies dancing in the woods, the sweet scent of the strawberry fields, and the soothing sound of waves crashing on the beach. Gradually, the needles on the pine trees began to transition from brown to vibrant green. Cheers erupted from all around, and Micah hated each and every single one of them.

Beside him, Ethan grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, his eyes wide with wonder as he watched the transformation unfold. "They won't blame us anymore, right, Itoko?" His little cousin asked, hopeful in a way only a child could be.

Micah placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair gently.

He didn't tell him anything, though, and Ethan was clever enough to understand the unspoken answer. His cousin pressed his head against Micah's forearm, attempting to hide his upset expression.

Micah wanted to hug his cousin, to take him within his body and keep him safe forever in all the ways Nemesis had failed to, but that would mean showing vulnerability, something he couldn't afford to do in their harsh reality. So he stood still, watching the crowd as they celebrated. They were forgotten, campers pushing past them without a second glance, and Micah was fine with that—then another head pressed against his shoulder, an unfamiliar weight that made him tense up.

Micah looked down to see disheveled, jet-black hair.

Percy looked up at Micah with a sheepish expression, resembling that of a pleading puppy seeking reassurance. "Hi," the son of Poseidon greeted sheepishly, his words muffled by the fabric of Micah's shirt as he spoke, lips moving against the cloth. He looked—just like Poseidon, his skin bronzed by the sun into a deep hue, his sea-green eyes sparkling. With that same intense gaze that could make anyone feel as though the god of the sea himself was scrutinizing them, Percy casually asked. "Who is this?"

His cousin glared at him, uncomfortable under the scrutiny, before replying, "I'm Ethan."

Percy nodded, pressing his head further against Micah's arm. "Oh," he said after a second, lifting his head from Micah's arm and smiling warmly at Ethan. "Nice to meet you, Ethan. Are you Micah's friend?"

Ethan was clearly unimpressed. "No, I am his cousin."

Percy's eyes widened in surprise, and he continued grinning at them, exhausted from his quest but still radiant. "That's cool—I'm Percy, Micah's friend." At that, Ethan's eyes shifted to Micah, skeptical, but at the lack of reply, the son of Nemesis just nodded in response, his expression softening slightly at Percy's friendly demeanor.

Micah observed the interaction, lost in thought.

It could be different for Ethan, he mused, even if it was too late for him. So he turned to Percy and made his best attempt at a smile as he said, "Actually, Percy, there's going to be a chariot race tomorrow. Ethan wanted to be a part of it, but he doesn't like the way I drive. Would you be interested in being his chariot partner instead?"

Percy's eyes lit up with excitement, and his younger cousin looked at Micah, terrified but hopeful, as the son of Poseidon grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the stables to start getting familiar with the pegasi that would be pulling their chariot in the race. The son of Hypnos watched as the crowd parted to make way for the two demigods—and Micah just breathed, realizing that he could never give Ethan the respect or opportunities he deserved, but Percy could.

At the crest of the hill, Percy spun on his heels, flashing him a grin. "Hey, what are you waiting for?" he shouted, beckoning with a playful wave. "Blackjack's waiting to meet you too! Don't just stand there; come on! Let's go say hi together!"

─────────────────────────

Watching Micah walk towards him, not smiling like he had hoped for through the winter, but with a softness in his eyes that outshined the sun above them with its quiet affection, Percy wondered, What is the difference between a crush and an infatuation? Where did a childish crush end and a love that could be real—genuine, lasting, reciprocated—begin?

He didn't know yet; they won the chariot race, regardless.

Ethan laughed and raised his arms in the air in victory, the wind tousling his hair as he celebrated their triumph, and Micah grinned at his cousin with a love that could only be described as pure and unconditional. He smiled at Percy, too, an awkward thing, half-weighed down by whatever sadness lingered but just as beautiful as the sun setting behind them.

And Percy hadn't meant to fall on Micah the way he did, off the chariot and onto his arms, lips brushing against the skin of his cheek so brutishly as the son of Hypnos caught him, but then again, Percy hadn't meant to fall onto love like a sword splitting through armor either. The moment was fleeting; Micah didn't mention it, and Percy didn't bring it up either. He still blushed for the remainder of the night, cheeks aching from smiling so much as Micah ate all of his s'mores and told them stories about rabbits in the moon, and a thousand different constellations that only he could see with his blessed eyes.

Ethan drifted into slumber as Apollo's children quieted their guitars, and the fire dwindled to mere embers. The rest of the camp continued to celebrate; Percy followed Micah to the Big House as the son of Hypnos carried his cousin to bed.

"Visit me in New York when the summer is over," Percy found himself asking, surprising even himself with the boldness of the invitation. Micah tilted his head to the side, a faint grin dancing on his lips on his lips as he nodded in agreement. "I'd like that," he replied softly.

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That night, Percy dreamt of Micah. In turn, the son of Hypnos took on all of Percy's burdens.

He dreamt of Kronos taunting the world from the depths of Tartarus: Polyphemus sits blindly in his cave, young hero, believing he has won a great victory. Are you any less deluded?

Micah claimed Percy's nightmares as his own without hesitation. He wasn't afraid of a weakened Titan god, or grand palaces of pearls and coral. There's worse things awaiting him in Tartarus, after all.

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3. Connection; Wounding of the Side

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Percy Jackson is fourteen years old, and the butterflies in his stomach feel like knives ripping through his insides. Everything was great; ever since last summer, Micah had grown more comfortable with being called a friend. They met up near the Empire State Building regularly, and the son of Hypnos often brought Ethan along, taking them to art galleries, concerts, the aquarium, the planetarium—anything that would catch their attention, regardless of the price. Micah would give Ethan the world, Percy learned, and by extension, he would give it to him too. They were close, and it had been enough until Percy grew a bit older.

On the day that it was just Percy and Micah, it felt like the real thing, even if Micah never stared at him the way Percy wanted him to. It was easy to slip into the illusion of something more than friendship, especially when Micah showed his care in subtle ways—gifting him skateboards, assisting with homework, and countless other gestures that made Percy feel cherished and valued. It was so easy to believe that it could be real, and the past three years of his life have all been leading up to Micah.

Until Sally Jackson happened.

The moment his mom met Micah, she grinned and smiled as though she had known him her whole life. She greeted him warmly, somewhat sheepishly, brushing off the apartment's clutter and urging Micah to overlook the odor of cigarettes clinging to the walls; she looked just as charmed as Percy felt when Micah handed her a vase full of Greek peonies and told her, "Please don't think so little of me, Miss Jackson. I am grateful for your hospitality."

They hung out in the living room that day, and the son of Hypnos told Sally about his quests, captivating her with tales of fantastical creatures and hidden realms. Sally listened intently, her eyes lighting up with wonder and fascination as Micah's words painted vivid pictures in her mind.

It had been the perfect day until his mom summoned him to the kitchen, urging Percy to assist her with the freshly baked cookies. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she remarked, "He's absolutely wonderful." Percy couldn't help but grin, a surge of warmth flooding his chest at his mother's praise. However, Sally's grip tightened as she added, "But Percy, I don't want you to get too caught up."

"What do you mean?" Percy asked, and his mother regarded him with a hint of sympathy.

"Sweetheart," Sally gently responded, "have you ever considered that maybe Micah might have a girlfriend or someone else he's interested in?"

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Micah sat on the floor of his room, leaning against the bed frame. Percy gazed down at him, struck by his beauty. He's so pretty, Percy thought to himself, overwhelmed by his feelings. And he loved Micah in the only way he knew how—with his entire heart, every fiber of his being, with everything he had inside—that he had never paused to consider that Micah might have feelings for someone else.

"Are you okay?" Micah's voice broke through Percy's swirling thoughts as he settled beside him, resting his head on Micah's shoulder. Percy ached to draw even closer, to shower him with kisses on his neck, cheek, his lips—but he couldn't, because Micah doesn't think of him the same way. Percy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his love with every breath.

"I am," he replied, forcing a smile.

He unpaused the movie before Micah could see the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

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Did Micah like someone?

Did he think of someone else the same way Percy thought of him?

Did he smile at them far more often than he smiled for Percy? Did Micah read to them, too, even from the poetry books he had kept from Percy? Is that where he went when he disappeared each winter—who he spent time with when he left Percy's side when he visited Camp Half-Blood?

He didn't know. He didn't know, and that was what scared him the most.

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Percy Jackson is fourteen years old, and he loved Micah so much that it was making him sick.

It felt like an illness consuming him from within—the paranoia, the fear of not knowing who it could be. He hadn't even considered that Micah could like someone else. That he was older, and it would be normal for him to actually date someone instead of crushing silently from afar, just like Percy.

Questions raced through his mind, each one a dart of uncertainty, wondering if he had overlooked any signs or if Micah had dropped hints that he had failed to grasp. The uncertainty gnawed at him, forming a tight knot of anxiety in his stomach as he wrestled with not knowing the truth.

On a weekend that left him too restless, Percy made the decision to visit Micah in person. Winter would be coming soon, which meant the son of Hypnos would depart from camp for the season. Percy couldn't let him go without knowing the truth about his feelings—not another year, not another moment when he felt like he would throw up from the uncertainty.

He couldn't decipher if witnessing them together at the camp entrance was an act of cruelty or a twisted form of kindness. They laughed and smiled as if the weight of the world didn't exist, yet it mattered little; Percy's heart shattered nonetheless. The daughter of Aphrodite pressed a kiss to Micah's cheek, leaving behind a trace of lipstick, and it felt like a blade slicing through Percy's chest.

His mom hadn't even turned off the car engine. His mom didn't scold him for wasting gas, just sat there with a knowing look in her eyes. They left.

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Percy tried not to sleep too often, but it was difficult. Everything around him had become so—boring, after he learned how beautiful the world could be beside Micah.

His mom tried to comfort him. "Oh, baby," she would tell him. "Maybe you misunderstood what you saw."

Percy struggled to find the words to convey to his mother that Micah wasn't like others. Micah didn't have friends who casually touched or kissed him. He didn't smile at others, or talk to others unless it was to provoke them; he didn't know how to tell his mom that Micah seemed to hate the whole world except for Percy and Ethan. For the son of Hypnos to permit Silena to touch him, to kiss him, to hold his hand, it meant that Micah had discovered something in her that he was unable to find in anyone else. It wouldn't matter if Percy was older, or more experienced, or more charming—Micah had chosen Silena.

There was no room for misinterpretation.

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Autumn passed quietly.

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On the Friday before his winter break, Sally drove him, Annabeth, and Thalia to Westover Hall. Percy tried his best not to let his disappointment show, but his mind was filled with thoughts of Micah's promise to join him on their next quest and how it would have looked if he had been there; he imagined the rosy blush that would have graced Micah's pale cheeks in the cold, and how his white hair would have blended seamlessly with the snow. But it all remained nothing more than a fantasy.

He hadn't spoken to the son of Hypnos since The Incident at camp. And honestly, if he had to admit it, that Twilight moment where Bella practically rotted in bed when Edward left? Yeah, it was hitting a bit too close to home right now.

So, he rotted away, just like Bella; and Annabeth didn't seem to notice much, preoccupied with Thalia's miraculous return and all. Grover couldn't find the words to comfort him either, frantically guiding everyone down the corridors of the military academy toward the dance, Percy felt utterly alone.

Inside, black and red balloons floated all over the gym floor, and crepe paper streamers were taped to the walls. Laughter and chatter filled the air, yet Percy couldn't escape the hollow emptiness gnawing at his chest. Everything was awful—disgusting, boring, and utterly pointless, even if everyone around him seemed to laugh and dance as if nothing was wrong.

Thalia's instructions drone endlessly, and Percy couldn't even have that now, either. Everyone listened to the daughter of Zeus with rapt attention, hanging on to her every word as she led the way. He barely registered Thalia tugging Grover into the swirl of dancers, or Annabeth's passionate speech on architectural minutiae. His thoughts incessantly circled back to the same aching question:

In his absence, what was Micah doing?

Annabeth scoffed. "Honestly, Percy. Don't you guys have dances at your school?"

She left before he could reply. He watched as she disappeared into the crowd, and amidst the blur of moving bodies, Percy's gaze was drawn to a figure standing against the wall on the other side of the gym, the glimmer of jewelry catching his eye.

He blinked, momentarily questioning his sanity.

But Micah remained there, in Westover Hall, his attire too refined for the casual setting of a high school dance. Black wings extended from his back, blending seamlessly with the shadows. He was there, solid and tangible, observing the crowd with a detached air, his half-lidded eyes scanning over the sea of students—until they landed on him.

Percy's heart skipped a beat.

The son of Hypnos raised the cup in his hand and offered a small smile. Percy approached as if in a trance, the music swirling in his mind as Micah remarked, "Haven't seen you in a while. You've gotten taller."

"Why are you here?" Percy asked, wincing at his own directness, but Micah chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he replied, "For the same reason you are."

He nodded towards the pair of children on the bleachers—a young girl admonishing her brother, who nonchalantly shuffled cards as she spoke.

"Bianca," Micah informed him, "and Nico di Angelo."

"Grover didn't mention that you would be here," Percy said, biting his tongue when he felt a surge of tears threaten to appear. He didn't understand why he was so emotional—Percy knew he couldn't avoid the son of Hypnos forever, but he hadn't expected to see him so soon, let alone in a suit, with his hair neatly combed and a genuine smile on his face.

He hated Silena, Percy decided then; he hated her for being older, for being a girl, for giving Micah such a beautiful smile when he couldn't. "Oh," he said miserably. The music kept playing; the laughter continued around him, but Percy felt like he was drowning in his own jealousy and insecurity.

"What's wrong?" The son of Hypnos asked then, taking a sip of his drink.

Percy shook his head, unable to find the words to express himself. Alexithymia, the son of Hypnos had once called it the inability to verbalize his emotions. He knew what he felt, but speaking about it would be like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. It was pointless, knowing that at the end of the day, no matter what he said, Micah would go back to Silena instead.

Micah's shoulder bumped against his.

"I won't force you," Micah said timidly. "But I—have missed you, Percy. I notice your absence more than you think. I know I am not the best at expressing my feelings, but I hope you know that I care about you. You're my friend. So if I did something... to push you away, then I'm sorry."

Percy stared at the ground.
If he had no reason to cry earlier, then he did now. He couldn't bear to break Micah's heart by admitting that his absence was a choice, not a mistake. That he had avoided him because jealousy drove him insane. That Percy didn't want to be his friend—he had never just wanted to be friends with Micah. He wanted more, and it was not fair to Micah, who only ever wanted someone to care for him platonically. He had only wanted a friend, and Percy had known that, and he still chose to distance himself out of selfishness, knowing it would hurt him because Percy just couldn't handle the thought of him being happy with someone else.

Percy stared at the ground. If he had no reason to cry earlier, then he certainly did now. He couldn't bear to break Micah's heart by admitting that his absence was a choice, not a mistake—that it was a deliberate choice fueled by jealousy and selfish longing. Admitting it would mean confessing that he wanted more than just friendship with Micah. Percy wanted more, and it was not fair to Micah, who only ever wanted someone to be there for him as a friend. How could Percy be just his friend when the mere thought of Micah finding happiness elsewhere caused him so much pain? Weighted with guilt and want, Percy finally lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Micah. "I missed you too," he whispered, unable to say more.

"Then be around more often," Micah said. "Ethan is always asking about you."

"I'm sorry," Percy wiped at his eye, hoping the son of Hypnos wouldn't notice, but Micah sighed heavily, and he turned to face him. "I can't keep guessing how you feel or what you want from me. If you need space, just tell me. I know I can be off-putting and overbearing at times, but I care about you, Percy. So, tell me to go away if that is what you want. You'll never see me again—"

"No!" Percy blurted out, grabbing Micah's hand. "I don't want you to go away! I just... I was just upset that you didn't tell me about your new girlfriend. I thought we were close, and I felt left out, and— loyalty is a big thing to me, so..."

Micah gazed at him, his head tilted back slightly.

"Percy," he said slowly, meeting his eyes, "I don't have a girlfriend."

A balloon popped somewhere in the gymnasium.

Percy remained frozen, feeling like a little kid as his voice came out petulant. "But what about Silena?" he asked.

"She is dating Charles Beckendorf," Micah told him. His eyes never left Percy's face, as if he was trying to read his thoughts. "I was helping her out with some personal issues. Why would you assume we were together?"

Percy's face flushed with embarrassment. He felt lightheaded, a bit like an idiot, by far the most embarrassing moment of his life. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking down at his shoes. "I just...assumed."

Another balloon burst, and amidst the laughter that filled the air, a tiny scream was drowned out. Micah nodded, appearing somewhat awkward as he continued, "Percy, I'm not..."

Percy's cheeks burned hotter. "I know." He wished he could disappear into thin air, the humiliation was unbearable. "I know you're not."

"Not that, Percy," Micah paused, choosing his words carefully. "You're too—young. I don't want to ruin that for you. There's better people out there."

Frustration gritted his teeth together. Percy didn't even want to start thinking about the other two things Micah could be referring to. "So I'm old enough to go out on quests and fight monsters, but not old enough for you?" Percy's voice cracked with bitterness.

The son of Hypnos sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not about age, Percy. You deserve someone who can give you their all, without holding back."

Percy clenched his fists. "I don't want that—I want you."

"You can't have me," Micah told him, the angriest he had ever sounded, and it only irritated Percy even more; he didn't want to hear that. He didn't want to hear that he was too young to be thinking about dating, or that someone else was better suited for him when he had found his soulmate. Percy wanted Micah. "I'll prove to you that I'm right for you," Percy declared, determination the only thing keeping him from crying.

Micah shook his head. "You can't force someone to love you, Percy. It doesn't work like that."

"I'm not going to force you," Percy swore. "I'm going to remind you."

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Micah was agitated.

The Fates were screaming in his head; Hades' orders felt like they were carved into his bones, marrow putrefying from within, and Percy Jackson still, somehow, remained the biggest annoyance in his life. The son of Poseidon kept staring at him as if awaiting the perfect moment to strike, his sea-green eyes burning with a fierce intensity that Micah found infuriating, borderline sacrilegious.

This, he thought, was the result of his kindness. A misguided child with attachment issues claiming he loved Micah—insinuating that he knew Micah enough to deem him worthy of it. Micah didn't know himself. He didn't know his real name, or his age, or a single memory before waking up in that godforsaken river bed. Percy could only be mocking him, daring Micah to reveal his vulnerability and expose himself to further manipulation. But Micah refused to give in. Do not repay evil with evil, he reminded himself, or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessings, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.

He only wanted to be good—to feel cleansed of the darkness that haunted him, and find solace in friendship, and cast aside the burdens of legacy and expectation, if only for a fleeting year or two.

Why did Percy have to ruin him like this?

Why did he have to lose his first friend in this life?

Seated beside him, the little boy timidly fidgeted with his cards, stealing shy glances at Micah, his messy hair falling in front of his eyes. "You look like this one," Nico di Angelo told him.

He held out a singular card; A delicate frame of blood-red poppies enveloped the edges, and at its center rested a figure, ethereal and serene—a pale-skinned man whose countenance exuded tranquility, his expression cut to be as gentle as a whisper. Cascading white curls framed his visage, parted gently to reveal the twin pair of wings unfurling from his brow.

Hypnos, it said. God of Sleep.

Micah gazed vacantly at the depiction of his father.

"His stats aren't great," Nico mentioned, stuttering lightly as if he half-expected Micah to snap at him and tell him to stop talking. "But his abilities are pretty powerful if you know how to use them strategically," he added quickly, hoping to salvage the moment. And Lord, Micah thought—Why was he born with such a heart when he is supposed to be almost immortal? Why did he have to feel so deeply, to care so much, when it only seemed to bring him pain?

"That's a good point of view," he replied, though he strained to keep the tremor from his voice. He knew his expression must've been that of a human, so he placed a hand on the back of Nico's head, ruffling his hair gently as a guise to hide the tears that threatened to outstrip his disguise.

The son of Hades smiled warmly at his cards, their edges worn and faded from years of use, yet cherished all the same. "I always keep him near Thanatos," Nico confided, retrieving the card from the deck and displaying it to Micah with a wide grin. "They are twins, did you know? The very first pair ever born, even if people say Castor and Pollux were the first. But Thanatos and Hypnos came before them, born from Nyx herself! They're super old, too, like older than Zeus and Hera combined. It's pretty cool, right?"

His throat had grown too tight. Micah wanted to reply—to ask Nico a thousand questions before lineage claimed him, too, stripping him of his excitement and happiness, and joy—but he just couldn't speak. He thought of Ethan, who should've been as cheerful as the boy next to him. He thought of himself, too.

It was too much.

That's when Percy came forward, crouching in front of Nico. "You know a lot about Greek mythology, huh?" He said it with a smile. "Micah loves it, too, but he's a bit bad at remembering all the details. He doesn't admit it, though."

"Oh," Nico said, casting a glance towards Micah. "It's okay not to know everything. Don't worry, I won't judge you for it." His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he leaned forward. "I know a lot, though, so I can help you out if you want! Is there any myth you're curious about?"

Micah's gaze bore into Percy's. He felt split in half, torn between impiety and what could be.

Achilles and Patroclus, he wanted to ask. Orpheus and Eurydice, the enduring love of Odysseus and Penelope, the everlasting romance of Psyche and Eros, golden in his mind, eternal in their devotion. He knew these stories intimately, but it could never be, he recognized. So he swallowed hard and simply said, "Zagreus. Tell me about Zagreus."

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A child is born, and with a name, comes a sudden awareness of self and place in the world.

For many, this revelation, akin to the shock of birth itself, is a harrowing experience. In the world he was born into, names held great power. He could not afford to be like Persues, a hero named after a hero. Micah, aware that the identity he wore was not the one he was meant to carry but rather a meticulously crafted façade orchestrated by Nyx, understood this truth deeply. He wasn't merely a person; he was a name, a declaration, an extension of his grandmother's will—a bold defiance against the Fates and Olympus. He is a wager, the last stand against destiny, a testament to the strength of his lineage. He could not be the avenger Perseus was destined to be; there was no avenging to be done. His name, that of a prophet, foretells a new path—a divergence from the fate that had failed him and all who came before.

He will become God, regardless of his weakness; he will bring salvation to those who believe, and damn those who do not. He will carry the weight of his name like the Carpenter's son carried cedar and cypress, with love and sacrifice, and tears of blood.

Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
If he cannot reach Heaven, he will rise Hell.

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But Percy kept smiling at him.

Even amid Micah's deliberate cruelty—even when promises were shattered, lies echoed, even when neglect hung heavy—Percy continued to smile at him. He smiled just as often as he cried; the admission of his feelings brought with it the realization of how to break a person. Micah understood which words would cut Percy the deepest, which glance would leave him reeling with shame. He weaponized his absence, knowing it would leave Percy feeling empty and lost. They both recognized the calculated intent behind his actions, and still, he continued to smile at Micah.

His love would not save Micah.

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He had visions of Hiroki, a boy born a saint, someone who cried at the sight of crushed bugs and laughed with pure joy at the sound of rain. Micah wanted to be good, too.

Ethan and Nico huddled close as they played cards together, both dark-haired and dark-eyed and just as saintly as Hiroki. "When Percy is back," Ethan said quietly, failing at a whisper as he glanced over at Micah, his fingers awkwardly shuffling the deck of cards, "the four of us can play together. It'll be even that way."

It snowed outside, much like it did in that winter of 1996 when he was still pure and unafraid of the world around him. His mind wandered to Lady Aceso, recalling the gentle touch of her hands as she healed him. Wounds do not heal in a day, she told him, but Micah hasn't stopped aching in so long. Healing seemed impossible.

"Here, let me help you," Nico offered to Ethan, taking the cards from his inexperienced hands. He guided Ethan through the motions of shuffling and dealing, demonstrating each step patiently. Ethan's smile brightened, but Micah's gaze drifted to his own hands, unable to shake the feeling of hopelessness that had settled within him.

What a cruel thing it is to be born half-mortal, he thought, burdened with a heart that refuses to cease its beating.

There were no bandaids on his fingers. No visible scars or broken bones to outwardly display the pain he had endured repeatedly. No amount of healing could ever ease the lingering aches deep within him. Yet, Jesus had hung for six hours from his palm, bleeding and torn apart, bearing the ultimate pain, and he was still reborn in glory. He had suffered and died, and he loved just as he did in life. Micah didn't dare draw a comparison between his own pain and that of Jesus, but as he stared at his hands, he wondered, why not?

Why couldn't he be the same?

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1 Corinthians 16:14
Let all that you do be done in love.

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Percy Jackson is fourteen years old, and he loved Micah so much that it was making him sick.

They argued. Micah chose Nico instead of him, staying behind to care for the boy instead of upholding his promise to Percy. The son of Poseidon struggled not to lay blame on Micah, but everything in his life was making him feel like he was drowning. He wanted to be someone's priority, he knew shamefully; to be chosen above all else. He wanted someone who would cast aside the entire world the same way Percy would for them.

He didn't know why he wasn't enough for Micah.

He knew love wasn't enough, but he wanted to believe in Disney and all those fairy tales where love conquers all. Everyone wanted the same, he thought—it should've been easier than this, but in front of him, for a terrible moment, Thalia hesitated. She gazed at Luke, her eyes full of pain, as if the only thing she wanted in the world was to believe him.

But the daughter of Zeus leveled her spear. On the ground, Annabeth hid her face, unable to bear witness to the tragedy unfolding before her, as Thalia declared, "You aren't Luke. I don't know you anymore."

Percy didn't know why love couldn't be enough.

It must've been that grief—the crushing realization that love meant nothing at all—that led him to attack Atlas.

"Fool!" The Titan bellowed arrogantly, effortlessly deflecting one of Zoë's arrows with a casual swat. "Did you honestly believe that just because you could challenge that petty war god, you could stand up to me?"

Artemis, still straining under the weight of the sky, spoke urgently. "Run, boy," she implored. "You must run!"

The javelin's point slashed toward him like a scythe.

But it never reached him.

The Titan's arm slackened as gold-colored butterflies swarmed around him, their shimmering light casting a blinding veil over his vision.

"What?" Atlas roared in confusion, stumbling back as the butterflies enveloped him. "Hypnos? What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded, his voice laced with trepidation as he dropped to his knees, unable to resist the overwhelming power of the butterflies.

Gradually, the Titan's eyelids grew heavy, his grip on his weapon weakening until it slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

It was not the god of sleep who ascended the summit towards them.

From the shadows emerged two figures, their features concealed by the dazzling light of butterflies. One of them spoke with a voice resonating with unearthly authority, sending shivers down Percy's spine. It mocked, "You, Atlas, imprisoned by your own stupidity. You are unworthy of our Father's attention."

Atlas, now trembling with a mix of fear and fury, let out a deafening roar as he struggled to break free from their enchantment, his muscles straining against the invisible shackles binding him in place. But he rose ever so slowly, and Percy knew it was just a matter of time before the Titan would be free once more.

In that moment, Percy caught sight of him through the ethereal wings of the butterflies, amidst the shattered columns and blocks of black granite and marble. Micah advanced toward Artemis, his black wings blending seamlessly with the shadows, a resolute expression etched upon his features. Upon reaching her, he implored, "Lady Artemis, the sky! Give it to me."

"No, boy," Artemis responded, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. "You don't know what you're asking. It will crush you!"

"I will die regardless," Micah told her, his voice steady and resolute. "But if sacrificing myself can save them, it's worth it."

The goddess shook her head. "When will you learn, you foolish boy!" She shouted at him, but the son of Hypnos smiled as he swiftly cut through her chains, setting her free from the binds.

As Micah braced himself on one knee, Percy ran with all his might.

Artemis slipped out from under the burden. His fingertips grazed the cold, dense clouds—and there he stood, locking eyes with Micah. Together, they bore the weight as one.

Silence engulfed them, the world fading away, yet Micah's widening eyes spoke volumes, revealing the creeping horror of his understanding—he wasn't alone.

Percy stood defiant, his jaw clenched tight, bearing the strain of the oppressive sky. He will not falter, no matter the pain; he will not lose his grip, or allow the burden to crush them both. He will hold it all—the sky, the gods, the fates, all of the stars combined—if it meant Micah will continue to look at him with that same fragile blossom of hope, aware that he is not alone anymore.

Micah will never be alone again.

Percy swore it.

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I want my body to be his body, and inside his body, and for my skin to be his skin, and for me to be trapped under it, and slowly dissolving into him, and pulsating along with the beat of his heart. I want him to grab me and shake me, and say, You're mine. You're my own; we are one in the same. Come move into my chest; come rearrange what's left inside of me. I breathe for you, so let me do it on your terms.

Take my heart, take it—I'm afraid of it.
Replace it with something easier to understand.

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Artemis grabbed a hold of Atlas with the righteousness of a warrior, her grip unyielding as she hurled him to the place where he was cursed. Micah lunched forward, wrapping his arms around him, propped forward by his wings; Percy let go, and the weight of the sky dropped onto Atlas's back.

The Titan's bellow reverberated, shaking the very foundations of mountains.

It didn't matter much.

The son of Poseidon collapsed to the ground, dazed from pain, his heart pounding in his chest. But he did not let go of the arm around his stomach, holding it tight as he struggled to catch his breath.

"You're here," Percy whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

Micah laughed tiredly. "You're here," he answered.

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Percy's hair was streaked with white, clinging to the sweat and dust that covered his face. His laugh rang out like salvation, still, echoing through the desolate world like the first light of dawn after an eternal night.

He could be his God, Micah thought; his faith and his first reason to worship.

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4. Commitment; Crown of Thorns

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Roman soldiers, in an act of mockery, placed a woven crown of thorns upon Jesus' head before his crucifixion, deriding his assertion of being the King of the Jews. Yet, the mighty hands of God transformed this symbol of ridicule into a crown of glory; in those same hands, refuge and safety can be found for all who seek it.

Micah stayed in New York for the remainder of the winter.

In the overworld, Sally Jackson smiled at him with the affection Nyx is incapable of feeling.

"Leave the door open, sweetie," she told him each time he came over, winking at her son as she welcomed him into her home. It made Percy blush a bright red, like a rose in full bloom under the summer sun, and Micah couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he became so enamored with life itself—when the bleak world around him transformed into one filled with warmth and vibrancy—but he knew it started with sea green eyes and band-aids of soft yellows and pinks.

Micah is sixteen, a truth revealed to him by adoring brothers who are leading him to slaughter. He thinks the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be summarized in a singular name. It can be sum up in seven consonants and four vowels, a silent prayer for which no words exist.

His love would not save Micah, but it could resurrect him.

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Percy held his hand when they walked in the streets of Manhattan, fingers intertwined tightly, like they could never separate. He reassured him that his hair looked good even on the days that Micah felt like a hideous beast in a cage of flesh. He gifted him bouquets of flowers made of 3-hole punched paper, and he began carrying bars of chocolate and Hershey's Kisses for whenever his sweet cravings struck.

Micah has always known that beneath his lies of virtue, he is a demanding creature—selfish, cruel, extremely unreasonable. But Percy saw his repulsiveness, and still pressed kisses to the hollow of his cheek. He still wrapped his arms around Micah. He still laughed at his absurdities and listened to all of his outbursts, and he still whispered I love you into the collar of his shirt when he thought Micah wasn't paying attention.
But how couldn't he? How couldn't he pay attention to every breath Percy took, every word he spoke? How could he not notice every point of contact when each touch felt like mending?

Micah is a demanding creature, but for Percy, he will become a servant.

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When you starve, I will feed you; when you are sick, I will tend you.

I crawl at your feet; for before your love, your kisses, I am debased.

For you alone, I will be weak.

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The son of Hypnos is a servant—he is a servant to Zeus and Hera, Nyx, and the House of Midnight.

He is a servant to Nico and Ethan, too, just as he is to Percy.

June arrived scorching, bringing with it a heat that seemed to seep into every pore of Micah's body, but it was July that proved to be his undoing. That was the weakness of love his grandmother had warned him about: the way it consumed until there was nothing left but ashes.

For an entire week, Ethan's tears flowed ceaselessly, mingling with the crimson hue of his blood where his eye had once been. "I just wanted to help Itoko," his cousin wailed, consumed by fever and delirium, the agony twisting his words into a desperate plea. He is too young.

Micah could do nothing but hold him tighter, cradling him in his arms until sleep quieted his cries.

It is grief. It is resentment, pain, and sorrow.
It is love, too, but in a war, it makes no difference.

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Hikori had envisioned a world with no violence.

He had longed for a world where demigods are happy and safe with their parents—nurtured, protected from evil and cherished forever, as his parents loved him and his brother.

But Hikori had been born a saint, goodness flowing through his veins, the embodiment of his father's love.

Micah is dirty. Infinitely dirty, filth coating his skin, his soul tainted by the atrocities he had committed. He could never wash away the stains of his failure, no matter how hard he tried.

Deep within his soul, buried beneath shame and false hope, he harbored a silent admission: he would die if meant being able to reclaim the goodness he had lost. Micah—Hiroki—would die to deserve Ethan's loyalty—Nico's forgiveness—Percy's devotion. He would die to escape his grandmother, and to please her, too.

Chains tug at his neck in all directions; the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't. Guilt will not purify him. Past sainthood will not absolve him.

For a mutt like him, there was no escape.

Eleos faded long ago.
Euthanasia was the only mercy left for him.

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Luke Castellan's grin widened, tugging at the scar etched across his cheek, his eyes gleaming with repulsive delight. "Took you long enough to wake up, angel boy," he taunted, his voice oozing with arrogance, each word a venomous thorn. He would be the first one to be struck down, Micah swore to himself, trampled like a worthless insect under his foot for all he had done to Silena.

Still, when the son of Hermes extended his hand, Micah accepted it.

Cold metal pressed against his palm; It was a gold pocket watch, its surface adorned with the intricate engraving of a scythe. Luke waved back lazily as he walked away. "We'll be in contact," he said, smirk never faltering.

Micah allowed him to feel superior; and for a moment, he feared no amount of blood would ever fulfill his vision of revenge. He closed his fingers around the pocket watch.

There's no corpses to bury yet.

Still, he prepares.

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Percy unwrapped the foil from the chocolate pieces with trembling fingers; Micah watched him in silence, offering him the time to gather his words and anxieties. "I don't know," Percy finally admitted, his voice trailing off into a quiet murmur. "Annabeth is leading the quest to find Daedalus, but I'm still scared, I guess. The labyrinth sounds terrifying,"

"It is," Micah told him, accepting the chocolate Percy handed him—he reached further, too, intertwening their fingers, quelling the tremors that had gripped him. "Time moves differently in the labyrinth. Things that shouldn't happen can happen there. Just remember, you're not alone. Call for me if you get scared."

Percy smiled at him, as though he could do no wrong. "Will you go in to find me?" He said it jokingly, blind to the fact that the Fates will tremble at the depths of Micah's devotion to him. Even if he couldn't acknowledge it openly now, even if he had to bear the burden of his unwavering loyalty hidden within his heart like a clandestine truth, it was there; it will remain there, no matter what.

"If you call my name," Micah answered sincerely. "I'll follow you anywhere."

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His grandmother ran her hands through his hair.

Aphrodite's blessing withered beneath her touch, the bleached strands giving way to ink-black, enveloping his face like a shroud of shadows. Nyx smiled gently. "You resemble your mother," she said, a hint of bittersweet fondness coloring her voice.

Micah clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to ask about the mother he had never known.

He breathed in calmly.

"I have your eyes, though," he said softly, the words barely a whisper.

Nyx's smile widened, pleased, her fingers trailing down his cheek. "You do," she replied. "Oh, my blessing. My dear prince, my precious treasure."

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Phantasos did not dare to meet his gaze.
Instead, he plucks at the petals of the flowers in his hands. "You must be careful, brother," he cautions, and at their feet, the petals continue to fall, one by one. When he is done, he extends his hand out.

Micah accepts the poppy seeds, clutching them tightly. Phobetor stares, but he says nothing. He doesn't need to.

Their family will thrive like skeletal flowers, nourished by blood-soaked earth.

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Percy's fifteenth birthday passed quietly.

He smiled in front of Sally and Paul. He grinned as they sang to him with the lights on, and when they asked him if he was happy, he nodded and said yes. But when the party was over, and he closed his bedroom door, locking it behind him, knowing that when he turned around, he would finally see Micah laying on his bed, waiting for him to brush the icing out of his teeth and confetti from his hair and crawl into bed with him, something just—shattered.

It began as an ache in his chest, searing upward to his throat like a relentless blaze, tightening his chest with guilt and hopelessness until he felt choked, unable to breathe.

Micah took him into his arms, hiding his face in the refuge of his shoulder, and Percy cried as if the world had collapsed already, reduced to ashes, razed to the ground, and all blame lay entirely on his own shoulders.

"I don't want to be the chosen one," he confessed, terrified of disappointing those who loved him most, frightened that he wouldn't live up to the expectations placed upon him. He did not want to save the world; he wanted his life to be this—this, a quiet bedroom where Micah waited for him. A place where he did not need to be the son of Poseidon, or the hero of the prophecy, or the savior of humanity.

All he wanted was to be with Micah.

Fingers dug into his back, pulling him closer.

"I'm sorry, Percy," Micah whispered to him. "I'm so sorry, pretty. I'm sorry."

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Micah would have liked to be good, but sometimes, one must play the game to survive in this world. Some people are born strong enough to create a new game altogether—people like Percy and Jason, born of noble blood and destined for greatness.

Micah is not one of them.
So, he plays.

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Percy's first kiss happened hidden beneath blankets, their breath mingling in the darkness; Micah's hand rested on the conjunction of his hip, pressing him onto the mattress. He had never kissed anyone before—he touched blindly, trailing over skin, ribs, feathered wings, tugging on white hair until a breath escaped him and stars burst behind his closed eyelids.

"Pretty," Micah mumbled against his mouth, bitten lips parting, trailing a path of fire down Percy's neck. "Pretty," he whispered, kissing his temple, thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. "Pretty," he exhaled, and Percy felt it in his voice even though he didn't say the words—they enveloped him, spreading warmth from within, gradually, bit by bit. Micah kissed him with a tenderness that Percy had never experienced before, as if he were something fragile and precious.

He kissed him like he loved him.

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Percy slept beside him peacefully, oblivious; he did not dream of anything.

Micah remained awake the entire night, scratching at his skin until blood trickled down his arm, unable to shake the feeling of death that lingered in the air. It smelled like poppy flowers, like the moss that grew between the rocks of the Lesmosyne, like the open sea and Tartarus.

The Fates screamed at him.
They would not be silenced.

The blame, they said, was entirely his own.

Rotten children don't deserve Heaven, they told him.
There is no god who could give him back his purity.

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"Oh," Percy said, drawing back, his pupils dilated, lips swollen from kisses. He brought a hand to his lip, fingers tracing the tender skin; droplets of blood stained his fingertip. Micah hadn't intended to bite him—but time was slipping away. Lord, he had no time, yet there was so much he craved to do—to kiss, to touch, to worship, to remember.

Percy observed him for a moment, threading his fingers through Micah's hair, tidying it from where it had fallen across his face. "

It's okay," he reassured him, tucking strands behind his ear. Despite his efforts, the hair persisted in falling back into place, obscuring his eyes, and Percy continued to gently brush it away, time and again. "It's okay," he said again.

Micah rested his head against Percy's shoulder, hiding. He did not cry; still, arms tightened around him, holding him together. His lips against his collarbone, mouthing the words he wished he could say out loud.

Percy stilled, just for a moment.
Then, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of Micah's head.
"I know," he answered. "I can wait—we have time."

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He loved so little.

He had been quiet, polite.

He did all that was asked of him.

He had done everything right.

Why could he not be forgiven?

Why couldn't he have Percy?

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He is the oldest demigod born to the House of Midnight; he is the only Ambassador of Olympus.

He is the only hope of his family; he is the destruction of Olympus.

His name is Micah—He is Hiroki—He is nameless.

The Fates scream in his ears like a chorus of banshees, their prophecies futilely attempting to grasp his destiny. He felt split in half, torn between the will of God and Percy's hand in his. He did not know how to be—how he was reduced from a human, a saint, a sinner, to an arrangement of masks, each one hiding a different truth, each one revealing a different lie. He wanted to be good—he only ever wanted to be good, yet found himself walking on a single-plank bridge, crossing between duty and destiny, between loyalty and betrayal, where every step threatened to tip the scales.

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Between your name and a prayer, is there a difference?

Does it matter?

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5. Love; Scourging

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His devotion to his people is unwavering, but it is forbidden.

The Roman governor of Judea ordered Jesus to be scourged before his crucifixion.

The Carpenter's Son is stripped of his garments and forced to kneel, his back laid bare to the vicious lashes of the whip. There is no mercy—only the cruel crack of leather against flesh, the agony seeping through his body with every blow. The crowd remains silent; no one intervenes; no one calls for it to cease. Not his brothers, nor those who profess to follow him. And yet, through it all, Jesus remains unchanging in his love for humanity, enduring the pain and humiliation with grace and forgiveness in his heart.

Each lash served as a reminder of the sacrifices he endured, the pain he bore for their liberation.

His back, raw and bloodied, bears witness to the love he held for his people.

When it finally ends, Nyx cradles her hands around his wounded face, murmuring words of solace and reassurance as tears of obsidian cascade down her cheeks. "You understand why I have to do this, my little prince?" His grandmother tenderly brushes away his tears, and the world blazes—it hurts—and he cries like a little boy, unable to stand, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but pray to God that he won't suffocate on the vomit rising in his throat.

I forgive you; He wanted to tell her.

Please do not cry, grandmother—it is my fault.

It is my fault, It is my fault.

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On the day of Micah's death, Percy consumed all the poppy seeds like a faithful believer.

The memory remained vivid in his mind.
Percy's face lit up with a grin as he reached for his hand—it was love in his eyes, trusting and pure. They shared a meal prepared by Sally, and they lingered by the lake until the sky above had grown irritated with stars, talking about everything and nothing at all.

Micah crushed the seeds between his teeth, concealing their bitterness beneath his tongue.

It was the one and only time he kissed Percy first.

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He had looked confused.

He hadn't thought anything was wrong, even when Micah's hands wrapped around his throat. But underwater, Percy's eyes had grown red with irritation. His hair floated around him like a halo as he struggled against Micah's grip, bubbles escaping from his mouth—never before had he been desperate for air like this. He thrashed against Micah's hold, his movements becoming weaker and more frantic as his lungs burned for oxygen. Thoughts of Jesus, asphyxiated on the cross, consumed Micah's mind, leaving him certain that no forgiveness awaited him in the afterlife for what he was about to do.

When he had taken his hands off Percy's neck, bruises in the shape of his fingers were already forming.

He did not move; he did not breath. He did not open his eyes.

Micah stood alone under the endless darkness of the sky, wading in waist-high water.

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At a young age, his grandmother picked him from blood-melted snow and cradled him home.

She clothed him in garments of delicate silk and turned him—weak, filthy and mortal—into a prince; she spoke of God and gods and divine fathers until they melded into a singular fear in his throat, decaying in his mouth should he dare utter them aloud. He had no need for a God when she lived; he had no need for Hypnos when he had her. Micah's grandmother stood as his shield, his compass, his deliverance in a world that sought to devour him whole. She is his life; her will his own. Her love hurt—it destroyed him—it left him mutilated and disfigured, half-massacred, but it was the only thing that kept him alive.

He would forgive her, again and again, for the pain she causes him, for the scars she leaves behind, because Nyx is his salvation in a world that offered none—but she doesn't love him. What his grandmother offered could not be love, not when he has seen it in Percy's eyes and felt it in Ethan's grip on his shirt when they walked through crowded sidewalks.

Nyx is duty, and family and his eternal cross to carry alone, because, after all, what is lineage, if not a gold threat of pride and guilt?

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But the God she taught to him to fear bore him hungry.

Micah has always known that beneath his lies of virtue, he is a demanding creature—selfish and cruel, and extremely unreasonable. He wants Olympus; he wants the House of Midnight. He wants thrones and crowns, and the heads of all those who wore them. Most of all, he wants Percy.

Why couldn't he have it all?

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Corruption begins with the mouth—the tongue, the want.

Percy has claimed all of them. The rest of Micah, too.

And in the end, what did Nyx teach him to be, if not a servant?

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+1 — Resurrection

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August arrived with the pretense of war.

Micah greeted it with the warmth of divine acceptance, with the same smile God wears when He welcomes disbelievers into His embrace. Above, the false brilliance of the sun blazed, obliterating any remnants of darkness where the son of Hypnos might have once found solace before. He knows the path to redemption is a single-plank bridge stained with blood and ichor. He knows that the only way to cross it is to be reborn—to be resurrected.

He isn't afraid. He wants it all.

Next to him, laying on the sand, Percy exhaled softly, eyes fluttering behind closed lids as he lay still, his lips slightly parted.

Micah smiled at the sky above. He spoke:
"Why hope was inside Pandora's Jar?"

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1 Corinthians 16:14
Let all that you do be done in love.

Micah obeys.

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Continued in chapter one, Ptolemaea.

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

My stomach hurt but I think that covers the entire first series and I can move on it with peace of mind <3 I'm never writing another plot heavy one-shot, don't ask me, I will send a sniper to your house! next one shot is them just making out LOL

Thank you to @archiveofink for all the gorgeous visuals! If you liked this story, thank her because I was going to give up writing it until she created everything

i'm tired thank you for reading love y'all peace on earth

OH ALSO NEW NICO DI ANGELO STORY COMING IN THE SUMMER check it out if you like existential angst and dread and robots <3

Alright, until then, bye-bye!