Chapter Text
Their eyes meet in that one long moment. Time drags, dilates as the dagger in Luke's hand comes down.
Percy stares, eyes wide with horror and grim determination. With trust and respect that he knows he hasn't earned. He was prepared to look into sea green eyes, prepared to let their depths swallow him whole in his last moments.
But Kronos is a titan. Worse, he is the titan of time and Luke feels it. Feels when a choice is made, something pivotal and sharp and something inside him is torn open. The power, the allegiance they've gathered is ripped and fed into something greater, something older and existence unravells around them.
He sees Percy notice that something is wrong. Sees her see the world around them unwind, further and further back, dragging through every encounter they have had. Every time their swords have clashed. Every moment their eyes have met.
Kronos is using them as jumping points. He recognizes that much from his own gifts, jumping around as a son of Hermes.
Slowly the power wanes. There is only so much power a couple of demigods' worship could bring. The time lords's strength weakens and eventually, even his grasp on Luke is pulled loose.
For the first time in a long time, his mind is clear and what hate festered in his heart was his own.
He blinks and before him stood Percy, looking all of twelve years old, eyes wide and unbelieving.
"Luke... What..." They were clearly in the arena. He knows this scene. Has it etched into his mind. He's replayed it years and years later, remembering the giddy pride and wide eyed wonder directed at him during this moment by the child who would grow in strength and power and go against him every step of the way.
This time Percy looks panicked. She looks disbelieving, eyeing his features and then the camp around them.
"Is this... A trick of some kind?"
"I think... I felt him do something. Unravel things. It... He gutted his power doing it though... Burned through all the worship we fed him I guess to send us... Back?" Luke answered, honest and earnest this time. "I... The curse... Styx, do you feel it?"
"I... No... I'm not..." she twirled her sword, her Anaklusmos, movement smooth and practiced before gently running a finger over the tip of it.
Her blade came away red.
Luke kept amber eyes on ocean greens. His hand wrapped around his sword, telegraphing his movements slowly like he's facing a wounded animal. Or a cornered predator, as is more apt for the daughter of the sea before him. Then slowly did the same as her.
The pain was stark, not the worst he's had, a mere slice to the finger, but it definitely reinforced the here and now. Made it real.
As expected his fingers came away bleeding.
"We're in the past," Percy repeated. "This is... Before all of it started." Her eyes narrow towards him and it's like the full, crushing force of the ocean is pressing against Luke on all sides. He wondered if she knew just how much power she held.
He expects her to eviscerate him on the spot. He might be able to get away, there was no water nearby, but he has no qualms about his raw power and skill now, without a titan and and oath keeping him alive. She has grown in leaps and bounds, forged by battle and bloodshed until she has more than matched the swordsman he was. And what she lacked in cunning, the demigoddess more than made up for in sheer, raw power.
Poseidon's first daughter in centuries. His most powerful demigod sired to date, able to tap into all of his aspects, sea and tides, hurricanes and earthshaker. She is so attuned to Poseidon's domain, he will not be surprised if godhood awaited her.
"Swear," her words surprised him. She is clumsier with her sword, fingers young and unused the way her mind expects her to. It is still pointed at him, her eyes, her will unrelenting. "Swear on the Styx that you will no longer aid Kronos. Not in this lifetime. Swear and I'll keep it secret. All of it. I... You were going to make a choice. The right choice. So swear, Luke, please. Don't die for nothing again."
Her eyes soften, wider and teary eyed. Pained, obviously. Still such a bleeding heart. Personal loyalty, her fatal flaw. It is something he can exploit, he knows. He's done it before, could do it again but... He is tired as well. Tired of his anger, his rage, his resentment.
"I swear fealty to you, Persephone Jackson, Daughter of Poseidon. Your allies are my allies, your enemies are my enemies. I will stand by you till death claims me. Never harm you without consent till the very end. This I swear upon the river Styx." He swears and while part of him, the part sewn into his blood whispers where and how to wiggle out of this oath, points that if they can bend Percy, can twist her, then they are basically free of this oath, he thinks it is the other way around.
He has unfairly given the teen the burden of responsibility of being the moral compass for one Luke Castellan. He knows it's much the same for Annabeth, bright with her ideals and hubris. With her resentment of what happened to Taliyah. What happened to them.
Without Percy, she would have easily followed Luke with promises of rebuilding it all into something better. Percy is shining adamantium in their camp of rusting iron. And he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that she will never waver in her beliefs and never go back om defending what and who are hers.
She would make a great goddess, Luke knows. Would have been guaranteed that honor after the war, he wagers. He also knows she would never expect it. Never ask of it herself. Might even turn it down, to her father's eternal grief.
"What..." She looked gobsmacked and Luke sends her a grin, tired and worn but lighter than it has been in years.
"We're a corruptible kind, my brothers and I," Luke admitted instead. "If not our... Friend from below, there will be others. But this way..." His grin is more self loathing now, bitter.
Her gentle touch to his arm almost jostles him. He doesn't remember human contact being so soft and warm. Her grip tightens, firm but not hurting. Her gaze is sharp however, assessing, like he is being gutted. Like standing in the eye of the hurricane, every sin and mistake laid bare in its ever twisting winds.
Then Percy lets go and smiles. "We have to return the bolt."
"And the helm," he adds chimes in.
"We need to plan." She mused suddenly. "But for now... How about we go back to sparring."
The sword in his hand is not backbitter. It is celestial bronze and light. Warm and familiar, comforting without the sharp edge of malice he's learned to live with.
He missed this.
"You're on, princess." He taunts, good natured, smile easy and heart light. To be able to weild his sword without the blood of those he betrayed threatening to paint it red and gold.
"Bring it, trickster." Her laugh is light. Like he is a trusted friend instead of a sworn enemy. Like he deserves more than a blade to the back. Like hope. Like salvation.