Chapter Text
Perseus, Percy, Achilles Jackson-Wayne had not been called such for a long time. Even to most of his closest friends, his chosen family, he was only Perseus Achilles Jackson. The third Wayne had long since been forgotten. Only to be remembered by a grieving, drunken, failure of a father, and a brother too busy with work to even know his brother, his first, brilliant brother, was nothing more than a gravestone. Yes, Percy was sure that the world of mortals had forgotten him. He was fine with that. A hero, idolized by some in the world of myths and legends, and a ghost in the world of men.
He was fine with that. Back when family only meant more to mourn and it’d all be his fault. His fault because he wasn’t strong enough to kill the monsters before they killed his family. His fault because it was the monsters that smelled him, his demigod, child of the big three, scent. His fault. Just like Bianca and Beckendorf and Silena and-so many, so many, countless more. Because he was responsible for them-wasn’t he? He had the most experiences, quests, he was the child of the prophecy, he was a child of one of the big three. And he let those kids, his friends, his family , he let them down and he let them die .
He let the Wayne household believe that he died. He let his brother, who probably didn’t bother to show up to his funeral either, and his dad who probably wasn’t sober enough to even tell believe he died when a car swerved into a ditch and was struck by lightning and exploded. He was fine with that. They probably were too. But Alfred. Alfred didn’t deserve to believe he was dead. He wondered if he had a headstone. He hoped it would be next to Jason's.
Jason . The only reason he even bothered to return.
How would the mortal world react to him returning? How would his family? His family from before the mess of monsters and wars and Tarturas. How would they react to not a son returning, but a soldier forged in blood, and golden dust, and the ichor of immortals?
⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
Camp Half-Blood, NY
A Month and 4 Days After the End of the Second Giantomachy
7:45 AM
“Percy.”
“Perseus.”
“ Percy ”
“Oh my gods-Percy wake up.”
Percy groaned, blinking sleepily up at the figure above him. “Mmm…Hey wise girl,” his throat was dry and scratchy, his voice horrid, and his hair messy in the way that was his signature look.
She laughed, a beautiful sound, in Percy's humble, never biased opinion. “Hey seaweed brain, nice pillow you’ve got there.”
“Hmm?” He lifted himself up slightly to view the pillow, before flopping back down with a dramatic huff. “Shat up…” His voice muffled by the pillow.
She giggled this time, different from her loud and lively laugh but still just as beautiful. Golden hair pulled back into a swishing ponytail, “You still drool when you sleep,” she teased, voice full of mirth.
“...Evidently..” Percy muttered into his drool-covered pillow.
“C’mon fish prince, breakfast is ending soon.” Annabeth smirked as she left the cabin, the door swinging shut behind her back.
Percy hummed noncommittally as he stumbled through getting ready. It wasn't like he could stomach much anyways, ever since…
Ever since what? He couldn’t remember. That’s weird. He heard laughter from outside his cabin. New campers probably.
He opened his door, rubbing sleep from his eyes to see flames. Not the warm flames of the campfire, or the homely flames of Hestia's hearth, but dark and red and burning flames. The flames of the deepest pits of the underworld. The laughter turned to screams and the ground became a churning, suffocating dust. He tried to run, to help, but his feet were stuck in the earth, which had turned into a thick, gritty substance that pulled him down. It wasn't drowning, not in water. It was drowning in earth and ash and dust. Every breath he took felt like a mouthful of grit and the smell of sulfur and fire. He was back in the deepest pit. He was back where no humans are meant to tread and monsters thrive.
He fought to pull himself free, but the ground held him fast. He was helpless. The screams around him were no longer the happy shrieks of campers, but the agonized wails of lost souls and the guttural roars of monsters. He saw figures moving through the swirling red haze, faces he knew—Leo, Jason, his Jason—but their eyes were hollow, their skin like ash. They pointed at him, their silent accusations louder than any scream. He was responsible for them, wasn’t he? He let them down and he let them die. He failed.
And then he saw her. Her name was on the tip of his tongue, a desperate prayer. She was falling, a look of pure terror on her face as she reached for him, her eyes wide with fear as the dust and fire consumed her. He tried to call her name, but all that came out was a choking sob. He was losing her again. He couldn’t save her. He was sinking. He was useless.
“Percy,” A voice pleaded for him.
He gasped, shooting up in bed, a cold sweat drenching his clothes. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum (No it didn’t, war drums were accompanied by the ringing metal of swords meeting claws and-)
“Percy,” The voice was calm, reassuring, safe . It wasn’t real- it couldn’t be- Why would anything ever be safe? He didn’t deserve safety. Bianca did. Ethan did. Leo did. Not him because he failed them and they could’ve been safe and alive if only he’d-
The taste of dust still lingered on his tongue. He looked up, his eyes wide and panicked, to see a blurry figure standing over him. He reached for Riptide.
“Percy,” his name, repeated again. Calm and soft by the figure standing over him. The figure became clear, and the world snapped back into place. Oh gods. It wasn't the red light of the pit, but the soft golden light of his cabin. The screams had been in his head. And the person standing over him wasn’t a ghost. But they almost were. He almost lost someone again at his hands and it was all his fault-
The figure cupped his face, forcing his eyes to look at theirs. Annabeth’s face was etched with concern but didn’t have a trace of pity on it. Just understanding. Her eyes searched his face before meeting his.
Silvery-gray meeting blueish green oceans. One and the same. Two turbulent storms of different nature, yet so similar, meeting at the horizon. Stormy, intelligent, understanding clouds meeting the conflicted, scared, and scarred seas.
“It was just a dream, you’re okay. You’re at camp.”
Camp . It was home wasn’t it? The only stable thing in the sea of chaos known as his life. It was supposed to be safe. That didn’t stop Hera from taking him from his very own cabin. From taking nine months of his life.
He shook the thoughts away. At least he didn’t scream. That’d scare the other campers. The new campers. Who hadn’t suffered through two warsbecause of him.
At some point, he’d learned not to scream or thrash from his nightmares, his dreams of the future, of fate.
⊱✿⊰ Tim POV ⊱✿⊰
June, 2010
Wayne Manor, gotham
4 days Until Percy’s 5th death anniversary
It’s been four days since the planning for Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne’s fifth death anniversary began, and the Batcave has been a graveyard of unspoken grief. The air is thick with it, each brother a silent mourner. It's a silence Tim has learned to understand, a language of clenched fists and averted eyes. But now, with the anniversary of Percy’s supposed death just days away, it’s a language he can’t ignore. The whole family seems to be in a state of stasis. Dick has been spending more and more time at the manor, a silent anchor in their collective storm. He’s meticulously arranging blue chocolate-chip cookies on a plate, his hands moving with a practiced grace, a rhythm of ritual and memory. His smile is a fragile thing, a piece of glass that threatens to shatter at any moment. Tim knows he’s remembering a boy who loved blue food, a boy who never got to eat enough of it. Tim wants to tell him it’s okay to not be okay, but he knows Dick is trying to be strong for all of them. So he says nothing, just watches, a witness to a grief that runs deeper than any of them.
He finds Jason in the gym, a whirlwind of frustrated energy, punching a heavy bag with a force that’s more rage than practice. His face is a mask of strained muscle and raw emotion, and Tim knows the ghost of a boy so much like him in so many ways is haunting him. He knows Jason thinks he failed him. Tim wants to say something, but what do you say to a man who’s been dead and back and is still grieving for a loss so profound it feels like his own? He stays silent, a quiet presence in the corner, a brother in mourning.
He sees Damian in the library, hunched over a book, his posture as rigid as always, but his eyes are distant. He sees the anger in the tight line of his jaw. He knows Damian feels like he’s in the shadow of a ghost. Tim wants to tell him he isn’t, that they are all important, all loved, but he knows words aren’t enough for Damian. He has to prove it.
He sees Bruce in the study, a single glass of whiskey on his desk, untouched. He knows Bruce is remembering the laughter of a small boy dancing in the rain, the sound of a voice that filled the mansion with light. A light that the bruised and battered family of vigilantes couldn’t replicate. The light of an innocent. He knows Bruce blames himself, that he carries the weight of a failure he thinks he can never atone for. Tim wants to tell him he isn’t a failure, that he’s a hero, but he knows Bruce won’t believe him. Not yet.
He’s spent four days in the Batcave, reading and rereading the file, the articles, the forums. He’s found more pictures, more information, more questions. The puzzle pieces don’t fit, but he’s learned enough to know that something is wrong. The dates don’t line up, the stories are too fantastical, and the grief is too real. The ghost of Perseus Jackson-Wayne isn’t a ghost at all. He’s a living, breathing person who has been living a life so far removed from theirs that he’s become a myth. Tim’s theory, the only one that makes sense, is that Percy must have amnesia. It’s the only explanation for why he never came back to them. He is not dead. There was no body. He can’t be dead. He is a survivor. He survived Gabe, who’s file showed what a different person Jason used to be. He survived the streets before Red Hood was there to regulate. He survived Bruce when he (somehow) was more emotionally constipated then he is now.
Tim pulls up the file on the Batcomputer again. It’s no longer a cold case. It’s a mission. He’s going to find Percy. He’s going to find his brother. And when he does, he’s going to bring him home.
He doesn’t know what he’s walking into. He doesn't know about the demigods or the gods, the wars or the monsters. He only knows that a ghost has been haunting his family for years, and it's about time he became a brother again.
⊱✿⊰ Dick POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
Wayne Manor, Gotham
85 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death
10:34 AM
At some point, Dick had looked back and finally realized what an idiot he was.
At some point, Dick had memorized the memories. It wasn’t hard, there weren’t many after all. Not near enough as many as there should’ve been.
Now, he made an effort. To be a good brother. To be there.
(So he wouldn’t miss another brother's funeral)
He insisted on weekly dinners, family game nights, movie nights, therapy- oh god therapy.
Of course, insisting didn’t always work. He had to threaten Bruce with no food made by Alfred (So basically no food at all) before he would be honest, rather than his stoic “I am fine” and ‘overworking’ in stress. Jason was still a work in progress on the family dinners but he would come at least once a month- mostly due to Alfred but Dick claimed some credit.
At some point, Dick had started to talk to stones. No, not stones, a stone.
It became a ritual. To honor him. Make up for lost time.
(What he didn’t dare think was that it was a way of repenting. For not being there. Because if he was there then maybe Percy he wouldn’t have had a reason to run away and get kidnapped and die .)
He walked purposefully yet dragged his feet. Despite it being an almost weekly occurrence now, despite being trained to not show emotion, water always pricked his eyes.
He brought cookies this time. They were blue. Chocolate chip. He taught Dick how to make them. Memorizing the memory came with memorizing the recipe. It was his moms recipe, Dick remembered the little 9 year olds face as he told him that. Taught him how to create the perfect tint of blue. It was so innocent, bright, cheerful. It seemed to light up the empty mansion.
He sat down next to the insignificant seeming stone. The stone that only held eleven tiny, seemingly insignificant words and 8 digits that somehow only spanned 12 significant years.
Here lies Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne,
May he rest in peace,
1993-2005
He opened the plastic container. Actions, robotic movements, were much easier than thoughts, than emotions. His therapist said it wasn’t good for him. She also said crying was good. It was ok.
“Hey Perce…” He trailed off, unsure. He broke off part of a cookie, lying it on the ground beside him. On the ground in front of the stone and above an empty casket.
He cleared his throat, nibbling on the rest of the cookie in his hand. It tasted like memories tinted with nostalgia and joy. “I know I’ve said this a lot… But god you would’ve loved Damian. Somehow… You would’ve found a way to love that demon brat.”
“Tim…You know him, I’ve told you before if you don’t remember. He's older than you so Dami would’ve been your first real little brother, huh? You would've done so much better than me, I can see you being the best big brother in the world. You probably would’ve even acted like a big brother to Tim. You’d probably be up there with Alfred and be able to get that coffee addict to sleep.”
“Jason…he still refuses to even think about you… I think even after all these years he’s still trying to cope. We all are. Bruce…We got him therapy if you can believe it!” Dick let out a little chuckle. His voice was raw. Vulnerable. He leaned against the cold stone, letting it ground him, and hung his head to pretend the shaking of his shoulders was from the chuckle.
At some point it started raining.
At some point the cookie tasted like tears.
At some point he remembered why exactly his second brother was dead.
At some point he realized it had been over five years.
At some point he remembered that death was final.
⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
???, Gotham
September 5, 2010
85 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death
Death was final.
Jason wasn’t supposed to be alive.
Percy was.
Fate was a cruel thing was it not?
What was fate anyways? An accumulation of past lives karma? The designed plan of a greater being? Three beings as the ancients believed? A comedy of the world? Action and reaction? Cause and effect thousands of times over? Was it nature? Unpredictable and uncontrollable?
All Jason knew was that fate was a bitch.
In spite of being at the pinnacle of all olympian and camp gossip for the last five years, not much is known about Percy Jackson’s early life.The only reason his middle name was known at all was a moment of vulnerability on Percy’s part and later Annabeth yelling at him loud enough for the whole camp to hear.
Naturally, many of his quests were common knowledge. His favorite color, exploits of the mythological world, and his girlfriend were also common knowledge. Little is known about his life before camp though. He met Grover, now a Lord of the Wild and his best friend, at a boarding school in New York. From there he met Alecto, got in a fight, and was expelled. Apparently, Grover invited him to his ‘summer house’ that year. The two somehow were in a car that was eventually driven off road and exploded. The person driving inside died. The Minotaur died less than half an hour later.
Even much of that story was never confirmed though.
The rest of his life would fall under the category of ‘exploits of the mythological world’. Those exploits were the barest details- only what was shared by the questers was known.
These were things of ‘common knowledge’ to anyone involved in the Greek world.
Friends had more knowledge than what was common.
Closest friends knew a bit more. Anyone on the Argo learned of Sally Jackson and blue confections and blue, delicious, godly, food. They learned not to ask. They knew not everyone got to choose if they stayed year-round or not. They learned of amazing ways to get expelled. They learned that he was born in Manhattan but moved to Gotham.
They assumed Percy’s mom died in Gotham. They assumed a foster family or the government paid for his tuition to Yancy.
Comrades from the second Titanomachy knew of an older brother not of blood but of love. Of another brother, an absent one who embodied his name. They learned of two drunk unnamed fathers. They learned of a wonderful British grandfather as they fought a horrible Greek one. They never learned names.
Only five people knew of his legal last name.
Grover learned from a whispered, scared confession hiding from Harpies and nightmares and curfews in strawberry fields at thirteen.
Annabeth learned from a scarred boy staring at painful memories and panicking because Mr. D smelled of alcohol and a horrible home.
Rachel met the missing Wayne who paid for her silence with the truth and assurance that she wasn’t insane. That she wasn’t alone.
Clarisse confessed of feeling like she failed a father and got a confession of failing a family.
Nico lost his family of blood. He didn’t believe anybody would ever choose to love him. A guilty teen spoke of a family not bound by blood but love. The teen spoke of a family of kids who just wanted to survive.
⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
September 6, 2010
Camp Half-Blood, NY
September 6, 2010
A Month and 5 Days since the End of the Second Giantomachy
7:27 PM
Sometimes, life was easier as repeated actions.
Percy didn’t think as he let his sword lead him through the familiar actions. Actions never taught but still learned.
He counted his breaths. He tried not to think of a time when a sword melded to his hand with blood and golden dust.
The wooden sword broke. Percy stood there. The snap of wood against Cabin 9 celestial bronze training bots echoing in the ring.
In, out. He counted to ten breaths.
The ring stayed silent as Apollo ended his ride and Artemis began hers.
He wondered if a manor in Jersey still stayed this silent. Last he heard there were more kids. Those kids would start school soon.
Summer just ended. There were less kids at camp now. There had been less kids here since the war. When was he last a kid? He wasn’t a kid after 12. He wasn’t a kid since Jason talked about a biological mother and came back in a closed casket.
In, out, count to ten.
He stared at his hand. He had gripped the practice xiphos so hard that indents formed in his palm and cut the skin open.
He didn’t move.
His chest heaved as it tried to remember to breathe. The sword fell from a sweaty grip.
A single drop of red blood slid and hit the ground.
The Parthenon-
Blood of Olympus shall-
A demigod fell to his knees and hacked up crimson blood.
A demigod took assurance because his blood was red, red, red. And not gold in the slightest. Because he was still a demigod.
At some point another demigod ran in.
At some point Percy fell into Hypnos’s embrace.
⊱✿⊰ Damian POV ⊱✿⊰
September 6, 2010
Wayne Manor, Gotham
86 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death
11:57 PM
The adults were fools—weak, sentimental, grieving for a phantom.
This Perseus. This so-called brother.
Damian watched them from the shadows, a silent observer in a family he had only recently joined. His father—the great Batman, the most logical man Damian knew—became a fool whenever Perseus’s name was mentioned. Bruce’s shoulders would slump. His eyes would fill with a grief Damian could not understand.
He grieved for a civilian.
A boy who had done nothing. Who had not been a soldier, not a hero. He had simply been a boy.
Damian watched Grayson, the eldest among them, the one who was supposed to be their pillar of strength. Dick spoke to a rock: a meaningless slab of stone in a graveyard, bearing only a name and two dates that spanned a mere twelve years. He brought it baked goods Damian was forbidden from eating and whispered secrets into the wind. He cried over a name that should have held no weight.
This brother—this Perseus—was a ghost that had taken root in their hearts.
A ghost that overshadowed him.
Damian was Robin. He had fought beside his father. He had bled for this family. He had proven himself worthy. Yet, in their quiet moments and stolen glances, they thought of him.
The civilian.
The boy who had been nothing more than a car crash.
Damian did not understand. He was not a replacement. He was a Wayne. Batman’s son. He had earned his place in this household. But in their eyes, he saw comparison: the lingering shadow of a boy he had never met. A boy who was apparently better than Damian because he had possessed a connection to Bruce and Grayson—something Damian would never have with his own blood.
Why did he hold such a special place in their hearts?
He had not fought. He had not trained. He had been normal.
And yet his absence remained a gaping wound in the family, one they tended with tears and quiet sorrow. It was an inconvenience, a constant reminder of some failure Damian could not comprehend.
Damian was not a fool. He saw their pain.
But he saw their weakness, too.
He saw the way the memory of a civilian boy held them captive. Damian would not be a captive. He would prove himself worthy of his father’s love—not by grieving for a ghost, but by becoming a hero they could be proud of.
A hero worthy of the Wayne name.
Not a boy who had been nothing more than a victim.