Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Hold on to that.”

“What? The rock? Or the lesson?”

“Will you return to Olympus and forget the mortal deaths on your hands…or die a martyr savior? Like Jason?”

“No. No. I can't forget. There has to be another way. There’s always another way.”

“Is that the lesson you choose?”

“…They didn’t deserve what happened to them. They didn’t deserve me happening to them.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t, Phoebus Apollon.”

I had once asked Artemis, what it had felt like to hold the sky.

Now I know.

As always, my sister was right. It’s a sensation impossible to describe, to put into words as anything other than weight. Maybe given a good few decades with the Muses, I’d find a way to transcribe the experience into song—mostly with devout, varied ranges of screaming.

As the god—ex-god? Was I still a god? Was I a god again? —of poetry, weight and screaming were barely succinct enough. The weight of the sky is something impossible for mortals to hold, disqualifying ones close to ascending to godhood such as Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase.

The pressure feels like it’s tearing me apart, which is a sensation I’m used to. Honestly, measuring with the scale of the time I stabbed myself in the chest at five, got ghoul poisoned at seven, then rounding up at a solid ten was holding the sky.

And yet I found the strength to bear it.

If my sister could hold the sky, if demigods who never should’ve sacrificed such precious bits of their lifespan could hold the sky, I could too. Even if I had to distract myself with several haiku compositions that I could unload once it was all over.

…It would come to an end, right?

Or maybe not.

It’d be fitting, considering the careless oaths I had sworn on Styx’s waters. It’d be just like her, too, to decide that I would keep Atlas’ burden for some millennia, learning another lesson before I was allowed back to a world where—

Oh gods. Meg.

Will.

Kayla, Austin, Frank, Hazel, Leo, Piper—

What if they were gone?

“I have to admit, it’s surprising. The Olympians don’t normally care for their family.”

Fear runs up my spine—along with a splash of hatred.

I wouldn’t forget that voice.

Not after watching my sister cry for weeks, silently, in my arms as the new constellation of The Huntress blinked in the night sky.

“Atlas,” I snarl, clinging to that hate. I can’t let go, but I can’t move either—and I realize that when I try to shift my legs, the sky shifts on my shoulders, and I hear Celestial bronze clink.

The Titan comes into view, or at least as much as I can see of him. Just laced-up sandals, part of traditional Greek armour, mostly because I’m still staring at rocky ground even if it makes the neck crick way worse.

I gingerly raise my head, even as it makes the sky shift on my back. For Zoë, I tell myself, and I look Atlas in the eye.

He’s still his own brand of handsome, with oak skin and dark hair. His brutal features carry Ares’ own brand of ruthless-but-I-get-Aphrodite-unfortunately, even if Atlas isn’t to my personal taste. But what infuriates me is how much he looks like the Hunter he killed, complete with the expression of ‘I’m above you all’, which I can understand the urge of many mortals to try a punch at. Zoë had a face like that, it was why I’d once chased her out of humour to see her downturned nose.

…He shouldn’t be free.

I shouldn’t be chained, holding the sky. It’s a punishment I’d see my father enacting, if it wouldn’t be so ridiculously reckless and paranoia-triggering for him to release a Titan not even five years after the Second Titanomachy. The situation itself is too similar to that of one three and a half years ago, anyway, if I’m not misremembering and immortal memories are finally being properly crammed into this mortal skull.

Except I’m not mortal.

I don’t feel immortal either—just verging that bridge of goddy and not goddy. The gold in my vision is either actually light, forming cracks along my arms, or it’s spots because I’m evidently weaker than two of the most powerful demigods alive.

And I spot one of them.

Annabeth Chase looks more than worse for wear, grey peppering her hair I don’t remember existing even though she looks so young. Fourteen at most even though she was at least seventeen in Sally’s photo. At least she’s alive—and gods do I hate that being my standard now, especially considering I never used to mind the questers I sent to death being flambeed.

She’s out of sky danger, at least for now.

And she’s staring at me in horror.

“…Apollo?” She whispers, as if in shock. A horrible picture is forming of what’s going on—and that adds to it, since I’m the wrong demigod rescuer.

“I suppose like twin, one must save young maidens, even if it is to seduce them later.”

I gag, and the sky dips.

It’s both changing mortal perceptions altering age-appropriate relationship ideas and the fact that this is Annabeth Chase. I’d have to be, well, my old self, my distinctly goddy self, to even think of looking at her that way.

I don’t stop gagging.

The pressure feels heavier, or maybe that’s my lungs. Actually, it is. It feels like Tarquin is squeezing the life out of me again, once more dialled up to eleven. Still it amazes me, how much more there is to the range of pain that I’m capable of suffering.

My vision spots green and black. Nausea, vomit feels like it’s clawing up my diaphragm. I’m back in the Cave of Trophonius watching Meg hack out black flies except this time they’re coming from me.

With what vision I have left, I spit at the sandaled feet I can see.

“Priest’s son mends Fates’ strings,”
“Sun’s destruction he will bring.”
“Maze raises as camps wane,”
“Together, the earth and gods’ bane.”
“A single choice will change their fates,”
“Lessons remembered though unmade.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

So, I settled on both.

On one hand, I had taken Artemis’ place beneath the sky (don’t look up don’t look up don’t look at Ouranos’ face to judge godliness by seeing if you can see him or not) presumably during the quest to find her. I wasn’t much looking forward to the antics or subterfuge she’d attempt once she realized I had taken her place. Artemis could send discreet if not irritating help like Britomartis, yes, but at the same time if she sent all of her Hunters…the premature deaths possibly suffered against Atlas if—no, when she was forbidden to interfere…

On the other, my dearest sister wouldn’t have to hold our great-grandfather! The definite plus.

On the next hand, all of my progress against the Triumvirate and Python had been undone. Perhaps I could stop Python’s rise properly before it had a chance to truly take root, but that didn’t mean anything with the victory against the Triumvirate. Commodus, Nero, Caligula…they were all alive again, or rather had never died. They were still out there, funding the war.

Meg would be no more than nine now, wouldn’t she?

Hence the most important thing—what this was.

A chance to reverse every death, even if it meant risking victory—if I had my godly status back, then the need for demigods to run the errands was moot—I had my power. I could fight the threats and remove them. If I could take Nero with the power of the Triumvirate as a mortal shedding mortality, I could make sure they didn’t have to run into danger for me.

All of the suffering.

All of it didn’t have to happen.

All of it would never happen.

My instinct was to swear on Styx.

Except that wasn’t what mattered, was it?

It didn’t matter how loudly or certainly you swore your oath—only the intention behind whether or not you would keep it. Intention that would shape your path and fate.

A single choice will change their fates.

I, Apollo, promise to change their fates.

And I will uphold it.

I will remember.

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next part is up. gah. anyways have a nice life