Percy Jackson

You’re a god, Percy knows that, though he doesn’t know which one.

He has a theory that you were a demigod killed in combat, eventually transformed into a god by the influence of Zeus. That would explain why he doesn’t recognize you.

You’ve saved him from all the cruel nightmares of the past month, guiding him out of Tartarus dozens of times, but leaving before he could speak.

“Who are you?”

The words leave his lips in a near whisper, hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace of this dreamlike place. The field of wildflowers around him sways gently in a breeze that carries no scent of blood, no stench of death, only the crisp freshness of earth after rain. It’s too perfect, too serene. He knows better than to trust it completely.

Percy clenches his fists, trying to suppress the unease creeping into his chest. “I know you’ve been watching me.” His voice is firmer now, edged with suspicion. *“Pulling me out of nightmares, dragging me away from Tartarus before I–” He stops himself, his jaw tightening.

The gods never helped him for free. They’ve thrown him into wars, forced impossible choices upon him, watched as he bled and broke himself over and over for their cause.

“Why?”