My Atlantis | Percy Jackson

we fall

It was never easy.

When Apollo was punished by Zeus to live as a mortal, the world had stood still as the god of many domains was stripped of his powers.

Eyes wide, they had watched the sun fall from the sky. The Golden One woke in a dark place, nowhere for a sun god; dressed in dirt, no state for a god of medicine; cursed with a scratchy voice, a crime for the god of music; with weak muscles and tears in his eyes, a shame on his past immortality.

Tainted with red, the god turned mortal had stumbled through the streets, marking the concrete with the glitter of history.

Up above, in the city of gods, the muses wept and still did their duties. This time, they weaved the mind of artists with tears in eyes, hole in heart, lost gaze, unsure steps and a painful clench at the chest.

It was never easy, just like it was meant to be.

Lester remembered Percy Jackson, the son of Poseidon who had crawled his way out of Tartarus. Surely, he would be capable of the wonders that would help get his throne back!

"Why?"

He knew he looked unrecognizable. He wished that this mortal form was just a disguise, a mercy on the mortal to save them from inevitable death if they so much as glanced at raw divinity under the false skin.

Percy Jackson had a good sense of humor, he thought as he looked at the shirt he had borrowed, the one with Icarus falling. Oh, beautiful irony.

Lester could cry. Apollo would have let loose a plague arrow.

Percy scowled at him when he laughed brilliantly, telling to issue a quest to restore his godhood. Those eyes shifted color, churning a poisonous green that promised nightmares. Lester did not understand. Apollo would not have understood either, then.

Even though they were one, the god was very different from what his father had made him to suffer.

Son of Sally Jackson was his master by the order of the King God as a token for his service in the wars.

Unbelievable it was. For a second, he stopped and gave himself time to wonder, was this how Percy felt when he stood helpless in the council room and saw them bicker to decide if he should live or die?

It was never easy, and Apollo was glad.

No one had died. No one had to, but the words of a demigod had imprinted themselves in his heart. Carved from a bronze sword, golden promises decorated his mind which he could never forget.

Apollo sat on his throne on Olympus, his eyes closed, feeling ancient and pained with the reminder of his immortality. Its proof thrummed through his veins with the unbridled power under his fingertips.

His eyes burned a harsh golden with the reminder of other's mortality.

"At my worst, I worry you'll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won't." Percy flinched, surprised.