Chapter Text
The night before Lupa took Jason to Camp Jupiter, she asked him what he knew about the gods.
They're strong, Jason had said, because he was a child and had not yet learnt what it truly meant to bear witness to divinity. (He would learn this a decade later, lying on the floor of the Wolf House, his body almost burning itself to ash for glimpsing the true form of a goddess who called him her champion.) People worship them.
Lupa had smiled, then. She smiled in the same way a beast smiles before it tears your throat out with its teeth.
‘Strong’, she mused. Perhaps. But if power was all it took to become a god, then Hercules would not have required Jupiter's intervention to ascend.
Pup, she told him, her silver eyes gleaming like twin moons, like the cold steel of a blade sheathed in your ribs. Mortals do not worship the gods purely because of their divinity. They pray to them, create their stories and myths around them, because they see aspects of themselves in the divine. It is their propensity for both peace and bloodshed, cruelty and benevolence, that ironically make them beings of idolatry. And yet this is the mortals’ mistake — for the gods are anything but human. Particularly those of the Dii Consentes.
She paused, considering.
They are terrible, she'd said, terrible, but great. You would do well to remember this, our Saving Grace.
The boy sitting before Zeus had golden hair the colour of ripe wheat. His face was youthful, cheeks retaining the barest hint of childhood roundness; he could not be older than seventeen summers. Even sitting on the ship’s deck, his posture was straight, tension coiled in his strong frame.
But it was his eyes that stole the air from Zeus's lungs — blue like the soft petals of the healing kyanós[1], blue like the open expanse of the wide summer sky.
Blue like Zeus’ own eyes.
Zeus’ chest seized; in that moment, he found himself utterly unable to draw breath. Had he possessed a mortal heart, he suspected it would have ceased beating entirely.
It can't be. It had been centuries since he had extinguished the hope rekindled by Dionysos’ birth, when all that came after was stillborn after stillborn, dead babes with blue eyes that Zeus could not bring himself to face. He had given up entirely, no longer able to bear the anguish that came with every stillbirth, every one of Zeus’ dead children that he had to bury, swaddled in the softest cloths and entombed in the cold, dark earth.
No more, he’d promised himself. No more. Perhaps the Fates had decided that Dionysos would be his last demigod child, miracle that he was. That was already more than Zeus had ever thought he'd have. Zeus would not, could not hope for more.
And yet — this boy. With the sky in his eyes and the traces of ozone that lingered on his skin, like thunderstorms and the first bolt of lightning in summer. Zeus could sense it; the boy carried his essence. Divinity — Zeus’ divinity — ran through his veins.
This boy was inexplicably, undeniably his.
His child.
Zeus’ eyes were wide as he took in his child’s face, obsessively committing every feature to memory: his high cheekbones and angular jaw, the hooded shape of his eyes and the delicate slope of his nose, his full mouth and the tiny white scar that cut into his upper lip.
(How had he gotten that scar? Was it from a childhood accident? An injury he'd gotten in battle? The result of a minor scuff? Zeus knew nothing about his child, his precious fledgling, and the hunger for more more more was an endless monster that gnawed a hole in the pit of his stomach.)
Stars — he was perfect. Completely and utterly perfect.
Who was his mother? The child resembled Zeus, of course, but some of his other features, like the shape of his eyes and nose, spoke of his mother. She must have been fair of face, for his child's features were handsome — but despite casting his memory back, scouring the faces of the countless women he had lain with over the past decade, Zeus could not recall which one could have birthed his son.
Why hadn't she prayed to him the moment she had brought him into the world? And why hadn't Zeus’ child prayed to him? Was he unaware of his divine heritage? Or — the thought struck Zeus — had someone instructed him not to pray to Zeus?
If it was the latter, he would find whoever was foolish enough to instill such a lie in his son. He would strike them down, feed them his lightning and watch it burn them to ashes from the inside out. He would make an example out of them: no one was to keep Zeus from his children, not if they wished to live.
Seventeen summers he had missed in his child's life, seventeen summers he could have had with him. By the stars, how much time he had missed — a mortal's lifespan was barely a blink of an eye in the face of a god's immortality. What if Zeus had never found him? What if his child lived out the rest of his life unknowing of his father? What if he died an old man, or in battle, as mortal men were wont to do, and Zeus would have been none the wiser?
No — he couldn’t continue that thought. That way lay madness.
He is with me now, Zeus told himself. The worst had not occurred. He had found his child, just as his child had found him.
Now, all that was left to do was to take him home to Olympus. Zeus had not been present for the majority of his son's childhood, but that would change now. His son would be protected, safe in his palace and kingdom — Zeus saw the wariness in his eyes, glimpsed the thick calluses on his palms and the hard strength in his limbs that could have only come from years of gruelling combat. Combat that his child should never have had to face.
No more. His son should want for nothing, and Zeus would ensure that it was so. He deserved to have the finest foods, to be draped in the finest silks and gems — satin brocades stitched in shimmering gossamer patterns, necklaces of glittering white diamonds and translucent crystals; rings sparkling with sapphires and emeralds and arm cuffs of silver and gold. All things befitting his status as a prince of Olympus, as he should have had from the day he was born.
Although only the divine could live on Olympus, that was barely a fleeting concern to Zeus. It was a foregone conclusion that he would make his child immortal — the thought of watching him die, trapped by the cage of a mortal lifespan, was unthinkable. Hera would grant him an apple from her garden, if he asked; disapproving of his…extramarital affairs as she was, even she would soften in the face of a demigod child — not only the first demigod child to be born in centuries, but one who would call her ‘mother’ . That, Zeus knew, was something she could not refuse.
His son stared up at him. Confusion flickered in his eyes; he made a noise that Zeus could not parse.
Zeus reluctantly tore his eyes away from his son's face. His gaze trailed down his body, noting the strange clothes he wore — a multicoloured long-sleeved garment that wrapped around his upper body and opened vertically at the middle, paired with an odd chiton that ended at his hips and was dyed an orange brighter than even the most vibrant of sunsets. His legs were clad in an unfamiliar blue material, and his footwear! They were certainly not sandals; close-toed and tied with what seemed to be white string.[2]
Perhaps his son had just returned from a faraway land, one where such strange garments were commonplace? But why would he ever need to travel so far?
Zeus pondered this question, just as his gaze fell —
And caught sight of the thick, coarse ropes that bound his son's hands and feet.
For a single moment, Zeus’ sight bled red.
The air exploded with the force of his unrestrained divinity, crushing the mortals on the ship flat against the deck. The sea shook with his rage, the ship tilting violently as the waves crashed mercilessly against its hull, threatening to capsize it entirely. Even the sky itself trembled under the crushing weight of Zeus’ unchecked fury, bracing itself against the might of its king; the clouds above churned a dense, dark black, a terrible storm gathering overhead.
“How DARE you,” Zeus roared. He no longer cared to mask his voice under the façade of humanity; divinity dripped from every word, raw and deafening and beyond human comprehension. His wings spread out behind him, eclipsing the span of the mortals’ ship; the edges of his steel-coloured feathers glinted in the sun, sharper and deadlier than any Cyclops-forged blade.
The smell of charred flesh filled the air. The mortals screamed, a cacophony of agony that only fueled Zeus’ rage. They dropped to the deck, eyes glassy and unseeing; blood trickled from their ears and the corners of their eyes, their chins stained with sick. Zeus neither knew nor cared to know if they lived.
The sheer insolence of those mortals, to lay their hands on his son! Restrain him and mar his skin! Zeus would smite them where they stood; burn the magnitude of their folly across their skin. Gone was his original thoughts of granting Odysessus a choice between him or his crew — it was clear that he deserved no such privilege. Perhaps he had bewitched Athena somehow, for her to sing his praises so; Zeus saw nothing but a spineless coward, a criminal who had committed an unforgivable sin.
His eyes pricked with discomfort: a telling sign that his irises had shifted from sky blue to a searing, wrathful gold. He doubled in size, towering above the ship, lips curled into a savage snarl. Pure white lightning crackled between his fingers, blinding and deadly.
“Hear me, Odysessus of Ithaca, for you and your men have proven yourselves undeserving of clemency.” His voice was the cruel open sky of a scorching desert, merciless and unforgiving; the dying screams of mortal men as vultures picked the flesh clean from their bones. “How dare you touch my son with your filthy hands? Bind him like some common beast?”
The king of Ithaca threw himself at his feet, excuses and empty platitudes spilling from his lips.
“ Mercy, O King,” he gasped into the wooden floor of the ship's deck, teeth bloody. His tenacity was mildly surprising; most men would have devolved into gibbering fools in the face of Zeus’ might. Perhaps Zeus would be intrigued, had he the mind for anything other than wrath. “Mercy, wide-seeing Zeus, aegis-holder; father of gods and men[3]! We had no knowledge of the royal prince’s heritage! Had we known, we would have never treated him in any manner unbefitting of his status…!”
Excuses. Whatever plea Odysessus thought to give was futile, for Zeus had long deemed him guilty. In the court of justice, Zeus’s word was law — and for this trial, he would be judge, jury, and executioner.
Helios would have the punishment he’d petitioned Zeus for, it seemed; Zeus would strike down every single one of this treacherous crew, and sink this ship into the ocean.
He raised his hand, fingers curled around lightning, poised to strike —
Golden hair and blue, blue, blue eyes.
Terror, immediate and all-encompassing, seized Zeus’ very being.
In the fraction of a single moment, he threw his palm upwards, sending the crackling lightning in his fist soaring towards the sky. The bolt of lightning imploded, sending sparks of white heat into the ocean.
Zeus’ chest heaved in the ensuing silence.
“What were you thinking?” He gripped the sides of the ship, clenching down so hard that the wood splintered under his hands. Even to himself, he sounded frenzied, a far cry from the regal king that ruled the skies, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “Little fledgling, why did you try to shield him? I could have hurt you! I could have — ”
The image of his son lying unmoving on the deck, eyes unseeing and skin scorched from Zeus’ lightning, rose to the forefront of his mind. The emotion that followed such a thought was wholly unfamiliar — he could not remember the last time he had felt such a paralysing, consuming fear.
He had almost harmed his child. Had almost burnt him with his own hand. It was possible that he possessed some degree of immunity to lightning, due to his heritage, but the paltry sparks that rained from the skies were entirely different from Zeus’ own lightning, harnessed directly from his fingertips. What if Zeus hadn’t drawn back in time? What if his lightning had struck his child?
What if —
Zeus’ child frowned. He spoke once more in that strange language, a string of foreign syllables that Zeus could not understand: smooth and sibilant, yet oddly flat and abrupt in certain places[4]. He stood straighter in front of Ithaca’s king, arms spread wide in an effort to protect him, expression determined and unwavering as he met Zeus’ stare.
Brave. It took courage that scant few mortals had, to stand before a god without flinching. In any other situation, Zeus would have admired his child's bravery, had he not chosen to demonstrate it by throwing himself in front of Zeus’ lightning.
Why was he so willing to lay down his life for those who did not deserve it? Did he perhaps think those mortals were equal to him? Zeus would have to disperse that erroneous notion from his mind; a thousand of these mortals’ lives could not compare to even a finger on his hand. He was the son of the king of gods, who was above all gods and men — what was a mortal king to that?
But despite his courage, Zeus saw the minute tremble in his arms, the thin white line of his lips. And the fear in his eyes — hidden and suppressed, but nonetheless present.
Fear towards Zeus.
Even Typhon tearing the sinews from his legs had hurt less.
Without a thought, he shrank to a mortal size, landing on the ship’s deck.
The child’s eyes — Zeus’ eyes, they were Zeus’ eyes because he was Zeus’ child — tracked his every movement as he walked slowly across the deck. He tensed with every step that Zeus made, hands clenching and unclenching into fists as if holding himself back from reaching for a weapon.
He straightened as Zeus approached him, standing his ground. But he could not hide the trepidation in his face; he stared up at Zeus, eyes wide and nervous. It made him look even younger than he was.
Zeus halted.
Slowly, he crouched down, hands resting on his thighs. From his lowered position, he looked up at his child, instead of the other way around.
He imagined what the other gods might say, if they saw him now — the mighty king of Olympus, lowering himself before a single mortal boy. But he cared not for what they thought.
“Precious one,” he murmured, “do not be afraid. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Shock had replaced the guardedness in his son's face; he stared at Zeus, mouth slack with disbelief.
He needn't be so surprised; there were a great many things much more terrible than this, that Zeus would do for him.
“Would you speak to me?” Zeus asked, as gently as he knew how. Tenderness did not come naturally to him, he who reigned over both the mortal and divine, who commanded both destruction and salvation in the palms of his hands. But for his child, he would learn.
He wanted to learn.
Helplessness flickered across his child’s lovely face. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, shaking his head slightly.
It occurred to Zeus, then, that perhaps his child simply did not understand his words.
How was that possible? Was he not raised in Hellas? But what land had such outlandish garments — Thrace? Persis? Zeus himself rarely ventured outside Hellas; his duties as king left him little time to travel outside his domain, and he certainly would have remembered siring a child beyond Hella’s borders.
Then…did someone take his child outside Hellas? The same people who prevented him from praying to Zeus?
Anger simmered once more, but he pressed it down. That could come later, once he had his child safe on Olympus.
For now, he knew who to summon.
HERMES, he called.
A moment passed.
Then —
“Father,” came Hermes’ singsong voice, as he stepped through the ripple that appeared in the space beside Zeus. His cloak was draped carelessly over his shoulder, caduceus in hand. His helmet cast a shadow over the upper half of his face, obscuring his eyes, but it did little to hide the toothy, ever-present grin that spread across his face.
The ripple closed behind him seamlessly, and Zeus’ immortal son turned to face him. “For what matter have you summoned me? Rare it is that you call with such urgency —”
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Zeus saw the exact moment that he caught sight of his child — and the immediate realisation that followed.
He turned to Zeus so fast that he nearly knocked his own helmet askew.
“Father,” he breathed, voice a tremulous whisper. “Is…is he really?”
For once, he did not bother with meandering speeches or witty remarks, struck speechless by the sight before him.
Zeus laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, “he is my child. But he speaks a language of a different land — I could not parse his speech. I will need your assistance.”
“Of course,” Hermes agreed instantly. He turned to Zeus' child, who watched them like a rabbit might watch a wolf. Hermes looked back at him; despite his helmet obscuring the upper half of his face, Zeus knew his eyes were hungrily tracking every minute expression that flickered across his child's features.
Zeus granted him the privilege, where he would have struck down another god for laying such covetous eyes on his child. Hermes had no demigod children of his own, and although Dionysos had also been born half-mortal, he had never been so…soft.
Soft. That was the word for it. Even from birth, Dionysos’ divinity had been apparent; although naturally weaker than an Olympian’s, divine power had spilled from his skin and the tips of his fingers, so strong and so potent that even prior to his ascension, his power had surpassed that of most minor gods.
But this golden-haired child… It was clear that he was Zeus’ son, but his divinity, though also potent, was much more unobtrusive than Dionysos’ had been. If Dionysos’ divinity as a demigod had churned under his skin like a violent storm, as fickle and tempestuous as his personality, this child’s divinity was settled quietly within him — almost gentle, like the eye of a storm.
He was broad-shouldered and strong, holding himself in the way that only seasoned warriors did. But he also stared at Zeus like he was unused to others speaking kindly to him. Had tensed, body stiffening when Zeus had approached him, like he was expecting to be attacked — and yet, he had not lashed out, choosing to stay still, like a docile animal. Stars, he had even been willing to brave Zeus’ lightning just to protect a mortal!
Zeus’ son was far too gentle, far more than Zeus would have expected of a child with his blood. Zeus would have to protect him; ensure that no one, mortal or divine, attempted to take advantage of that precious softness. Perhaps another god would have found it difficult, but he was king — all knew the consequences of defying him; if he truly decided to keep someone safe, it would be done.
Hermes kneeled on the deck, resting on his haunches.
“Hello, little fledgling,” He crooned, smiling. He was good at it; the younger generation of gods were more naturally inclined to human emotion. “I had wondered what could have happened, for our father to summon me so urgently. But this certainly is a pleasant surprise.”
His tone was soft in the same way that Zeus had heard mortals speak, when trying to coax stray kittens into feeding from their hands. “From where do you hail, little one? The fertile plateaus of Persis? The distant lands of Assyria? Or perhaps even further?"
Zeus’ son blinked. He peered at Hermes with open interest — and, intriguingly, with something that resembled familiarity. He seemed to be particularly interested in the two snakes on Hermes’ caduceus, glancing at them more than once. It seemed that his child liked animals; Zeus wondered if he should call for Oinoe, his eagle.
Zeus’ child said something else that Zeus didn’t understand, short and hesitant.
Hermes’ mouth twitched in surprise.
“How intriguing,” he murmured, fascination clear in his face. “What uncommon syntax — and the syllables! Such a blend of sharp consonants and flat vowels, yet maintaining a distinct rhythm…”
He turned back to Zeus. “I see now why you called for me, father — why, I don’t think I’ve encountered such a language before.”
“Can you resolve this?” Zeus asked. His body thrummed with anticipation, so strong that it required a conscious effort to restrain.
“Certainly,” Hermes hummed. He reached up and plucked a feather from the wing behind his right ear. It glimmered in the sun, a polished, gleaming white. “Language, after all, is my domain.”
“Could you hold out your hand, little fledging?” He asked Zeus' child warmly.
At his uncomprehending gaze, Hermes chuckled. In a display of unusual patience, he stuck his own hand out in demonstration, signalling him to do the same.
His son's gaze flitted between the feather held in Hermes hand, then Hermes’ face.
Slowly, he stuck his hand out, palm facing upwards.
But just as Hermes placed the feather in his hand — it melted into his palm with a soft gleam of white light —, the sleeve of his upper garment rode up his arm.
Zeus’ child made a startled noise, but Hermes froze, gaze fixed on his uncovered forearm.
A sibilant hiss escaped from him, horrified and furious.
“What…” He snarled, revealing the sharp fangs protruding from his upper gums, the pointed tips glinting with lethal venom. “What is this?”
Zeus’ child stared at him.
“You…have fangs?” He asked.
Then he followed Hermes’ gaze.
“Oh,” Zeus’ child said. “Oh, shit.”
Zeus didn't speak.
He couldn't. His eyes were still fixed on the skin of his child’s forearm, staring at the area previously covered by his sleeve.
Imprinted on the fair skin was the image of an eagle, its dark wings spread out. Below it were four bolded letters: one that Zeus recognised as sigma, another that resembled rho[5], and two other letters that were foreign to him.
Underneath that were twelve straight lines, thick and marked with dark ink. The skin was raised and discoloured, much like an old scar.
From the moment he lay eyes on it, Zeus recognised it for what it was.
A brand.
Someone had branded Zeus’ precious child.
Who was it.
WHO WAS IT.
“Father,” Hermes murmured, “you are frightening him.”
Zeus’ eyes snapped back to his child. The cracks in the sky above, deep and jagged, slowly sealed themselves. The world stopped shaking. Once more, the ship returned to its peaceful drifting on Poseidon’s waters.
But his child — he was cringing away from them, pressing his back against the side of the ship. He’d ripped his arm from Hermes’ grasp (Hermes had let him, of course, lest he hurt himself), pulling the sleeve of his garment back down and clamping his hand over his forearm. He wasn’t trembling, but only just; his face was pale, and that familiar fear had once again bled into the blue of his eyes. He looked at Zeus like he expected to be hit.
That was what shattered the thing in Zeus’ chest; the shrivelled, cold thing that a mortal might call a heart.
He dropped to the deck on his knees.
Next to him, he heard Hermes suck in a breath through his teeth. In the millennia of Zeus’ reign, not once had he ever kneeled for anyone or anything.
His golden-haired child let out a cry of shock.
“What are you —”
“My child,” he said, voice ragged, and his son fell silent. “Dear one. Please — do not flinch from me. I would never hurt you. You must know I would never hurt you.”
It was agony like nothing he had ever experienced, to not immediately reach out and gather his son into his arms, to comfort and soothe the terror in his young face. His arms nearly shook from the visceral need to touch his child, to feel him — but he forcefully restrained himself.
Not yet. It wasn’t time yet.
“...I can understand you now?” His son murmured, and oh — how wonderful it was to finally understand his speech! “Wait — child? ”
Some of that fear faded from his face, but it was soon replaced by anxiety. “I’m sorry, Lord Zeus, but I’m…I’m not your child. I think there’s been some mistake.”
Was that what those people told him? The same people who kept him from praying to Zeus, the same people who took a molten brand to his skin?
It did not escape his notice that one of the images his son had been marked with was an eagle. Zeus’ symbol. Was it meant to be an insult? Or was it intended to be a tribute — as if Zeus would appreciate it? Reward them for it?
Fury and nausea churned in his stomach, thick and heavy. He felt ill, as if he had consumed the same concoction that he had fed Kronos countless millennia ago, the mixture of mustard and nectar that had him disgorge Zeus’ brothers and sisters.
“You are my child,” he told him, because even if it was the last thing he ever uttered, Zeus needed his son to know this. “You have the same lightning underneath your skin, of ozone and thunder. You are my own, born of my own ichor and divinity.”
He paused. “Would you tell me your name?”
His child looked hesitant, surveying Zeus’ face. Zeus held himself still, keeping his expression as open as he knew how. And what he saw must have reassured him to some extent, for he replied: “Jason.”
Jason. Like Hera’s champion, leader of the Argonauts and king of Iolcos. A strong hero and warrior, one of Hellas’ best. Perhaps his child’s mother had thought of the Argonaut when she named him, hoping for him to also become a hero.
If so, then she was a fool. Heroes rarely lived long lives — did she mean to curse his child? And Jason’s ending couldn’t be considered a pleasant one…
No, Zeus’ child didn’t need to be a hero, or a warrior. He only needed to be safe with Zeus, happy and content in Olympus for the rest of his immortal life.
“Jason.” He tasted the word, savouring how it felt on his tongue. “Where is your mother? Why did she not pray to me?”
It was the wrong question to ask, he realised, as he saw the barely concealed sorrow in his son’s eyes.
“She’s…gone,” Jason murmured, lowering his eyes to look down at the floorboards. “I haven’t seen her since I was a baby.”
He understood, then, why neither Jason nor his mother had prayed to him. If his mother died in childbirth, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity — and Jason, taken from Hellas at such a young age and lied to about his heritage, simply would not have known to.
“Lord Zeus, Lord Hermes…” His son fidgeted, lifting his gaze to meet Zeus’ eyes. “I’m grateful that you haven’t smited me. Truly. I just need to get home — I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll be gone as soon as possible, I promise.”
…His child wanted to leave him?
Leave Zeus?
Why? Hadn’t Zeus told him that he was his son? His own blood? Why did he think that Zeus wanted him gone?
…Did he think that Zeus would let him go?
“Call me ‘brother’, little fledgling.” Hermes cut in, likely sensing Zeus’ increasingly turbulent thoughts. He had removed his helmet, holding it by his side; his blue eyes were warm as he smiled at Jason. “And you can call him,” — he gestured to Zeus — “father’! None of that ‘Lord’ nonsense — that’s just for the mortals, you know.”
Jason frowned slightly at him.
“But I am mortal,” he said, confusion clear in his voice.
Hermes’ smile widened, but he did not retract his earlier statement.
“And where is home for you, Jason?” He continued, not giving Jason the chance to question his silence. “You do not speak the language of Hellas. You were raised somewhere outside here, no?”
Jason paused.
“Yes,” he replied, almost like he was asking a question. “My home is somewhere far away from here. That’s why I have to get back soon — my friends are waiting for me.”
Zeus glanced at Hermes, whose expression was inscrutable. So Jason was speaking the truth, but consciously omitting a few details.
That was fine; Zeus had expected that. He wouldn’t press his child for more information — like everything else, that would come later.
“Jason,” he rose to his feet. “Would you come with me to Olympus? I believe we should begin to introduce you to the rest of the pantheon; the other Olympians would be delighted to meet you.”
Alarm.
“Olympus?” His son repeated, reflexively taking a step back. His eyes darted between Zeus and Hermes’ face. “I’m…honoured, Lord Zeus. I really am. But I’m just a mortal — I don’t deserve such an honour.”
“You are my son,” Zeus repeated patiently. He took a step forward. He tried to make himself look as unthreatening as possible, an attempt that didn’t quite succeed; his child edged back another few steps, his body once again stiffening with tension. “A royal prince of Olympus. There is no honour too high for you.”
Jason’s eyes went wide.
“Prince,” he mouthed to himself, disbelief rippling across his features. Then he shook his head. “Lord Zeus, I… please. I just want to go home —”
“And you will,” Zeus crooned, unable to keep the fondness from leaking into his voice. “You will, precious one. This I promise you. But surely you must be exhausted from today’s events; I find it hard to believe that sitting on the hard deck all day was comfortable in any way, hm?”
He took another step forward. Jason blinked slowly.
“It…wasn’t that bad,” He murmured, “it was just a wooden floor.”
“Yes,” Zeus hummed, “but are you not tired? Aren’t you thirsty, or hungry? What would be the harm in taking a short rest on Olympus? You will be treated well, I assure you.”
His child blinked again. His eyes still followed Zeus, but the movement of his gaze was sluggish. His eyelids drooped.
Zeus took a few steps more, slowly but steadily making his way to him. Jason’s brows furrowed slightly, but otherwise did not react.
“...Just a…short break?” He mumbled. He started to sway on his feet slightly, before he caught himself. “Then…I can go…after?”
Close. He was so close.
“Of course.” Zeus’ voice was a low rumble, almost hypnotic. “You can leave whenever you wish.”
“...I guess…that’s…okay…”
Jason was now propping himself up by placing his hands against the side of the ship. But even that solution was failing; Zeus saw the weakness in his arms, the exhaustion written in his face. His eyes were almost closed now, kept open by what was likely sheer force of will.
What a resilient child, Zeus thought fondly.
He was in front of Jason now, close enough to touch him. Jason tilted his head up to look at him.
He frowned once again; for a moment, his eyes cleared. “When…did you…”
Zeus saw him try to reach into his upper garment, but he was already too exhausted; he barely managed to paw weakly at his clothes before he fell forwards.
Zeus caught him, of course, before he hit the ground. He cradled his child in his arms, adjusting his hold on him so he rested safely in Zeus’ embrace.
Jason’s face was peaceful in sleep. How young it was, when it was unlined by terror or anxiety; he slumbered quietly, as still and sweet as a babe. Zeus carefully threaded a hand through his golden hair, marvelling at its softness, before tracing the rest of his face reverently.
Finally, finally, his child was in his arms. Zeus felt as though he had waited an eternity for this moment; how long had it been, since a demigod child of his own had been born into the world?
Too long, far too long. Perhaps this was a reward from the Fates, for his centuries upon centuries of persistence. Or perhaps it was simply a stroke of pure fortune. It mattered not; Zeus had Jason now, and he wouldn’t let him go. Never again.
Hermes materialised beside him, caduceus in hand. He stowed it away — it had served its purpose.
“Will we be bringing him home now?” He asked, not bothering to conceal the excitement in his voice. “I’ve informed Apollon and Dionysos; they are preparing Olympus for his arrival. Everyone is waiting.”
“Indeed,” Zeus replied, as he continued to look down at his child’s sleeping face. “We leave now.”
He had spoken no lie to Jason. He would be returning home — home to Olympus. No longer would he have to return to a foreign land, to people who stole him from Hellas — from Zeus. Olympus would be his home now; Zeus would ensure that it was so.
He smiled, stroking Jason’s hair.
“Welcome home, my son.”