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So he was born in May, a baby boy with eyes the color of the ocean and hair the color of sand, and yet Persee LaFontaine was as normal as a newborn could get. He did not have a stronger than normal grip, nor did he gaze upon the midwife with faint recognition. This boy was not a demigod. He was not special in any way, but his mother very much was.
Genevieve LaFontaine shared the memories of her past lives. She had been reborn a third time, despite not having been an exemplary mortal. She was simply human, and always would be. What made her great was her son. But her choices had cost Theano’s Perseus his freedom and Livia’s Perseus his life, so she was intent, this time, that past mistakes would not be repeated. Genevieve LaFontaine said no to Poseidon, or Neptune, or whoever he might’ve been. She prayed upon the three Goddesses she felt most likely to protect her and begged them to keep him away.
Juno, Artemis, and Hestia did as she bid. For seven months there was a battle fought in her honour, a war waged to ensure she had a choice in the matter of her child’s birth. And she had thought—she had truly believed—that having a normal partner would mean having a normal son who led a normal life. Perhaps she should have known better.
Her midwife was Artemis. Artemis who claimed that neither of them could truly know that the boy would be fully mortal until he was born, who claimed that Poseidon could have very well taken on the form of her lover and violated her. Genevieve wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he wouldn’t. And yet, he hadn’t.
Persee was well and truly human. A baby boy with colouring that favoured the ocean, sure, but human nonetheless. And, oh, she mourned. In those three seconds, perhaps less, during which silence reigned before her son began to cry, she mourned for the sons of the past—the Perseus’ that had preceded him. She had considered naming him differently, setting him apart. And she could not. He was her boy. They were all her boys.
But when Apollo barged into the hospital room like he had when she’d been a child of Rome, the words he uttered were not the same as they had been then. The look in his eyes had not been the same. The Goddess at her bedside had not been the same. He said, “Persee LaFontaine, first of his soul,” and Genevieve felt something in her chest swell. Finally! Oh, finally!
For the first time in existence her son would be free. He would be safe. Oh, her son was dead, his soul still in the Underworld, but the dead could not die again. And this son—this son that did not bear the same soul as her previous sons, this son that was her son but not Theano’s, not Livia’s, this son would surely live full, long life. He would have Apollo’s blessing, and Artemis’ and he would live.
But neither of the twins looked as happy as she felt. Their lips downturned—matching expressions on their faces—they broke the news to her. Gently, because they knew her, they knew her soul.
Her son was mortal. Fully mortal. Not a single drop of divinity to him. They could not, would not be able to, bless him. A mortal, human child would not handle their power well. But that was all fine! Genevieve had raised three sons before—she had kept them alive in their youth, hadn’t she? She could do it again, even if it wouldn’t be the same, even if her son was not truly her son, not the son she had known for two lives past—
“Genevieve.” Apollo said, quiet and firm and so, so sorry, and it was then that she realized that the baby, oh, Gods, her baby, had yet to cry. She felt as the joy left her, replaced by grief. He hadn’t even been given a chance. “The Fates cut his thread this morning. I’m sorry.”
And so she had him, and she lost him, all in one fell swoop. And when she died, twenty, thirty years later, married, with four new children who would never know their brother, never know their mother fully—she felt that she had finally found peace, for she would be reunited with the souls of both the sons she knew and the one she never got to know.
And she would never be reborn again, for three was the limit, and even Genevieve LaFontaine was not so special.
Except, it seems, she was, for resident New Yorker Sally Jackson was born in 1970 under the light of the Sun, who recognised the soul of his dear mortal friend quite quickly.
But this Sally Jackson did not have the guidance that her past lives had had—she rejected it at every turn, believing herself to simply be crazy. And, because of that, she made the same mistakes that Theano and Livia had once made: she slept with a God. Not just any God, either, but the same God, wearing the skin of a mortal.
From their coupling, the soul of her son was reborn a third time as Perseus Jackson, son of Sally Jackson. He was visited, as always, by the God of the Sun, who had all the intentions of blessing him.
And Sally…
Sally said no. Because she did not trust the visions, did not trust that the women through who’s eyes she was seeing were her, in other lives, but she trusted them enough to believe that the overarching message was to not trust the Gods. She had slept with one, so her son was half of one. That did not mean she had to let them in as if they were family.
For the first time ever, one of Perseus’ mothers shut the door in a God’s face. Her son was hers, she was his mother, and she would keep him safe, come hell or highwater or a God with too-kind eyes. She would.
Or she would die trying.
FIN.