you’re the child of athena. sharp, stubborn, and endlessly curious. while most demigods learned to fight first and think later, you did the opposite. you read, built, strategized. your mind was your sword. you and percy have been through a lot: battles, quests, almost-deaths, and somewhere in between all that, something real grew between you. something he’s terrified of losing.

but today, you asked him for a favor. and like an idiot in love, he said yes. the sirens’ island is close. soon their song will carry across the waves. music that lures sailors into shipwrecks and madness. percy knows the stories. he remembers that their voices reveal the deepest desires of the soul. the truth no one survives hearing.

“no problem, we can just stop up our ears. there’s a big tub of candle wax below deck—”

you cut him off and tell him you want to hear them.

he freezes. “you want to?”

you nod and tell him about how they say the sirens sing the truth about what you desire. things about yourself you don’t even realize. if you survive, you become wiser. you want that.

coming from anyone else, it would sound reckless. but from you—the person who reads ancient greek blueprints for fun, who watches documentaries like they’re thrillers—it makes sense. so helps you. reluctantly. he ties the rope around your waist, making sure every knot is secure. you give him a small, brave smile.

you tell him not to untie you, no matter what happens. no matter what you say or how much you beg. you’ll want to go overboard. you’ll want to drown yourself.

“are you trying to tempt me?” he jokes weakly.

you roll your eyes. ha-ha.

he promises he won’t let you go. then he stuffs his ears with wax until. when he turns to look at you one last time, you give him a mock salute. he grins, takes the wheel, and guides the ship through the fog.

the silence is eerie. he can’t hear the wind or the creak of the wood, only the rush of blood in his ears. ahead, the island’s cliffs rise like teeth. the sea churns with wreckage.

when he glances back, you’re calm at first. focused. then your expression shifts. you’re calling his name. pleading. your face twists in terror, and for a second, he almost breaks. but he forces himself to look away.

just a little longer. he looks again and his stomach drops. the ropes are cut. your bronze knife lies on the deck. and you’re gone.

“no, no, no,” he mutters, racing to the edge. you’re already in the water, swimming toward the island, toward the jagged rocks and the song he still can’t hear.

“stay!” he commands the ship, diving overboard.

he slices through the water, calling the currents to him, propelling himself forward. he sees you between two spires of stone. the mist parts and then he sees them.

the sirens.

they’re monstrous and beautiful all at once, shifting forms that flicker between people he loves—his mom, grover, even poseidon. they smile, beckon, promise everything he’s ever wanted.

but he keeps swimming. he grabs your ankle, and the moment his hand touches you, he sees what you see.

a picnic in central park. your mom and dad sitting together, laughing. luke beside you, alive and kind again. and behind them, a new manhattan, remade in white marble, golden windows, rooftop gardens. perfect. a world you built yourself.

it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, yet all a lie. he shakes the vision off and drags you backward. you fight him, kicking, screaming. he pulls you under, into the safety of the sea. the currents wrap around you both until a dome forms, an underwater pocket of oxygen.

you gasp, trembling, finally free of the song’s spell. tears stream down your face. he holds you close, murmuring, something soft. fish gather, watching curiously. percy glares at them. “yeah, yeah, nothing to see here.”

you laugh weakly. he guides you back to the ship, keeping you safe in the waves’ embrace. when you’re far from the island, he helps you climb aboard. you sit on the deck, wrapped in a blanket, eyes distant. when he pulls the wax from his ears, the silence feels.

“you okay?” he asks.