Scene 1: The First Night
The bronze-and-cedar doors closed behind them with a hollow, resonant sound. Percy let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For hours they had stood before Olympus itself—judgment, thunder, unblinking stares. But now, in this chamber, the storm could not reach.
The room shimmered faintly with his presence, stars scattered across the vaulted ceiling like spilled jewels. Artemis' bow leaned in one corner, her quiver still strung across her back until she tugged it free and set it aside. Athena unstrapped her spear and rolled her shoulders, as if discarding centuries of duty in the same motion.
Percy spread his cloak across the low couch. The starlight woven into its fabric clung stubbornly to the air, illuminating the chamber in soft constellations. He looked at the two women and felt a pang so fierce it nearly undid him—because for the first time in centuries, they looked not like gods, not like legends, but like themselves.
Artemis broke the silence first, her voice low. "You bore Zeus' storm without flinching."
Percy's lips quirked into a tired half-smile. "I've lived long enough to know lightning only strikes where it's allowed." He tilted his head toward her. "And I was never alone."
Athena's brow arched, eyes sharp and searching. "You speak as though you trusted us implicitly."
"I did." His answer came too quick, too certain, and it startled them both.
Artemis' gaze softened, silver irises gleaming in the half-light. She crossed to him, bow forgotten, hand tentative as it brushed his wrist. "You… trust too easily."
"No," Percy said, meeting her touch. "I trust only once. And only where it matters."
For a heartbeat, neither goddess spoke. Athena shifted, standing a little straighter, her hands folded at her waist as though to anchor herself. The silence pressed heavy until, finally, she took a single step forward.
"Then prove it."
Percy blinked. "How?"
Athena's lips curved, not into her usual smirk, but something far more fragile. She lifted her hand to his face, fingers grazing the edge of his jaw. He didn't move. He didn't question. He leaned into her touch as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her breath hitched—so soft Percy almost missed it. "You yield… too easily."
His eyes closed. "Not yield. Choose."
She kissed him then, not like a goddess testing boundaries, but like a woman discovering them. It was slow, deliberate, a press of lips that lingered just long enough to leave her trembling when she pulled back.
Before words could fill the gap, Artemis stepped forward. She cupped Percy's face in both hands, fiercer, more certain, and kissed him hard, as if making up for every century of denial. He met her halfway, matching her fire until she finally drew back, breath unsteady, silver hair tumbling into her face.
She laughed—short, unguarded, almost startled. "I never thought I would share."
Athena's gaze flicked to her, sharp but softened with amusement. "Then consider it your next hunt. Sharing the spoils."
Something passed between them—an acknowledgment, not rivalry. For the first time since their bond began, the air shifted from tension into something unspoken and whole.
Percy drew them both close, one arm circling Artemis' waist, the other slipping across Athena's back. They leaned against him, heads tilting until all three foreheads touched in the center.
Breath mingled. Heartbeats matched. For once, eternity felt like a small, safe thing.
Artemis whispered, voice catching, "This feels too mortal."
Athena, eyes closed, murmured back, "Perhaps mortals knew something we never dared."
Percy's smile was almost invisible, but it carried centuries. "Then let us dare."
The three stayed like that until the fire in the hearth dimmed to embers, until even Olympus seemed to fade away. And when sleep finally claimed them, it was not alone, not restless. It was shared.
Scene 2: Waking Together
The first rays of dawn crept across Olympus, but in the high chamber of bronze and cedar, the night still lingered. The hearth burned low, the air warm with cedar-smoke and starlight.
Percy stirred first. His senses stretched outward instinctively—time's thread tugged at him, offering the easy temptation to pause the sun, to keep the sky in its silver twilight. One breath, one thought, and the world would remain in that eternal hour of stillness.
But he didn't.
Instead, he let the day come.
The light slipped across the wide windows, painting the chamber in hues of gold. It caught Artemis first, where she lay curled against his shoulder. Her silver hair glimmered as though each strand had stolen moonlight to itself. Her bow hand, always tense even in sleep, was finally slack against his chest.
On his other side, Athena's face rested against him as well, dark hair scattered across the fabric of his tunic. Even in slumber, her brow furrowed faintly, as if she were solving problems behind her eyelids.
Percy lay still, unwilling to disturb either of them. For centuries, he had borne his burdens alone, watching time consume empires and lives alike. He had been the constant, the untouched, the unmoved. But now… now he felt kept.
Artemis stirred first. Her lashes fluttered, silver eyes blinking into the growing light. She caught him watching.
"You stare too much," she whispered, voice rough with sleep.
"Maybe," Percy admitted, smiling faintly. "But I've had centuries to miss this sight."
Her lips curved—half amusement, half disbelief. "You are ridiculous."
"And you're beautiful," he countered.
She rolled her eyes, but color touched her cheeks. She tucked her face back into the crook of his shoulder, muttering, "Flatterer."
A soft sound drew their attention—Athena, waking with a low laugh. Her eyes opened, bronze bright even in the dimness. She stretched lazily, her arm brushing Percy's chest, her gaze flicking between the two of them.
"And you're both terrible at whispering," she teased.
Artemis huffed, but she didn't move away. Percy chuckled, his hand brushing lightly across Athena's shoulder. "Good morning."
Athena tilted her head, studying him. "You didn't stop the sun."
The words weren't a question. She had felt the subtle tug of his power, the choice he'd made to let time flow unhindered.
"I thought about it," Percy confessed. "But… then we'd never know what the morning looks like."
Athena's lips curved, softer than her usual smile. "Wisdom approves."
The three rose slowly, reluctantly. No thunder of duties summoned them, no immediate council to endure. For the first time in memory, there was no urgency. Artemis fetched a platter she had left the night before—figs and honey from her hunts, bread baked in the lower kitchens. She set it between them on the couch, sitting cross-legged with her hair falling loose around her.
Athena joined, breaking the bread with precise movements, as though even sharing food should be an act of order. Percy poured wine from a clay vessel he had conjured the night before, deep red that caught the morning light.
They ate together quietly. Not as gods presiding over mortals, not as rivals, not as a deity of time flanked by legendary huntress and goddess of wisdom. Just three souls, breaking bread and trading small smiles.
Artemis licked honey from her thumb, glancing sideways. "Do you realize how mortal this is?"
Percy met her gaze, amused. "And yet, you're still here."
She didn't answer, but her silence wasn't rejection.
Athena swallowed a fig, her tone thoughtful. "Mortals eat, laugh, sleep—and in those things, they find more meaning than empires."
"Then perhaps," Percy murmured, "we have something to learn from them."
The conversation dwindled, replaced by companionable quiet.
When they finished, Artemis leaned back against the cushions, stretching with the languid grace of a predator at rest. Athena curled her legs beneath her, reaching for a scroll only to stop midway, smirking at herself. "No. Not today."
Percy leaned his head back, closing his eyes. For the first time in uncountable years, morning felt less like the start of duty and more like the promise of something whole.
Outside, Olympus stirred awake, the sounds of lyres and laughter beginning again. But in their chamber, the three of them lingered, letting the sun climb higher, refusing to be hurried.
And for that morning—just that morning—they were not gods. They were simply together.
Scene 3: Shared Playfulness
The grove behind their chamber had belonged to no god in particular for centuries. Wild pines and oaks stretched skyward, their roots weaving through mossy earth, and a clear pool shimmered at the center, fed by an underground spring. It was a place of quiet—until Artemis claimed it.
She was already stringing her bow when Percy arrived. The silver arc gleamed in the filtered sunlight, her stance steady, her expression sharp. At the far edge of the grove, targets shimmered into being: disks of bark, shifting at impossible distances.
Percy raised a brow. "A challenge?"
Artemis' lips quirked. "Unless you fear humiliation."
He laughed softly, rolling his shoulders. "I've lived through empires rising and falling. I can survive losing to you." A pause, deliberate. "But I won't."
Before Artemis could retort, blades of starlight flickered into existence around him, six hovering at his shoulders like restless birds.
From the steps of the chamber, Athena's voice cut through, dry as ever. "Children."
Both turned to see her leaning against a pillar, arms folded, her expression a perfect mix of disdain and fond amusement. She didn't move, only tilted her head as if to say prove me wrong.
Artemis loosed first. The arrow shot across the grove, splitting one of the far targets clean down the middle. Percy followed instantly, one blade of starlight streaking across the distance to cleave hers in two.
Artemis' eyes narrowed. "Show-off."
Percy grinned. "Compliment accepted."
Athena's sigh carried through the trees. "If either of you split the mountain in half, I am not explaining it to Zeus."
Artemis lowered her bow, smirking at Percy. "Let her try, then. He'll listen to her before us."
"True enough," Percy admitted. He conjured another set of blades, brighter this time, circling his hands like playful comets. Artemis fired again, faster than sight, and once more Percy matched her.
It wasn't long before the grove rang with laughter—hers sharp and wild, his deep and unrestrained. The air glittered with starlight shards, arrows humming like songbirds through the branches.
Athena finally pushed away from the pillar, crossing the clearing with deliberate calm. "You both look absurd."
"Jealous?" Percy teased.
She raised a brow. "Of wasting my skill on trees? Hardly." But when Artemis extended her bow toward her, the faintest glint of challenge lit Athena's eyes.
"Then join," Artemis said, her voice edged with triumph.
Athena accepted the bow. She drew once, steady and clean, and her arrow struck the center of a target with surgical precision.
Percy froze time just enough to tilt its trajectory a hair truer. To anyone else, it would've looked natural. To Athena, it was blatant.
She turned, smirk curling. "Cheat."
Artemis laughed outright, bracing her hands on her knees. "Caught you."
Percy raised his palms in surrender, starlight still hovering at his shoulders. "What can I say? I like to see you win."
Athena returned the bow with a shake of her head, but there was no anger in her gaze—only something softer, warmer. "Then try winning without helping me."
The three of them collapsed beneath the shade of an oak, laughter still lingering. Artemis' bow lay abandoned across her lap, Percy's starlight dissolving into the air. Athena leaned back against the trunk, her hair catching flecks of gold in the sunlight.
"You know," Artemis said, plucking a leaf and twirling it idly, "this may be the first time in centuries I've laughed for no reason."
Percy looked between them, his chest full in a way he hadn't known possible. "Then it was worth every arrow."
Athena's lips curved, almost reluctant. "Perhaps play has its place after all."
They stayed there until the sun slipped lower, not as warriors or strategists, not as gods with domains heavier than mountains, but as three companions who had remembered how to be light.
Scene 4: Vulnerability
The grove had fallen silent hours ago. Arrows and blades were gone, laughter replaced by the quiet hum of cicadas and the distant song of Olympus below.
Back in their chamber, the three of them gathered near the hearth. The fire burned low, its light flickering across bronze walls carved with constellations. Percy stretched out on the couch, Artemis tucked beside him with her legs curled beneath her, while Athena sat cross-legged on the floor, scroll abandoned in her lap.
None of them spoke at first. The kind of silence that lingered now was different from the one they had known in courts and councils—it wasn't forced, wasn't heavy. It was waiting.
It was Athena who finally broke it.
Her voice was quiet, lower than usual, as if afraid of breaking something fragile. "I was never meant to need."
Percy straightened slightly, his gaze falling on her. Artemis, too, shifted, her attention sharpening at the admission.
Athena's fingers toyed with the edge of the scroll, though she wasn't reading. "I was born from thought alone. Whole. Complete. Or so I was told. My existence itself was proof of strength. But… need? To lean? To long?" She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. "Unthinkable. To admit it is to admit failure."
Her hands stilled. Her gaze flicked up, bronze eyes burning, not with anger but something rawer. "And yet—here I am, afraid. Afraid of losing something I never expected to want."
Artemis leaned forward, reaching without hesitation. Her fingers brushed Athena's hand, firm and steady. "You won't lose us."
Athena's lips parted, but no words came.
Percy rose from the couch, kneeling before her. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing her temples. His voice was soft, stripped of all the weight of his domains. "You can't lose what's chosen."
The words broke something loose. Athena's breath hitched, and for the first time in memory, tears spilled down her cheeks. Not the dignified grief of a strategist, not the controlled sorrow of a goddess, but tears unbound—quiet, fierce, unstoppable.
Artemis moved closer, her arm wrapping around Athena's shoulders. Percy drew her into his chest, holding her as though time itself could not pull her away.
Athena trembled against them both, her hands clutching Percy's tunic, her forehead pressed to Artemis' shoulder. She didn't fight it. She didn't argue. She let herself be held.
For long minutes, the chamber knew only the sound of her quiet sobs, the crackle of the fire, and Percy's steady heartbeat.
When at last the storm passed, Athena drew back slightly, wiping at her face with something like frustration. "I am supposed to be wisdom itself. This—"
"Is wisdom," Percy interrupted gently.
She blinked, startled.
"To know you cannot stand alone forever," Artemis added, her silver gaze soft but unwavering. "To know you need. That is no failure."
Athena looked between them, her tears drying, her breath still unsteady. Slowly—hesitantly—she nodded. And for once, she didn't argue.
The three of them settled together then, Artemis on one side, Percy on the other, Athena between them. Their foreheads touched once more, but this time it wasn't about defiance or declaration. It was about comfort. About belonging.
Athena whispered into the quiet, "Thank you."
Artemis pressed her lips to her temple. "Always."
Percy's hand brushed her hair, his voice a low promise. "Forever."
And in that moment, the goddess who had once believed herself born complete realized she was no longer alone.
Scene 5: A Step Toward Joy
The night air was cool and clean, spilling through the wide-arched balcony of their chamber. Beyond, Olympus shimmered in silvers and golds, the constellations burning bright across the velvet sky. The hearth inside still glowed faintly, but none of them lingered near it. The balcony called.
Artemis was the first to rise, restless energy radiating from her. She stood framed by the starlight, bow nowhere in sight, her hands twisting together in an uncharacteristically uncertain gesture.
"I want…" She hesitated, which in itself was shocking. Artemis rarely hesitated. She turned at last, silver hair tumbling over her shoulders. "I want a dance."
Percy blinked, caught between surprise and a smile. "A dance?"
She lifted her chin, defensive already. "Why not? Mortals do it. They find joy in it. Why shouldn't we?"
Athena, still curled on the couch with a scroll balanced idly on her knee, arched a brow. "You, asking for something mortal?"
Artemis shot her a glare. "Do not ruin this for me."
Percy stepped forward before sparks could fly. He held out his hand, not with the exaggerated flourish of courtly manners, but simple and open. "Then let's dance."
For once, Artemis looked almost… uncertain. But she placed her hand in his, letting him draw her toward the open space of the balcony.
No music played. No lyres, no flutes, no celestial chorus. Only the wind rustling through cypress branches and the soft pulse of Olympus below. Percy slid one arm around her waist, guiding her slowly into the rhythm of nothing but their shared heartbeat.
At first, Artemis was stiff, unyielding. Her steps sharp, her movements too precise. But Percy moved gently, patiently, and slowly her body began to loosen. She let him guide her into the sway, her forehead nearly brushing his.
"You're terrible at this," she muttered, though her lips were curved faintly upward.
"And yet," Percy said softly, "you're smiling."
Artemis huffed, but she didn't let go.
From the couch, Athena's laugh rang out, warm and sharp. "You two look absurd."
Artemis turned her head sharply. "Then come make it less absurd."
Athena blinked, taken aback. "What?"
Percy grinned, extending his other hand toward her. "Join us."
For a long moment, Athena looked ready to scoff. Then, to their surprise, she set the scroll aside and rose. She crossed the balcony with slow steps, eyeing them as though approaching a battlefield she hadn't trained for.
When Percy offered his hand, she took it. Her grip was steady, but her body betrayed the same stiffness Artemis had shown. He guided her into the circle, his arms now around both, weaving them together into an awkward but earnest sway beneath the stars.
It was clumsy. They stepped on each other's feet, bumped shoulders, stumbled into laughter that echoed through the night. Artemis laughed so hard she nearly doubled over, clutching Percy's arm for balance. Athena rolled her eyes at every misstep, but even she couldn't suppress the curve of her lips.
At one point, Artemis spun unexpectedly, her hair flying like silver fire, nearly colliding with Athena. Both burst into laughter, a sound so unguarded that Percy swore it could have remade the constellations themselves.
They danced until their legs ached, until their breath came short. Finally, the three collapsed onto the couch in a heap of limbs and laughter, starlight still clinging to their skin.
Artemis gasped between chuckles, "I hunt, I fight… but dancing? That may kill me."
"You looked beautiful," Percy teased.
"Liar," she shot back, though her smile betrayed her.
Athena, catching her breath, shook her head. "Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous." Yet her eyes softened, her gaze drifting between them with something far gentler than her words.
The night lingered long after the laughter faded. They sat together on the balcony, stars above, firelight behind, and for the first time in uncounted years, the gods of hunt, wisdom, and time found joy in something simple.
Not battle. Not prophecy. Not decree.
Just a dance.
Scene 6: Fears in the Quiet
The fire in the chamber had burned down to embers, their golden glow pulsing faintly against the walls. Beyond the balcony, stars still shimmered, though dawn was only a few hours away. The air carried that fragile stillness that comes just before morning, when the world feels as if it's holding its breath.
Percy, Artemis, and Athena had settled back inside after their moonlit dance. Artemis lounged against Percy's side, her silver hair spilling over his chest, while Athena sat nearby with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them. None of them seemed eager for sleep.
It was Percy who broke the silence first. "You both looked happier tonight than I've seen in… well, longer than time has kept track."
Artemis snorted softly, though she didn't lift her head. "That's because you forced us to stumble around like drunk satyrs."
Athena gave her a dry look. "You laughed harder than either of us."
Artemis smirked faintly, conceding the point with silence.
Then Athena's gaze softened, flicking between them. "It felt… strange. Good. But strange."
Percy's arm shifted, pulling Artemis closer as he turned toward Athena. "Strange doesn't mean bad."
"No," Athena admitted quietly. "It means new. And new is… dangerous."
The words hung in the air. Artemis finally lifted her head, watching Athena with a sharpness that wasn't quite challenge, wasn't quite defense. "You're afraid."
Athena didn't deny it. Her bronze eyes were steady, but the walls she usually kept so high were thinner now. "I'm afraid of what this makes us. Of what it asks of me."
Percy leaned forward, his voice steady. "And what does it ask?"
Athena hesitated, then said, "Trust."
The word was simple, but the weight of it pressed into the room.
"I trust myself," Athena went on, her voice quieter now, "my mind, my strategies, my foresight. But trust in others? In love? That means giving over a piece of myself I've never surrendered. If I misjudge… if I give too much… then I lose not just a war, but myself."
Artemis shifted closer, reaching across Percy to touch Athena's hand. "You won't lose us."
Athena's lips pressed together, her expression unreadable.
Percy leaned in then, his tone gentler. "I don't want your trust because it's easy, Athena. I want it because it's real. Because you chose it knowing the risk."
Athena studied him, then Artemis. Their hands, joined across the space between them, anchored her. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then finally, she whispered, "I want to believe that."
Artemis' grip tightened. "Then believe it."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was fragile, tender. The kind of silence where breathing itself felt like a vow.
Percy shifted slightly, breaking the intensity with a half-smile. "You know, for three immortals, we're surprisingly bad at staying detached."
Artemis elbowed him lightly. "Speak for yourself."
Athena actually chuckled, shaking her head. "Detached, no. Foolish, perhaps."
Percy reached for them both, pulling them into the circle of his arms. Artemis melted easily into his chest, her hair brushing his chin. Athena resisted for a moment, stiff and reluctant, before finally allowing herself to lean into the embrace.
They sat like that for a long while—three gods who had shaped empires, now daring to shape something far more dangerous: each other.
And when at last sleep tugged at their edges, none of them feared it.
Scene 7: The First Light
The chamber had grown hushed, the fire no more than a faint red glow. Beyond the balcony, the deep black of the sky had begun to soften. Starlight lingered, but the first strokes of pale gold painted the horizon.
Percy stirred before either goddess, a habit born from a domain tied to the steady pulse of time itself. He shifted carefully, not wanting to disturb Artemis, who lay draped against his chest, nor Athena, who rested with her head propped against his shoulder. Their closeness felt natural now, their weight an anchor rather than a burden.
But when he moved to stand, Artemis' hand caught his tunic. Her eyes opened, still heavy with sleep but sharp enough. "Leaving?"
He brushed his hand over hers gently. "Just the sunrise."
Athena's voice drifted up, low and clear despite her closed eyes. "You never watch alone."
Percy smiled faintly at that, easing back down between them. He wrapped his arms around both, and together they rose, moving toward the open balcony.
The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, the cool marble beneath their feet, the chill of dawn brushing against their skin. Below, the sprawl of Olympus was still half-asleep, its white columns and golden halls bathed in shadow.
Artemis tilted her head back, silver hair catching the first rays of light. "I prefer the moon," she admitted, voice quiet. "The world is gentler by her glow. But…" She paused, her eyes softening as the sun's rim crested the horizon. "…this has its beauty."
Athena's gaze was fixed forward, unblinking, as though calculating the rise of every star vanishing into daylight. Yet her hand slipped into Percy's without ceremony. "It marks beginnings," she murmured. "Even for those who have lived too long."
Percy looked at them both—the goddess of the hunt, wild and restless yet tender in these rare moments, and the goddess of wisdom, fierce in her certainty yet newly unguarded. His heart, ancient though it was, swelled with something almost unbearably mortal.
The sun broke fully over the horizon, spilling light across their faces. In that instant, Olympus seemed to pause, as if honoring the vigil of three who stood united not by decree or duty, but by choice.
Artemis leaned her head briefly against Percy's shoulder. Athena let her hand rest in his without pulling away. Percy exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of time press forward, not as a burden but as promise.
None of them spoke again. They didn't need to.
The dawn spoke for them.
Scene 8: The Public Declaration
The morning sun had climbed high, gilding the marble temples of Olympus in brilliant gold. The central plaza, wide enough to hold a hundred chariots, thrummed with voices as gods, demigods, and spirits gathered. The air was charged—not with thunder or prophecy, but with curiosity.
Whispers stirred like wind through reeds.
"Percy Chronos has summoned a gathering."
"With Artemis and Athena at his side?"
"What madness is this? Or what power play?"
At the head of the plaza stood the great Temple of Concordia, seldom used except for rare oaths and declarations. Its white columns stretched heavenward, its bronze doors thrown open. Inside, the altar glowed faintly with ambrosial fire.
Percy entered first, his steps steady, time itself seeming to bend in quiet rhythm around him. On his right, Artemis strode with the proud grace of a huntress unbowed. On his left, Athena walked with measured composure, every inch the strategist stepping into a battlefield she had already mapped.
The crowd hushed. Even the air grew still.
From his throne, Zeus leaned forward, thundercloud eyes sharp. Hera, seated beside him, arched a brow, her lips curved in a smile that concealed far too much. Apollo's lyre rested silent in his hands, curiosity overtaking mischief. Poseidon's trident gleamed faintly as he tilted his head toward Percy, unreadable.
Percy stopped at the altar. His voice carried easily, though he spoke without shouting.
"Too long have bonds been hidden in shadow, as though love were a weakness. Too long have alliances been forged only in politics and fear. Today, we stand not for power, nor for advantage, but for truth."
He turned slightly, offering a hand to Artemis. She stepped forward without hesitation, placing her palm over his.
"With Artemis, I share the wild heart of the earth, the rhythm of hunt and moon. She is my freedom, my fire, my equal in every chase."
The crowd murmured, some in awe, some in scandalized shock.
Then Percy offered his other hand to Athena. She joined him, her grip firm, her gaze steady.
"With Athena, I share the clarity of wisdom, the stars of strategy, the strength of reason. She is my mind, my mirror, my equal in every trial."
The murmur rose louder now, ripples of disbelief and admiration.
Artemis and Athena turned then, not to each other, but to the crowd. It was Artemis who spoke, her voice like silver-tipped arrows cutting through the air. "I do not stand here bound, nor subdued. I stand here because I choose. No decree forced me. No oath chained me. My vow is my own."
Athena followed, her words calm but unshakable. "And I, wisdom itself, see no flaw in this union. I see strength, balance, and a bond beyond the reach of fate. My vow is freely given."
The fire at the altar flared higher, as though Olympus itself acknowledged the truth of their words.
Gasps rose from the crowd. Aphrodite's lips curved in a knowing smile. Ares folded his arms, scowling but silent. Demeter whispered something sharp to Hestia, who only shook her head with a small, warm smile.
Zeus rose slowly, lightning crawling faintly over his shoulders. His voice rolled like thunder. "You defy tradition. You bind not one, but two beside you. Do you claim this as right?"
Percy met his gaze evenly. "I claim it as choice. Oaths freely spoken are the strongest bonds of all. And you, more than any, know that not even Olympus can unmake what is chosen."
The silence that followed was thick as storm clouds. Then Hera's laugh rang out, low and sharp. "Well spoken."
Zeus' thunder dimmed, though his eyes still sparked. Slowly, he lowered himself back into his throne. He did not bless the union, but neither did he strike it down.
The crowd erupted—some cheering, some muttering, some scandalized beyond belief. But none could deny it: Percy, Artemis, and Athena had declared themselves openly, and Olympus itself had not stopped them.
Artemis' hand tightened in Percy's. Athena's grip mirrored it. Together, they stood before gods and eternity alike, no longer shadows but a constellation all their own.
Scene 9: The Private Aftermath
The chamber doors shut with a heavy thud, muffling the distant roar of Olympus beyond. The marble halls outside still thrummed with gossip, gods and spirits whispering the names of Percy, Artemis, and Athena as though they were new constellations hung in the sky.
Inside, the three of them stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of what they had done settling around them.
Artemis was the first to move, striding across the room and throwing her bow against the wall with a clatter. "Let them talk," she muttered, pacing like a caged wolf. "Let them sneer and gossip. I'll shoot the next fool who dares call me a chained bride."
Athena, calm as ever, sank gracefully into a chair. She adjusted the fall of her robes with deliberate precision before lifting her gaze to Percy. "It went as well as could be expected. Zeus did not strike you down. Hera smiled. That is… almost a blessing."
Percy leaned against the doorframe, exhaling slowly. "Almost."
For a moment, the three exchanged glances—Artemis restless, Athena composed, Percy caught between. Then Artemis abruptly stopped pacing and faced them, eyes flashing. "Did you see their faces? As if we'd torn Olympus down stone by stone."
Athena's lips curved faintly. "In a way, we did."
Percy chuckled under his breath, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I've bent time itself, faced creatures mortals can't even name… but standing before all of them with you two? That was the first time in ages I felt nervous."
Artemis blinked at him, startled. "Nervous?"
He shrugged. "What if you changed your minds? What if I stood there alone?"
The huntress' eyes softened, the edge in her posture fading. "Fool," she said, though her voice carried no sting. "I would have torn Olympus apart before leaving you."
Athena's gaze sharpened, steady and unwavering. "And I do not speak vows lightly. You knew that when I stood beside you."
Percy looked at them both, something unguarded flickering in his expression. "Then I'm the luckiest fool Olympus has ever seen."
The words pulled a rare smile from Athena, and Artemis laughed—a low, bright sound that cut through the tension.
They drew closer then, almost instinctively, until the space between them was nothing. Artemis' hand found Percy's shoulder, her fingers digging in like an anchor. Athena's hand rested briefly over his heart before sliding to lace with his.
For a moment, they simply stood together, breathing the same air, feeling the pulse of what they had just done. Not just a vow, not just defiance, but the beginning of something larger than them all.
Artemis tilted her head, mischief glinting in her silver eyes. "We should celebrate."
Athena arched a brow. "Celebrate how?"
Percy smirked. "I can think of a few ways."
Athena rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement. Artemis only laughed again, tugging them both toward the balcony where the city of Olympus still shimmered below, unaware that its world had shifted.
The whispers outside would not end tonight, nor tomorrow. Zeus would brood. Hera would scheme. The other gods would circle like vultures or doves.
But here, in this chamber, the three of them had no need for politics or appearances. Here, they were not Time, Hunt, and Wisdom. They were Percy, Artemis, and Athena—bound not by decree, but by choice.
And as the first stars began to prick the evening sky, they leaned into each other, letting laughter, relief, and love wash over them.
The storm had passed. For now.
Scene 10: Private Celebration
By the time the last murmurs of Olympus had faded beyond the balcony, the chamber was quiet again. The fire had been rekindled, throwing a golden warmth across the marble floor. A table had appeared—whether by divine will or Percy's casual tug at time itself, neither goddess asked. Upon it sat goblets of ambrosial wine, platters of ripe figs and pomegranates, and honey cakes still steaming.
Artemis raised a brow at the sight. "This looks suspiciously mortal."
Percy grinned, tugging her down onto a cushion. "Mortals know how to celebrate. Why shouldn't we?"
Athena seated herself more gracefully, though her eyes glinted with curiosity. "Wine, fruit, and laughter… hardly the Olympian way."
"Exactly," Percy said, pouring them each a goblet. "This isn't for Olympus. This is for us."
They drank, the ambrosia sweet and sharp on their tongues, warming them like sunlight in their veins. Artemis reached for a honey cake, breaking it in half and offering one piece to Percy with a teasing smirk. "Don't expect me to feed you like some helpless satyr."
He bit into it without hesitation, catching her wrist gently with his other hand. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Athena watched them, her lips twitching at the corners. When Percy offered her the other half, she accepted it with deliberate calm, but her eyes softened as she tasted the sweetness.
The room grew lighter with each shared bite, each exchanged glance. The weight of vows and politics slipped away, leaving only laughter and warmth.
At one point, Artemis leaned across Percy to pluck a fig from the table, brushing against him with deliberate provocation. Athena swatted her hand lightly, scolding, "Must you behave like a mischievous nymph?"
Artemis only grinned. "Perhaps."
Percy chuckled, sliding an arm around each of them. "Let her. Tonight isn't about titles or decorum."
The mood shifted then, from playful to tender. Artemis rested her head on Percy's shoulder, her silver hair spilling across his chest. Athena, after a moment's hesitation, let herself lean in as well, her hand finding Percy's and twining with Artemis' where their fingers met.
For a while, none of them spoke. They simply existed together, the crackle of fire and the sweet taste of wine grounding them in the moment.
Finally, Artemis broke the quiet. "I never thought I would share my life with anyone, let alone both of you." Her voice was soft, almost fragile.
Athena's thumb brushed against her hand, steady and sure. "And yet here you are."
Percy kissed the top of Artemis' head, then pressed his lips gently to Athena's knuckles. "Here we are."
The firelight painted their faces gold, the shadows deepening around them. Outside, Olympus still reeled from their defiance, but within these walls there was no scandal, no judgment—only three hearts beating in rhythm, choosing each other again and again.
When the food was gone and the goblets lay empty, they stayed close, laughter giving way to whispers, and whispers giving way to quiet touches. Not lustful, not hurried—simply the intimacy of belonging.
The night stretched long, not with battles or declarations, but with the gentle, unshakable certainty that they were no longer three separate fates, but one story.