Percy Jackson: An Endless of All

As the last echo of my scream faded into the Dreaming and the mortal realm, I awoke—shaking, hollow, but… called.Something—something was pulling at the thread of my soul and being.

I followed.

Through the folds of time and sand, through dreams half-formed and forgotten. Until I found her.

A woman, pale and bloodied, dying beneath a broken moon. Her arms curled protectively around a newborn child, small, swaddled, crying weakly. The air shimmered with familiarity. And I felt it.

Blood of my blood.

The child was Orpheus' son.

A newborn boy with a wild, messy tuft of black hair, skin pale as milk, and silver-brown eyes that seemed ancient even now. His magic flared faintly, rippling the sand around him. He was a wizard, but also something more. Something that will give Orpheus the might to live on for a little longer, and the beginning of a family line. His soul was marked by Dream, by Light, by Song.

The woman noticed me. Her eyes widened, but she did not scream. Instead, with shaking hands and choked breath, she whispered:"Please… take him. His father is gone. His mother is dying. And his mother's husband… he is an old man filled with wrath. He will kill the boy if he sees him."

I stepped closer. "I will take him," I swore softly.

She smiled. Her breath rattled. Then she exhaled her final breath and went still, her face peaceful at last.

I cradled the newborn in my arms, holding him close to my chest.

With a swirl of dream-sand, we vanished.

We reappeared near the temple—his father's temple—where Orpheus' immortal head rested. The wind carried the faintest notes of Apollo's hymn. He had just been here. And as if summoned by our presence, Apollo appeared beside me in a flare of golden light.

He saw me. Then the child in my arms.

"Who is this?" he asked, voice tender, cautious.

"Our grandson," I said. "The son of Orpheus. Born of a woman he had met before Eurydice. She died in childbirth, and the child was in danger."

Apollo's face softened. He stepped forward, eyes misted with awe. He touched the boy's forehead gently and whispered an ancient word—a blessing for health, for hope, and for a life long enough to matter.

He held the boy, rocking him in his arms. And then, Apollo smiled.

"He is ours. All that we were—he carries it forward."

I nodded, then turned my eyes to the temple. "I brought him here… to show Orpheus. To give him something—something-to—live for."

Apollo agreed. "A child needs his father."

Together, we worked a small miracle.

Behind the temple, we built a modest stone home for the priests and priestesses—guardians of Orpheus and now caretakers of the child. The child's room was warm, sunlit, and protected with dream-woven wards. A cradle carved from starlight. A trunk filled with books—stories, spellbooks, music—all carefully chosen by me.

He would be raised in love. And one day, he would read the tales of his lineage and understand.

Then we stepped into the sacred temple.

Orpheus' head opened his eyes.

He saw Apollo and me together. Then the infant in my arms.

His voice cracked. "Are you… Here to end me?"

"No," I said, kneeling beside him. "Not yet. Not for a long time. I love you, my son. And I… I am not ready to lose you." This was my selfishness speaking. What parent would want to lose their child?

He closed his eyes, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"You must live," I said softly. "Live—for him."

I lowered the baby into Orpheus' view. The immortal head gasped. He recognized the boy instantly—his features, his eyes, his hair.

"I remember her," Orpheus whispered. "She was kind. Her husband chased me for minutes before he got tired from his old age. He was 80 years old after all. I never thought… he's mine?"

"Yes," I said.

Orpheus smiled through his tears. "He has her messy black hair, but looks like me. But there's something… like Eurydice, too."

Apollo knelt beside us, placing a hand on his son's brow. "Name him," he said gently.

Orpheus was quiet for a long moment. Then, with trembling reverence, he whispered:

"Let his name be Eirenaios."

"The Peaceful One."

"He will have what I never did," Orpheus said. "Peace. A future. A life where song does not end in screams."

And so the child of light and dreams, of grief and hope, was named.

Eirenaios, son of Orpheus, grandson of Dream and Apollo—The boy born of sorrow, destined for greatness.

And his father, though just a head, smiled for the first time in days.

Eirenaios brought out the will to live for Orpheus, even though he still grieves for Eurydice. He is a father now and has something to see play out. The thing they both and others don't know about Eirenaios will be a great wizard for a natch of healing magic. Even better in potions as well. However, the thing I have not told because it is my secret to keep is that Eirenaios will be the many great-grandfather to Linfred of Stinchcombe, who would later be known as "the potteer", for his smarts in potions and creation of Skele-Gro and the pepper-up potion. 

He will take that to change his family name to the Potter family.

Then, he will have seven children, the first named Hardwin Potter. However, that is a story for another time.