Percy Jackson: An Endless of All

The years passed like wind through a lyre's strings, soft and sorrowful.

Orpheus, though only a head, watched his son grow from an infant to a clever, bright-eyed boy. And I, too, watched—sometimes from afar, close enough to feel the warmth of his magic pulsing like a small, luminous sun.

It was on the eve of Eirenaios' eleventh nameday that I returned to the temple.

The temple was calm. Birds sang in the myrtle trees outside, and the sea lapped gently at the island's edges. Inside, I found Orpheus watching his son with quiet reverence. Eirenaios sat cross-legged beside his father's dais, his nose buried in one of the many magical tomes I had gifted him over the years.

He was a prodigy—strong in defensive magic, swift in healing arts, and unusually gifted in runes and potions. His soul pulsed with Dream and Light. He was a legacy of our bloodlines, but also his light—a child who would one day change the heart of Orpehus and build a legacy that will transcend generations into the future.

"Father," said Orpheus, as I stepped through the threshold, my robes trailing dusts of stars.

"Hello, Orpheus. Eirenaios," I greeted with a smile.

"Grandfather!" Eirenaios cried with joy. He rushed into my arms, wrapping them tight around me. I knelt to embrace him fully, breathing in his scent, like old books and sea wind.

The relationship between Orpheus and me had remained… strained. Wounds do not always heal quickly, especially ones carved by grief. But the presence of Eirenaios had softened him, and softened me. There was love still threadbare, but mending.

"Why are you here, Father?" Orpheus asked, watching me closely.

"I came to give my grandchild a name day gift," I said, smiling again.

"Really?" Eirenaios beamed towards me in excitement.

"Yes, really," I chuckled.

"What kind of gift?" Orpheus asked, with a note of curiosity.

"I have two gifts," I said. I reached into the folds of my cloak and pulled free the first:

A grimoire—massive, heavy, bound in dreamhide, glowing faintly with wards and ancient power.

"This is for you, my child," I said as I placed it into Eirenaios' arms. "It is magically bound to our bloodline and linked to my library in the Dreaming. Inside is knowledge—living and ever-growing. Spells, rituals, potion lore, warding patterns, creature lore, Greek myth, and our family's story."

Eirenaios opened the first page, where his name had already been inscribed beneath a tree of glowing branches—our family tree, which would bloom with every descendant added in time.

"This grimoire also holds your father's story," I continued. "Your grandfather Apollo's truths. And mine—as Dream of the Endless. It will grow with you. And with those who come after."

"Thank you, Grandfather!" Eirenaios said, awestruck.

"Thank you for this, Father," Orpheus said, his voice deeply moved.

Before I could reveal the second gift, a flash of gold split the room. With divine flair, Apollo appeared—never one to be outdone. In his arms shimmered a bundle of celestial light, which transformed before our eyes into a direwolf pup. Silvery-gray, eyes of sunfire, and large enough already to eclipse a mortal mastiff.

"A puppy!" Eirenaios shouted with glee, dropping the grimoire gently to embrace his new companion. The pup barked once and licked his face.

I sighed. "Really, Apollo?"

But the god only winked. He couldn't be seen being outdone by me. He always has to shine the brightest. That's the God of light for you. The direwolf pup yipped and wagged its tail.

"Bound to him by blood," Apollo said proudly. "It will grow to twenty feet tall, protect him and all his line. Its loyalty is eternal."

Eirenaios turned to his grandfather and gave his thanks for the wonderful gift that Apollo had given him. And Orpheus closed his eyes, whispering a quiet, emotional thanks to his father.

"You're welcome," said Apollo with a blinding smile on his face. 

"I have to get going, the sun doesn't move itself," said Apollo. 

Eirenaios went on to give him a big hug, and Orpheus said his goodbye before he left in a flash of light.

The joy in the room was thick.

"I suppose you don't need my second gift now," I teased.

"No, Grandfather!" Eirenaios giggled, hugging the pup again.

"Oh, but let me show it anyway," I said. With a flick of my fingers, I conjured a glowing lyre, ancient and beautiful. The strings sang softly as they floated to Orpheus' gaze.

He gasped. "That… that's my lyre. It was broken when…"

"When you were beheaded, yes," I said. "But nothing truly dies in Dream."

Orpheus trembled. "Thank you…"

"You're welcome," I whispered.

"Thank you, Grandfather. And Daddy," Eirenaios said softly.

"You're welcome, my joy," Orpheus said, tears caught in his voice.

"I can learn to play your songs," said Eirenaios excitedly. "While you sing!"

A moment passed. Then, Orpheus smiled.

"Yes. Yes, you can."

And that afternoon, father and son made music together for the first time.

Eirenaios plucked the lyre with hesitant fingers, and Orpheus sang in ancient Greek—a haunting melody about love, sorrow, and the hope found in a child's eyes. The song drifted into the sky, reaching Olympus, where even the gods stopped to listen.

I stood in the shadows, watching. Listening.

For the first time in eleven years, Orpheus sang. And it was beautiful.

—

Time passed again.

When Eirenaios was seventeen, he journeyed across Greece. There, he met a girl—clever, brave, kind—and they wed in the old way, beneath moonlight and witness of the gods. Together, they had children. And those children had children.

The family grew.

They returned to the island, but farther from the temple, they raised a castle—a place of magic, learning, healing, and dreams. Its design blended the shape of Orpheus' temple and the memory of my palace in the Dreaming, as Orpheus remembered it.

It stood as a testament to their legacy.

They would live. They would learn. They would care for Orpheus. And the songs would never fall silent again.

The line of Dream and Light had begun.