Percy Jackson: An Endless of All

[The World Trembles with the Grief of Dream]

My grief—raw, endless, divine—spread across the fabric of reality like a storm with no horizon.

The skies darkened in places where the sun once stood tall. Dreams shifted, twisted by the pain in my soul. Mountains groaned. The stars themselves blinked in sorrow. And the gods of Olympus noticed.

They felt the sorrow of the Endless.

They felt me.

They saw the shattered remnants of the Maenads—once the beloved frenzied daughters of Dionysus—now golden dust scattered to Tartarus, cursed to rise and die again as monsters in stories shaped by my will.

I had not raised my voice. I had not declared war.

But my wrath spoke.

And Olympus listened.

A conclave was called upon Mount Olympus. The great gods of Greece gathered—Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Hades, Demeter, Athena, Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, and all the rest. Even Persephone rose from her shadowed throne. And Dionysus, eyes alight with fury and grief for his shattered sisters, demanded explanation.

But there was none to give. Only truth.

They debated. They argued. Voices clashed like storms—divine, ancient, furious. Yet through the fury, one thing became clear: they feared me now.

Not because I threatened them.

But because they realized... I could.

With the barest effort, I had unmade what they once cherished. Not through might of arms or armies—but through story. Through sorrow. Through power older than their own.

They came to a hard agreement.

Though Dionysus raged, the council recognized that the Maenads had acted without restraint, spilling the blood of an endless mortal son, even if the punishment equaled his actions. What I did… was not vengeance alone. It was justice—and a warning.

A second warning.

The first, long ago, had been when Zeus threatened to smite the newborn Orpheus, who was in the arms of Apollo that day. That alone had shaken them. But this—this act of divine grief turned judgment showed them what it meant to cross an Endless.

They would not forget.

And neither would the world.

As part of the accord, it was agreed that Apollo may visit Orpheus, for Orpheus was no longer a demigod, but an immortal relic of art and sorrow, a voice that would never die. A head that would never decay. A song that would never be silenced.

The Olympians also debated whether the tale should be passed to the demigods.

And in the end, they agreed it must.

To warn.

To teach.

To honor.

The story of Orpheus—the gifted son of gods who dared to defy death for love, who sang his way through the Underworld, who lost, who suffered, who was denied rest—would be told for generations.

It became more than a myth.

It became a lesson.

A tale whispered through the halls of Camp Half-Blood. A warning to demigods: of the limits of power, the cost of disobedience, the weight of doubt, and the burden of grief. A story that symbolized what it meant to love and lose, to hope and fail, to create something beautiful in the midst of despair.

Mortals would remember it.

So would gods.

For Orpheus became more than a son.

He became a symbol.

Of art's power to move gods and monsters.Of the cruelty of death.Of the dangers of pride.Of the strength and sorrow of dreams.

Even in centuries yet to come—when empires fall and new myths rise—his story will remain.

A tale of voice and silence.Of beauty and pain.Of a father who could not save his son.Of a dreamer who would not die.

And it will begin, always, with a name whispered through tears:

Orpheus.

The story spread like starlight across night skies—carried on wind, woven through dream, spoken in hushed tones around campfires.

At Camp Half-Blood, the tale of Orpheus became more than myth.

It became canon.

The senior counselors gathered first, Chiron himself reading aloud the chronicle Dream had inscribed in the stars. A story too sacred to be written by mortal hand, and yet engraved now in every heart that called the camp home.

They listened:

Of a child born of two divine fathers—Dream of the Endless and Apollo the Luminous.Of a voice that could make the Fates weep.Of love so powerful it defied Hades.Of a fall, and a curse, and an eternal echo of sorrow.

Some demigods wept openly, others clenched their fists in anger. Even the children of Ares stood in silence. No jest, no laughter, no disrespect dared rise. The children of Apollo looked downward—some in pride, others in mourning.

He had been one of them.

One demigod, a young son of Hermes, whispered, "Why didn't anyone stop it?"And the daughter of Athena beside him replied, "Because not even gods can stop the story once it begins."

They learned the lessons buried deep in the tragedy:

Love is not enough to conquer death.

Talent is not immunity to fate.

Disobedience has consequences, even when born of love.

Even the divine must grieve.

Orpheus' story became part of the training, of the rituals, of the warnings. Young demigods sang to honor him, their voices tentative, yearning for his strength. Some laid offerings at the base of the old sycamore by the lake, where it's said music sounds at dusk with no source.

A new cabin mural was painted by the children of Hephaestus—Orpheus' head crowned in laurels, his severed form weeping tears that bloomed into violets, his lyre reborn, glimmering in the heavens above him.

He was no longer just a cautionary tale.

He was a legend.

In an isolated island, a temple stood on an island far from Greece, nearer to the coasts of ancient Britannia—built from moonstone and obsidian, veined with stardust from the Dreaming. Its heart was sacred: a circular sanctum that held only one thing—

A podium, cradling the severed head of Orpheus.

Surrounded by an eternal choir of stilled winds and whispered hymns, his face bore the same expression: eyes closed, lips parted as though mid-verse, locked forever in that moment before grief overtook him.

And then came Apollo.

His form shimmered as he appeared within the temple, not as the golden god of daylight, but humbled, shadowed. Barefoot, cloaked in mourning white, carrying no lyre.

He stepped to the podium. And for the first time in an age, Orpheus' eyes fluttered open.

"...Father?" he rasped.

Apollo's voice broke. "Yes, my son."

Silence lingered.

"Have you come to kill me?" asked Orpheus, a question born not of anger but aching hope.

"No," said Apollo, gently kneeling. "I came to see you. To say I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not saving you. For being a god with laws he couldn't break. For not being like your other father, who moved stars for you."

Orpheus's voice was thin but calm. "You sang the sun into the sky for me, once."

"I would do it again," Apollo said, tears sliding down his cheeks. "But I cannot bring you peace. Only he can."

"You mean Dream?" Orpheus whispered.

"No. I mean you. Only you can choose peace now."

Apollo reached into his cloak and placed something at the foot of the podium: a crystal vial filled with sunlight, caught from the first morning Orpheus was born.

"Sleep, if you can. Sing, if you must. But know you are not forgotten."

"I'm still waiting for Eurydice," Orpheus whispered faintly.

"And she for you," said Apollo. "But the waiting may be long."

Apollo leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to his son's forehead.

"I love you, Orpheus. Always."

Then the god of light stepped back, letting his tears fall freely, vanishing in a flash of golden rays—leaving Orpheus alone once more.

But not forgotten.

Never again forgotten.