Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories. Percy Jackson and all of the demigods belong to Rick Riordan. The gods, giants, Titans, etc., all belong to themselves.

A/N: This story is set somewhere after volume two of the Heroes of Olympus series (and maybe after volume three. We'll see, once it gets published). Written in a two-hour sprint as a faux prize after reaching 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo Thanksgiving Day. I mean no offense to the fans of the Roman gods, I merely prefer their Greek aspects. Sorry, Jupiter.

Hello, again! I apologize for the long wait... it took a while to fix my computer after its BSOD, and then I forgot to put Word back on. No Word, no writing. Fourth chapter in, not really long or useful, just more of a filler to get the pawns- I mean, characters, where they need to be.

Poseidon did not spend many mortal days on Olympus. He journeyed there only to attend a summoning, to mingle on solstices, to speak with his family, when necessary. He preferred to stay in his underwater realm, where he was lord and all he saw was his. Here, in this mountain, the corridors and rooms changed to the whim of any god or goddess who chose to transform them, creating vast mazes that no one creature knew the true path through. And today, like any other, he found himself wandering the halls, lost, yet still aware of where he was, if not certain. He turned a corner, hoping to find a path to the other rooms again, and came face to face with himself.

With a yell of surprise, Poseidon jumped back, shocked by the visage before him. Eyes as green, blue and brown as the sea gazed fiercely back into his own, and Poseidon stared, speechless, for a long moment at his likeness. It was no mirror, as he had first thought, merely a painting. Taller than he, the painting had only a three-sided frame; the base of the painting rested on the floor, giving the illusion of a shared height between both the real and the representation Earthshaker. A mortal photograph could not have captured a better rendering, and Poseidon reached up a hand to touch the canvas.

His fingers slid off glass. Startled, the lord of earthquakes jerked his hand away. The path of his fingertips had left streaks on the clear surface, marring the image below and casting a thunderous look onto Poseidon's face. For a moment, he mirrored his visage, then called water into his hand and wiped away the smudge.

Poseidon turned, and once again paused, for now it was Hades who faced him, his face half hidden by shadow beneath his helm of darkness. It was, once again, a perfect likeness, and Poseidon resisted the urge to hail his remaining brother, to speak with him. That had not spoken in many years, more than he would have liked to recall. When had blood begun to mean to little in this family?

"From the beginning."

It took Poseidon a moment to realize that someone had answered his question, and he felt mild embarrassment that he had spoken aloud. "Who's there?" He could see no one, yet felt a presence, had heard the voice. Who was it?

"Blood of your blood, family of your family, here but not here, but no one, all the same. You speak of blood as if it binds things, as if it were thicker than water, that it can break all bonds that threaten it and triumph through darkest hours. Is that not what family is meant to be?"

Poseidon knew that voice. It reminded him of summers spent on beaches, sand kicked up in the wake of flying feet, and the dusk before darkness. "Hades?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I am no lord of death. Come now, Poseidon. Do not dwell on names. Names mean nothing to blood, for what to blood are names? Names are nothing, mean nothing. Blood is all that is left, in the end."

"'From the beginning', you said." Poseidon started down the hall, searching for the voice. "Not the end." He made little progress, as the progressing paintings never failed to halt him in his tracks, his curiosity growing with every one. The faces of the world were in this corridor, and he could not imagine who could have found the time, the patience, to extort the essence of the many, many portraits. "When was the beginning?"

"What," corrected the voice, louder now, closer. The faint sloshing of some liquid in a container, the tiny tapping of a thin stick against a rim. "What, not when."

"What, then?" Poseidon rounded yet another corner, and froze. Percy stood there- no, not Percy. A portrait of Percy. When would he cease to be surprised? He lingered longer before his son, and almost missed the next words.

"In the beginning, there were six siblings, six brothers and sisters who would stand together and face all foes with their blood at their backs and their strength combined. They fought back the forces that threatened their world, and took that world and beat it, shaped it, forged it to be their own."

Poseidon paused before a rendering of Gaea, an idealistic, artistic approach that was more earth, tree, and stone than humanoid. "They were together."

"For a while. Like all good things, it came to an end, and the family was broken."

"How?"

"You're not asking the right question."

"What's the right question?" Poseidon rounded the corner, and came to a halt, meeting the eyes of his brother with his own.

"The right question," said Zeus, smearing a streak of blue paint across Poseidon's nose, "is why."