The Tide Between Us
Percy Jackson x Siren!Reader CW: drowning (past); grief; survivor's guilt; loss; ocean stuff; angst.
The sea was calm tonight.
Too quiet for Percy Jackson's racing heart.
Standing barefoot at the edge of the old cove, his toes curled in the cold sand. The tide whispered just short of his feet, as if it dared not touch him without permission. No boats came here anymore. No campers. Just jagged black rocks, stubborn sea grass and the soft depressions of long-ruined sandcastles that only Percy remembered how to build.
The stars hung low and sharp above the water, their reflections broken by the waves' slow breathing. The night smelled of salt and rust, and of something older β memory, perhaps. The ocean felt restrained. As if it were holding its breath.
Percy rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension lodged there. Years had passed. Wars won. Monsters had been defeated. Prophecies had been fulfilled and then discarded like empty shells. He had stood against Titans, giants and gods themselves.
But time was the one enemy he could never defeat.
The sea was the one thing that could never be defeated.
He crouched down, unzipped his backpack and hesitated before reaching inside. The glass clinked softly as he drew out the bottle: green, thick and weathered from years of handling. Its neck was wax-sealed, cracked and re-melted so many times that it looked scarred.
Inside was a single folded note. The ink had faded. The paper was creased and felt as fragile as skin.
βIβm sorry.β
That was all. It had always been enough.
The memory rose without mercy:
Moonlight on water. Your laughter was bright and reckless, daring the tide to chase you. You had swum further than usual that night, your hair slicked back and your eyes shining as you called his name as though it were a challenge. Percy remembered the way his chest had tightened β not fear, not yet, but something like knowing.
"Don't go too far!" he shouted.
You waved him off and dived beneath the surface.
The sea closed over you.
Seconds passed. Then more. Percy ran into the water, shouting and calling, but his voice was torn apart by the surf. He dived in, his senses flaring and his power thrumming through him as he searched through the shadows and currents of the dark places where the ocean hid its secrets.
Nothing.
No scream. No struggle. No body.
Just a ripple. Then silence.
The gods gave him shrugs and half-truths. Fate. Balance. The will of the sea. Poseidon's eyes were stormy when Percy demanded answers, but even his father could not provide them. "The ocean took you."
And it did not give back what it had taken.
Percy refused to believe that. He searched wrecks and trenches, ancient caves and forbidden waters. He hunted for the myths whispered by naiads and sailors consumed by grief. His control over the sea grew sharper and stronger, but so did the emptiness inside him.
Somewhere along the way, the bond between the two water-born souls had twisted into something deeper.
Love, he realised too late.
Not the idea of you. Not the memory, polished smooth by grief.
You.
Remember how you used to sit on the shore and swear that the sea would never take you from him?
But it did.
Now, years later, Percy stood again at the edge of that promise.
He rose to his feet and held the bottle up, the moonlight catching in the glass. His reflection was distorted in the glass: older, sharper and more tired than battles could explain.
"I hope you hated me a little," he whispered to the water. "For not saving you."
He hurled the bottle with all the strength he no longer used. It arced across the night sky like a dying star, then vanished into the black water with a muted splash.
Percy didnβt wait for the sea to answer.
He turned his back on the cove and walked away.
Something stirred below the waves.
She had watched him for years.
From coral gardens lit by a bioluminescent glow. From kelp forests that wound around forgotten bones. She had observed him from the liminal spaces where the ocean blurred into something older than language. Now, she drifted between worlds β no longer human, yet not fully mythical either.
The sea had claimed her, reshaped her and silenced her.
She was a siren β not the painted myth of sailors' doom, but the ancient truth: drowned girls bound to the water, cursed to sing what they could no longer say.
She remembered the boy.
The salt on his skin. The way he laughed when she splashed him. His eyes always searched the horizon as if he was afraid that something precious would disappear if he looked away.
When the bottle sank, she followed it β not out of hope, but out of instinct. It was the last part of him that she could still touch.
She cradled it in her hands beneath the waves. The wax was warm from his grip. She could not read the note, but she didn't need to. Percy Jackson carried guilt like an anchor, and she had felt its pull long before the sea took her.
She lingered for hours, listening to the currents humming around her and letting his sorrow press against her like a tide.
Before dawn, she rose.
She placed the bottle gently on the sand where he had once built small, crooked castles that always collapsed too soon. Not as forgiveness. Not as a farewell.
A refusal.
She would not accept his sorrow.
Then she slipped back into the sea, her song dissolving into the morning tide.
Percy returned at sunrise.
He didn't know why. He only knew that his dreams had been restless, tugged by something familiar β like a ripple in still water; like a hand brushing his ankle beneath the waves.
The cove looked unchanged.
Except for the bottle.
It was lying in the sand, exactly where the tide should have taken it.
The wax seal was untouched.
There was no new message. No note from beyond.
Just the bottle.
Returned.
Percy's breath caught. The sea breeze chilled his skin and, for the first time in years, he felt as though the ocean was watching him back.
He picked up the bottle and pressed it to his chest, his heart hammering.
"You're still out there," he whispered.
The waves did not answer.
But they didnβt need to.
I wrote this short fic with Rosendale's "The Tide" on repeat β that quiet, aching feeling of loving someone you can't save, with the ocean serving as both a memory and a witness. I kept thinking about how grief doesn't always roar; sometimes it just pulls slowly and steadily, like the tide itself. π
