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You stumble over mud, pushing blindly through the heavy rain.
The Satyr—if that’s what you call them—is only a breath ahead, leading you through the pasture, and under the roar of the downpour, you hear him yell, “Hurry!”
You risk a look over your shoulder.
Past a stretch of grass, three silhouettes grow ever larger, paired with a trio of talons and teeth, as six crimson eyes pierce past the rain. One roars; the other two follow. The bellowing sound leaves you shivering, its vibrations catching onto your very bones.
Sand has long filled your lungs. When you turn forward, a gasp escapes you as your foot catches on something, lurching you to the ground.
The Satyr hears your cry. Looking over his shoulder, he dashes over to you, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet. “Come on!”
You make to step, but your right leg crumbles, pain shooting up through you. You lift your eyes to meet his.
The Satyr stares at you for a moment—seconds that feel like entire lifetimes before he hooks your arm over and around his shoulders. His hands are clammy, shaking. He’s terrified. He came back anyway.
He supports your weight as you both stumble through the rain. The ground trembles. Your leg throbs. Squeezing your eyes shut, you realize what has to happen. “We won’t make it,” you say. “You have to leave me.”
The earth rumbles beneath you, growing heavier and heavier as hooves push against and off the soil. You don’t want to look behind you. You wonder if this is how you are going to die—torn apart by creatures you don’t understand.
The Satyr looks at you helplessly as he heaves for breath. “Pray,” he says.
“What?”
A triad of roars bellows in your ear—closer, too close, and the Satyr is yelling once more:
“Just pray—he’ll answer!”
You don’t know what he means, who he’s talking about, what will happen, but all you do know, in that moment, is that you want out of whatever hell this is.
And so you pray.
Silence consumes the world. Your ears pop. Thousands of things happen at once—more than you could ever comprehend because the rain has stopped, but not in the sense the skies have cleared. The rain has stopped. Raindrops hang in the air like decorations strung from the sky. Your chest rises and sinks. You search for breath and find yourself mesmerized.
You peer over your shoulder. Streams of water, pulled from the surrounding raindrops, swirl around the three monsters until it engulfs them whole, compacting into a sphere of uncertain tides. Within, the monsters burst into a mess of dust. You don’t even hear them scream.
All at once, the still raindrops fall from the skies as if cut from their strings. All at once, the world grows loud. The silence disperses like a disturbance of crows with each bead of water that returns to the earth.
You stare at where the monsters once stood. “What was that?”
The Satyr’s shoulders sag from relief, but they don’t lose all their tension. He smiles at you, albeit a bit weak. “Just remember to make an extra offering during dinner today.”
When you make it to the borders of this so-called Camp Half-Blood, you leave the rain behind you. The clouds fear the boundary. They do not dare to follow you in. With your arm still looped around the Satyr’s neck, you hobble forward, wanting out of your soaked clothing and shoes.
Unfamiliar voices sound from ahead.
You lift your gaze, and appearing at the top of the hill, teenagers in orange shirts run down to meet you.
“Mal! Glad to see you,” one of them exclaims, patting the Satyr on the shoulder.
Another wraps a towel around you, shooting you a warm smile, and someone shoves a straw full of yellow liquid down your throat without warning.
“Nectar,” they tell you, “Heals wounds.” To prove their point, the throbbing pain in your ankle begins to recede.
Mal asks, “How did—”
“Percy sent us,” they reply. “Said you’d be here soon with a new Demigod. I guess that’s you.” They glance over at you, but not unkindly.
Mal unloops your arm from his neck, and with your ankle feeling as good as new, he has deemed it fine to lead you forward, up the hill, down the forest path. The teenagers in orange t-shirts run ahead. You catch bits and pieces of their conversation: afternoon swordsmanship practice, evening ship-racing, midnight sing-a-long.
Curiosity chews away at you.
“I’m... sorry your journey here was so rough.”
You blink, pulling away from your thoughts to look at Mal. You smile weakly. “That’s okay. I don’t think it could have gone much better.”
“I don’t know.” Mal deflates. “Everything went so fast—I didn’t sense the monsters until it was too late, so we didn’t have any time to get a boat.”
“Why a boat?” you ask.
Mal answers, “Traveling by water is the safest way to get here.”
“Oh." You assume it’s because monsters can’t swim, but something in your gut tells you otherwise. You can’t find it in yourself to ask.
Now that you’re not being chased by bloodthirsty monsters, Mal takes his time to tell you about the tales and history of Camp Half-Blood, a safe-haven for Demigods, those with divine blood within them. Those who are just like you.
He tells you about the local wood nymphs and naiads, the horse and pegasus stables, about the copper dragon slumbering away time by the pine tree you saw earlier. He tells you about the existence of God’s—capital G’s and all. But his voice gains this soft tone when he tells you about the brothers and sisters you will gain here, be that because of the divinity in your veins or the bonds you will soon forge.
As you pass through the overgrowth, a breath of cold wind and salt water slams against you. The forest falls behind. A valley, lush with life and all-encompassing, opens itself up to you. Century-old Greek buildings are scattered across the scene, weaved between patches of woodland and along lengths of river.
You pass by kids your age. They’re dressed in those same orange shirts and they’re all doing an assortment of activities: climbing lava-leaking rock walls, playing in the volleyball pits, practicing archery at the ranges. Some wave to you as you pass. You wave back.
Your feet hit soft land, patches of grass, and a mix of sand, as you trail along a small lake.
“—Percy!”
You lift your gaze.
There’s a row of canoes pulled up to the shore that catches your eye, but something past it steals your attention just as fast.
There’s a young man in the lake. No, rather, he’s standing on the lake. He has a messy mop of black hair, and instead of that t-shirt everyone else seems to be wearing, he dons an orange chlamys. (How you know the name of a Greek garment is beyond you.) The fabric seems to waver like water in the wind. With bare feet, the young man scampers across the surface of the lake as if it’s a pane of glass. He leaves behind ripples with every step.
Swimming through the water after him is a group of teenagers. There’s a mix of yelling—a mix of laughter. When one gets close enough, they grab onto the man’s ankle and yank him down, victimizing him to gravity. The man yelps, going under. When he breaks past the surface a second later, he’s piled upon. The teenagers latch onto him like barnacles, but the man doesn’t move to push them off—doesn’t even sink from the extra weight.
And then the man’s eyes meet yours.
You’re far enough away that a part of you thinks he’s not looking at you, but then he lifts a hand and waves, smiling. The teenagers follow his gaze to you.
Flushing under the sudden attention, you give a little wave before running after Mal who has walked a bit ahead, too lost in his own ramblings to have noticed your lack of presence.
You ask, “Who was that?”
“Hmm?”
“The guy on the lake.”
Mal stops and casts a glance over his shoulder, and when he sees who you’re talking about, a fond smile spreads across his face. He looks at you. “Oh, just the local river spirit,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. “Come on. I need to introduce you to the Camp Director so we can get you settled in.”
“Oh," you say. "Right." Casting one last look at the lake, you follow Mal to what he calls the Big House.
When Mal said camp director, you are not expecting a half-man half-horse relaxing on the porch of a very tall farmhouse. He introduces himself as Chiron: a teacher of heroes. You don’t even get to talk to him much before they hand you off to a camp counselor by the name of Jana for a proper tour of the campgrounds.
The tour takes up a majority of the day. It concludes with the introduction of the divine cabins, counting fifteen, twenty, maybe more, and when Jana finishes naming all the Gods, you can’t help but ask, “What happens if no one claims me?”
Jana turns back to look at you. She smiles softly. “Don’t worry. The Gods are supposed to claim you when you’re thirteen, and if they don’t—well, let’s just say they’d be in for an earful.” She opens her mouth to add something else, but she hesitates. Her gaze strays off to something in the woods. “Practically everyone knows about it, so I'll just tell you. I got here when I was eleven, but I wasn’t claimed until the day before my thirteenth birthday. Guess Mom was really putting it off.” Her voice dies off to a mutter.
“Oh,” you say, not really knowing how to respond. “I’m sorry.”
Jana looks at you and brightens. “Nah, don’t be. I’m not that hung up about it. We have Percy, after all.”
There—that name again.
Jana leads you to one of the larger cabins—one more worn down than the rest, with a caduceus centered above the doorway. She turns to you. “Until you’re claimed, you’ll be hanging with the Hermes kids. Their dad, the God of Travelers, isn’t picky about who he houses.”
At the nervous look on your face, Jana adds, smiling, “They’re all nice kids. You’ll make friends there.”
You’re claimed the second you walk through the door.
Meeting the half-siblings you never knew you had is quite the unnerving experience, but everyone greets you with warm smiles, quick introductions, and a mention of a certain… entrance ceremony. You worry about what that entails.
When you’re brought to the mess hall, an open pavilion under the skies, you sit off to the side of your cabin’s table, a little away, not confident in mingling, but one of your half-siblings calls you over and makes room beside them. They ask your name. You ask theirs. They swing their arm over your shoulders, bringing you close; another reaches out to ruffle your hair.
You’ve never felt like you’ve belonged.
Maybe, you have a chance here.
Not long after, everyone at your table rises, and you follow suit, even if you have no clue what you’re doing. And so you ask, “What are we doing?”
Leslie, the girl who has decided she is your new best friend, glances at you. “We offer a portion of our meal to the gods.”
Another boy—Caleb, if you remember correctly, nudges you by the elbow as you walk toward the fire pit. “I heard Percy helped you out on your way here. You should dedicate a piece to him.”
And that’s when you finally ask, “Who’s Percy? I keep hearing people say that name.”
“Vice-Director,” Caleb answers. He gestures his head. “There—next to Chiron.”
You follow his gaze.
You spot Chiron standing off by the edges of the pavilion. He’s not hard to find, considering he has two more legs than most people, but standing right beside him, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with said centaur, is the young man from the lake. You’re closer than you were earlier. You make out a streak of white in his black hair you didn’t see before. His chlamys is nowhere to be found. Instead, he’s dressed in casuals: a jacket and sweats, and as if sensing your curiosity, he looks up.
There’s half a pavilion between you two. Yet, even from here, his bright sea-green eyes take hold of your own. His lips break out in a smile, warm and welcoming. He waves at you before he returns to his conversation with Chiron, letting out a laugh when the centaur says something amusing.
You take half your meal and dump it in the fire.
Camp becomes your home faster than you realize. You fall into banter. You get thrown into the lake. Someone—maybe a few others throw a pillow at you to stop your midnight snoring. You make friends. You make enemies. It’s been two weeks and you never want to leave.
There’s nothing left outside for you to miss, and even if you have already been claimed, only silence greets you at the end of Olympus radio. You guess your parent only claimed you because it was a requirement, and not that they actually care. Somehow, you don’t really mind.
The daily life of a Demigod is way more physically demanding than your average physical ed. class, but everything comes easy to you—as if you’ve been waiting all your life for this.
Mornings are rough. Leslie’s the one who practically has to yank you out from under your covers. You step out of the cabin. You blink blearily, a yawn on your tongue when something—someone catches your eye.
A ways away by the trail leading up to the Big House, is Percy. Beside him stands a young girl. She’s not dressed in an orange t-shirt and that’s what gives it away that she’s not from camp, and for a second, dawn's light catches onto the silver circlet on her head. The girl says something. Percy laughs, warm and bright, before they disappear up the trail.
Something you have learned quite quickly is that Percy is rarely left alone—perhaps, not at all.
When he’s not weighed down by the company of young Demigods, he’s taken aside by strangers you don’t know the name of. Sometimes, they’re people you’ve seen before. Most of the time, it’s someone new.
The first time you summon the courage to ask, someone answers, “They’re a friend of his.”
Another time: “A former Camper.”
The most recent arrives by the afternoon.
“Hermes?” you ask, going still. “The God of Travelers?”
“Yeah,” Leslie polishes her knife, holding it up to the sun, “He comes by often to check on his kids. I was surprised too, at first.”
“And Gods, they just—drop in like that?”
Leslie gives you a strange look and replies, “It’s Percy,” like that itself is an answer.
Perhaps, it is. Perhaps, it’s the only answer that makes sense, but you don’t understand that yet.
You will.
A child of the Big Three promises all sorts of trouble. That’s one of the things you soon learn because it’s nearly midnight when you’re dragged out of bed by distant shouting.
You make it to the north shore of Long Island, running. You aren’t alone. Demigods from other cabins have been roused from their sleep and their beds in order to see the commotion.
And Gods, do you see it.
A creature you can only describe as the depths of nightmares crawls out from the water. It has teeth. It has claws. It has too many limbs, more than it could ever need, and it’s looking down at a small sailboat that is desperately racing to shore. There’s a girl aboard, a satyr by her side.
Demigod, you think.
The creature and the sailboat are just outside of the borders, away from the promised protection. You don't know if there's anything you can do.
Even in the dark of night, under the gaze of the moon, a flash of orange draws your eyes forth like a moth to a flame. Your breath hitches.
Gone are his jacket and sweats, his mellow and mirthful nature. In their place is an orange chlamys swept around his shoulders, flitting in the wind, a blue toga hugging his body.
Percy walks to the Sound. When his feet hit the water, he does not sink. He stares straight on, slow and patient, radiating an incomprehensible, intangible force you cannot dare hope to understand.
The creature studies him as he approaches. It sings of magic and the ancients, but its attention soon draws back to the small sailboat.
You feel the earth tremble beneath your feet.
The tide recedes, stealing away from the shallow sands and suddenly, the sea is rising. The land is sinking.
Like tendrils, talons, thorns—shapes of water arise from the ocean surface, ascending higher and higher until they begin to swirl around the creature as if gauging its foe.
The creature lashes out, quicker than sound. It cuts through the water, but the shapes regenerate just as fast—taunting.
Water winds around the creature, wrapping round and round until it snaps tight like chains. The creature cries. The sound, terror given form, echoes through the gloom of the night. The water squeezes tighter and tighter, its currents running faster and faster until they run white, a turbulence of oxygen.
You do not shy away from the sight. The creature bursts, crumbling to golden dust that is soon carried away into the tides, returning to the depths below, and a gust of wind cuts through the campgrounds.
You stare at Percy’s back, unwavering and steady.
A fortune, is it not?
Off to your side, a trio of naiads murmur to each other.
To have a guardian worth a thousand foes.
When Percy turns just so, his chlamys catching on the wind, you see that his eyes burn with the color of the sea, a tempest, a storm.
The God of Loyalty, Currents, and Voyage, the nymph says. The ascended Son of the Sea itself.
“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You’re telling me that Percy isn’t a local river spirit? He’s a God?”
Leslie smiles at you, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Took you long enough.”
Learning that Percy, the Vice-Director of Camp Half-Blood, is not just your average immortal, but a God isn’t as reality-breaking as you thought it’d be. He still shows up at breakfast late, a mess of unkempt hair and drool on his shirt. He still fools around in the water, throwing kids into the lake whenever he feels like it, and although he claims it’s supposed to be a punishment, none of the kids agree.
But learning about Percy’s divinity is only the start of it all.
Percy Jackson is no God of War, but from what you’ve heard about his high tales and legends, he too has been carved out of battle just as any other soldier—just as any other hero.
The cage opens. The monsters lunge, and Percy steps forth with nothing more than a flutter of wind. He sails through the air, his blade catching the sunlight that bleeds it gold. He dances away from talons, claws—jumps over a sweeping tail and evades every snap of sharp teeth.
Percy yells out—but not in distress. To the crowd, he yells where to plant your feet, how to time your parries, and what openings to look out for, all the while he toys with the monsters like it’s mere child's play. He is a riptide given form. You can’t take your eyes off him, and from your peripheral vision, no one else can either.
Percy pushes through the ranks—a flurry of gold and blue as his chlamys flutters in the chaos. Reeling back his arm, he hurls his blade. It pierces through the air with a sharp whistle, riveting a monster by its head. It crumbles to dust, taken by the wind.
You think trouble. There are still monsters left in the demonstration, hungry for his head, and Percy's sword is far from reach. You sit at the edge of your seat. Without wavering, Percy jumps back and lets his palms roll open. Droplets of water form around his fingertips, pulled from the moisture in the air, hardening into the shape of two dual blades.
He lunges forward faster than you know.
Golden dust carries off into the wind as cheers erupt from all sides of you. You stay in your seat, silent.
Percy Jackson is no God of War, but after bearing witness to swordsmanship that has been salvaged from the past plains of battle, you can’t help but wonder about a world where he had ascended as one. You wonder how such a world would have turned out. You wonder how many kingdoms and armies and Gods would have fallen if he had.
One day, you ask Caleb if Percy has a cabin. He’s a God, and with the number of cabins on the campgrounds, you would have assumed—
“We tried,” Caleb answers after a moment. “At least, some former campers did. It was supposed to be a cool surprise, but when Percy showed up halfway through the construction, he asked to have it taken down. No one’s tried to ever since.”
“He didn’t like it?”
Caleb goes quiet, staring ahead. “Not at all.”
Another day, you’re on your way back from the volleyball pit with the rest of your cabin, sweating under the sun, before two teenagers burst out of the woods, a boy slumped against a girl. You recognize them from the Athena cabin.
“Hey! Over here!” the girl yells.
A low murmur travels through your crowd of cabin mates; some rush over. You do too.
Your camp counselor, Evans, asks, “What happened?”
“Basilisk,” the girl huffs—Mika, you think her name is now that you’ve gotten a closer look at her. “Got any ambrosia on you?”
When no one answers, she grits her teeth and shouts, “Someone help me carry him to the Big House then!”
“How long has the poison been in his system?” Evan goes to loop the boy’s arm around his shoulders.
“Couple minutes—”
Evan shakes his head and says, “He won’t make it to the Big House.”
At his words, a wave of panic washes over the Demigods, and your heart begins to pound in your chest, heavy and fast.
Evan purses his lips. He lifts his head, looks around, and starts to ask, “Does anyone know where—”
“I’m here.”
A familiar voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and everyone takes in a breath, shoulders loosening and relief bleeding from their frames.
Your eyes widen.
A breeze of sea salt scent fills your lungs as Percy walks right past—a gust of wind whose only path is forward. You take a step back. The crowd parts for him.
He’s dressed in slacks, lazy and casual. He is anything but. He walks with purpose, a river refusing to curb, a tide that pushes and pushes farther up the sand until it can no longer. He kneels by the boy. You don’t think it’s commonplace for Gods of all beings to kneel, but it’s Percy, and—
Oh, you think.
You have finally begun to understand.
When Percy tears through the fabric of the boy’s shirt to get a better look at the wound, everyone winces at the sight of grotesque purple tendrils branching across his skin, arising from the puncture wounds, but Percy doesn’t even flinch—rather, he smiles. “Hey, Dia. Thought you said you were light on your feet. You're telling me that was all talk?”
The boy—Dia manages a smile, his face pale. “Sneak attack,” he wheezes. “Doesn’t count.”
“Oh?” Percy laughs. His fingers ghost over the wound and when Dia’s eyes flicker down, Percy draws them back up with his words, amusement dancing upon the surface of his expression, “A sneak attack from a basilisk, huh? Hard to miss a snake as big as that.”
“Oh, y’know,” Dia slurs, blinking slowly. “It was a baby one. Probably the runt of the family.”
“Uh-huh. Around here, ‘baby’ basilisks are still bigger than runts like you,” Percy perks an eyebrow, “You’re sure you weren’t bitten by a rattlesnake or something?”
Dia shoots Percy a half-hearted glare. “You think a Son of Athena wouldn’t be able to handle the venom of a rattlesnake?”
Percy shrugs. “You tell me. You’re the one on the floor looking like he just shit himself.”
“I didn’t, did I? I can’t tell.”
“Well, I’m not gonna check for you—”
And in any other situation, this conversation would have probably garnered a few laughs, a few teasings, but the crowd surrounding them can barely lend an ear—not when Percy’s fingers curl ever so slightly as if tugging on an invisible thread—not when a stream of murky venom begins to exit Dia’s wounds, his veins, his flesh, his blood. A growing stream of venom orbits Percy’s hand. It is a weapon ready to lay waste, waiting to be called by name.
You haven’t been here for long. You may be a bit slow when it comes to the uptake, but this, standing right in front of you, demands to be acknowledged.
For all Percy is a caretaker, a guardian, a God they may call Camp Half-Blood’s, he keeps his cards tucked close to his chest. He offers swordsmanship and canoe races. He offers blessings and midnight comforts, but never much about himself.
You’ve never heard about Percy’s control over poison, and by the expressions of the people around you, they haven’t either.
With a slight twist of Percy's fingers, the stream of venom forms into a small orb before solidifying. His hand pulls away from Dia’s stomach.
Where there were once tendrils of toxin is blemishless skin.
Dia hasn’t even noticed. His eyes crinkle as he laughs at something Percy has said, and you notice that warmth and color have returned to his cheeks.
Percy rises to his feet and extends a hand. “Can you stand?”
Dia blinks. “I’m not dying?”
Percy laughs. “Nah. You’re a Son of Athena. No rattlesnake could keep you down—said it yourself, didn’t you?”
“Oh, shove off,” Dia scowls, but he still takes Percy’s hand and pulls himself up.
Percy turns to Mika. “Can you make sure he gets to his bunk without tripping over himself?”
Mika blinks, before grinning. “It would be my pleasure,” she nearly sings as she yanks Dia forward by the arm.
As they walk off, Percy calls after them, “I’ll see you at swordsmanship practice!”
“I’m telling you—it was a sneak attack!”
Percy throws his hands up. “I didn’t even say anything!”
Dia throws one last glare at Percy, but before he turns his head forward, you catch the inkling of a smile on his lips.
You turn back to Percy. Everyone else does too, but he’s already walking towards the forest, playing throw-and-catch with the sphere of venom. “I’ll see you guys at the mess hall!” he calls.
“Where are you going?” Evans asks.
And without turning around, Percy replies, “Hunting.”
When he returns at dinner with a dead rattlesnake in hand, Dia’s jaw practically hits the floor before he hastily reasons to anyone who will listen, I swear it was a Basilisk! You have to believe me!
Mika barely contains her amusement behind a hand, and Dia looks like he's on the verge of a breakdown, but that is until Blackjack, Percy’s pegasus, emerges from the woods, dragging one very dead basilisk behind him. The pavilion explodes in wheezes and cackles. Dia almost does too—just not in laughter.
You don’t know much about Percy Jackson. Apparently, not many do either—and some are perfectly content with this status quo. You don’t disagree.
When the Gods refuse to answer—as they always do, Percy is there. Perhaps, he is more human than god. Percy with his witty remarks, his ruthless sarcasm, his lack of restraint when it comes to saying what’s on his mind. Percy with his care in looking after Demigod children that aren’t even his own. Percy with his quest to ensure kids can be kids—something that most Gods don’t even understand.
You wonder how many Demigods had been shipped off to war before Percy came along. You wonder if he was one of them.
You have one bead on your necklace when a new Demigod arrives at camp, looking haggard and worn (like everyone does when they get to the borders). Somehow, you’re saddled with the task of showing her around.
She’s fiddling with her orange t-shirt and breaking in her new pair of sneakers as you lead her through the camp, telling her about the local wood nymphs and naiads, the horse and pegasus stables, about the copper dragon slumbering away time by a pine tree. You tell her about myths-turned-reality. You tell her about the family she will soon gain here.
As you approach the northern shore, the ground rumbles beneath your feet. Behind you, the tall trees groan.
The girl freezes, looking around in alarm, but you quickly pull her to the side as a tsunami bursts from the forest, surging toward the beach. Surfing atop its crest, of course, is Percy. There's a blinding grin on his face. His black hair wavers from the force of the wind, his chlamys flitting behind.
Scattered in the water are other Demigods. Some are sputtering. Others are cruising. Most of them are laughing high and bright as they’re pulled along with waves. The tsunami continues on, taking its inhabitants with it. Forward, it sings. Forward, it goes.
The girl has to practically scrape her jaw off the ground as she turns to you and asks—sputters, “What was—who was that?”
You smile, a twinkle in your eye. “Oh, just the local river spirit.”
You don’t know what your divine parent is even thinking when they decide to send you off on your first quest barely a year into your stay at Camp Half-Blood. You can hold your ground, sure. You’ve done a little swordsmanship practice here, a little rock-climbing there, a bit more swimming than you’d like everywhere. That’s your comfort zone. Comfort, however, is not being sent off to retrieve some stolen artifact from a legion of monsters whose only desire is to tear you limb from limb.
You go a bit by train. Then, a little bit by hitch-hiking, but most of your journey is trekked on foot. However much you want to go by sea, a quest is something you must do on your own.
The plan is to sneak in and out. Keep low. Keep quiet, and you think, maybe everything will go according to plan.
You had to jinx it.
There’s an artifact in your pocket, and you’re running—fleeing from a storm of hooves. Exhaustion pulls at your bones. You’re not the only one, because Caleb and Leslie don’t look any better.
Pushing past stray branches and shrubs, nearly tripping on overgrown roots, you break out of the forest, gasping for breath, and it’s only Caleb’s hand catching the back of your shirt collar that stops you from plummeting off the cliffside.
The sea greets you. The expanse of blue swallows your vision whole, clouds dotting against the skies.
Leslie peers over the cliffside, her shoulders heaving. She looks at you. You already know what she’s going to say.
“We have to jump.”
The cliff calls your name—beckons you forth with its high winds and the plunge it dares you to take. You whisper, “We wouldn’t survive the fall.”
“Pray,” Leslie says. Her voice is steady, but when your eyes drop to her shoulders, they seem to tremble under your gaze. “That’s all we can do.”
You choke on a laugh devoid of humor, listening to the clamber of monsters not far behind, and you wonder what would be the better end between this and them. “My parent has never answered.”
Her eyes meet yours.
“Then, pray to someone who will.”
And suddenly, you’re one year in the past—planted in the ground, your ankle twisted, soaked under the sky, waiting for your end, the shouting of Mal echoing in your ear, wishing you could be anywhere but in the face of death.
You’re one year in the past—praying to someone you don’t know. And like one year in the past—
Percy, help me, you pray.
You leap.
Gravity forces its way down on you. The wind whips your hair back—blows your eyes wide open. Your limbs flail, searching for earth and ground and footing but finding none. Cold consumes your skin in a breath of frost.
Below, the ocean closes in, opening its jaws in the form of waves, eagerly waiting for your full descent to consume you whole.
You plead mercy to the sea.
It is not the sea that answers.
A geyser of water surges up to meet you, its frigid embrace knocking the air right out of your lungs, and when you breathe in strictly through panic, it’s not water that fills your lungs, but oxygen.
The currents rock you like how a mother would her child. Opening your eyes, peering past the bubbles, you see Leslie and Caleb, wading through the waters beside you. A rush of relief fills your chest. You would have expected to break a few bones from such a fall, but rather than the pain of impact, this newfound strength seeps into your flesh.
A gush of bubbles ascends past as the water cradles you back down to sea level, placing you amongst the tides that have long since calmed.
You break through the surface, gasping. Blinking and rubbing the water away from your eyes, you find yourself staring up at the face of the cliff, your gaze climbing higher and higher. When you reach the top, you laugh in disbelief.
Some part of you wonders what would have happened if Percy didn’t answer. Some part of you knows.
“Hey!”
You turn to Leslie, who nods her head to what looks like a herd of Hippocampi on the horizon. “Ride’s here.”
Caleb groans, treading water, “Remind me to give Percy a huge kiss on the lips when we get back.”
“He’d douse you in River Styx before you could even get close.”
“That’s only if he sees it coming.”
The three of you share a laugh—one that rings out into the salty sea air, and one that speaks of how grateful you are to be alive.
You fall fast asleep on the back of the Hippocampi. Your fight-or-flight response should be in overdrive, but all of a sudden, the sea feels like the safest place you could be.
When you return to camp, exhausted smiles on your faces, you’re welcomed home with applause and blatant pride. No one mentions your journey by sea. You receive lots of high-fives, shoulder pats, hugs—even another dunk in the water. Not all of them are from people you know the name of.
You don’t find Percy in the crowd.
You’re dragged to the fire pit where Demigods gather around to hear about your quest. Caleb and you chip in here and there. Leslie does most of the talking, but when she confesses about Percy helping you three at the end, no one is surprised.
Others speak up about their own quests. Most of them involve a little divine intervention by your resident Sea God.
“Do the divine laws not apply to him?” you ask.
Caleb blinks. “Well, he’s a God. They should.”
“Do you think Percy, of all people, would listen to Zeus—or even make a vow of non-intervention in the first place?” Leslie asks.
"Well, Zeus is the King of the Gods."
"Well, Percy isn't exactly the best example of adhering to authority."
As Caleb and Leslie bicker on, you can't help but smile.
After nights of little sleep and hours of running away from monsters, it’s nice to end everything on a good note.
It’s reassuring to you—to everyone. That while the Gods may be indifferent to their own children, sending them off like a lamb to the slaughter, at least you know that one of them will always be looking out for you.
An earthquake hits Camp Half-Blood in the middle of the night. You nearly slam your head on the upper bunk when you shoot up from slumber, awake and alert. The beds whine. The chandelier sways. Outside, the leaves shudder as shivers run through the earth.
Your half-siblings sit up from their beds. A low murmur travels through your cabin, but no one panics—not when everyone has divine blood running through them and has been trained to battle foes twice, triple—quadruple their size.
The earthquake doesn’t last long and some Demigods pull over their covers to go back to sleep. Some never even woke up.
You settle back into bed, uneasiness settling into your gut, but even after an hour of keeping your eyes closed, sleep refuses to find you. You tell yourself the earthquake was no big deal—that it’ll be written off as a little tantrum by some God.
Your gut says otherwise.
The next morning, Chiron orders everyone to stay away from the Sound. Beyond the borders of Camp, the far clouds fester with storm and wind: a threat of a typhoon. You notice that Percy’s not at breakfast.
It’s a strange change of pace. Apart from the occasional Athena or Hephaestus kid, the occupants of Camp Half-Blood flit around like ghosts without their daily aquatic pastimes. Demigods find other things to do. The grounds are rich with different activities and it's almost like things are normal, but every so often, you catch someone looking out to the Sound—waiting.
Three days later, Michael, a son of Hermes, returns from his quest. He returns alone.
Three cabins burn three burial shrouds, one for the living and two for the dead. Chiron takes Michael into the Big House. What they talk about is beyond you.
When evening falls, dawn scattering its heat and hues across the Sound, the Campers gather in the dining pavilion as always, and it’s there that Chiron announces that there will be no more issued quests until Percy returns.
A low murmur travels through the crowd.
You exchange a glance with Leslie and catch the uneasiness in her eyes.
The night that follows is the quietest you’ve ever heard Camp—even your cabin. Miles from two bunks down isn’t snoring. Neither is Adrian, your half-sibling whose bunk is above you, or anyone else in the cabin for that matter, but no one dares to break the silence. No one dares to suggest that Percy left Michael’s companions to die.
One was a son of Athena. The other: a daughter of Ares.
You didn’t know them very well, just their faces and their laughter from that one time Percy threw them into the lake a few months back. From what Leslie told you, they had filled his sneakers with elephant glue. Percy probably knew. He has command over most liquids—perhaps all, yet he put on the shoes anyway.
You wonder if they prayed to him.
You get your answer not long after.
You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until you open your eyes to Leslie shaking you by the shoulders.
Her eyes are blown wide. “Get up.”
Disoriented, you stumble out of bed, pulling a jacket over you before she drags you out of the cabin and onto the path toward the Big House. Morning light has begun to creak over the horizon.
You find a crowd of Campers. Someone’s yelling, someone familiar, and Leslie and you push through to see what is going on.
Standing in the middle of the commotion is Michael, eyes wild and lips curled in a snarl. And standing right in front of him—
—is Percy.
“Do you know what their last words were? You were listening, weren’t you?” Michael spits. His hands are clenched, skin nearly white. “They asked why you had abandoned them! They died in my arms thinking you didn’t care—that at the end of the day, we’re only toys to you!”
Percy starts, “Michael—”
“You’re just like the rest of them.”
And Percy flinches, eyes widening, as if he has been gutted by imperial and bronze. His breath hitches. The words settle on the silence and refuse to part with it.
After a moment, someone tries reaching out. “Michael, it isn’t Percy’s fault—”
“And how do you know that?” Michael snaps, his voice venom, shrugging off their hand before he walks right up to Percy and shoves him.
Gasps sound throughout the crowd.
Percy stumbles. His heel digs into the ground but he stumbles—not much, but all the same.
If Percy was any other God, Michael would have been smited into oblivion right on the spot—would have died with fury on his tongue and betrayal in his blood without knowing he was dead until he was, and you know that—everybody knows that.
But it’s Percy.
It’s then, of all moments, that you finally understand.
“You left them to die,” Michael whispers, his rage cooling to cold stone. “They prayed to you—always did, and when it mattered, you didn’t answer.” Blood drips from his fists. He must have cut through his own skin. “You didn’t answer, because you’re a coward. You hear me? You’re a spineless coward!”
And what must be the final nail in the coffin is how even in the face of Michael’s taunts and tirades, Percy doesn’t refute a word.
A gallop of hooves approaches. The crowd parts as Chiron trots forward, tension lining his face. His gaze sweeps over the scene—to Michael. To Percy. After a moment, he goes to stand by Michael’s side, squeezing his shoulder. “Michael, that’s enough—”
“LEAVE!” Michael screams, glare not leaving Percy. His voice is hoarse and he's crying, tears bleeding from his eyes because of something much, much more deep than anger.
“That’s enough!” Chiron snaps. He ushers Michael off to his fellow cabinmates who reach out with tentative words, but Michael shoves off their touches as if they’re burning him alive.
Taking in a breath, Chiron starts, turning to the quiet God, “Perseus. We can talk later. Let us—”
And Chiron stops.
Chiron’s face freezes, his eyes widening and swelling with horror, and when you look at Percy, you realize what is happening.
“Perseus, are you injured?”
You hadn’t noticed. None of you had—too distracted by Michael’s outburst to realize Percy’s hand is held above his stomach, pressing tightly against his body as ichor drips from his fingertips and smears across his skin. His toga—his chlamys, they are littered with cuts and tears. When your gaze lifts to Percy’s shoulders, they hold a sickening weariness—a sight not often seen on a God.
The world bursts into noise.
“My Gods, what happened?” Chiron demands, rushing to his side. “Bring some ambrosia at once!”
Demigods stumble over each other as they rush to follow his orders, terror lining their frames.
Within the chaos, only one person is perfectly still.
Michael’s eyes are wide and his fury has gone out faster than a candle surrendering to the wind. His mouth hangs open as if to speak. When his half-siblings turn to him, he stumbles on his words, breath hitching, “No, I—it wasn’t me. I didn’t—I would never do that to him—”
“I’m alright,” Percy says, smiling at Chiron, but the action is so forced, it looks like a grimace more than anything else. “It’s my mortal form. I just need to—”
He takes his next step only to stumble, and it’s only because of Chiron catching him that he avoids taking a knee. For a second, Percy’s hand lets go of his stomach. Ichor, gold and glistening, splatters onto the floor.
“Percy," Chiron demands, "Who did this?"
Percy doesn’t answer.
The population of Camp Half-Blood numbers hundreds—but even gathered all together at once in the dining pavilion, not many dare to break the somber silence weighing over the campgrounds.
From your table, you see Michael sitting at his. His head is tilted down, shoulders curled into himself, and one of his friends is talking lowly in his ear. Michael shakes his head. He looks like he’s about to cry.
Chiron is absent.
Percy too.
When you glance at the deserted table of Poseidon, an epiphany sinks from your heart to your stomach—
Percy can bleed. Percy can bleed and you had forgotten. You're not the only one.
Today is a late reminder—that for all Percy seems all-knowing, omnipotent, untouchable, a different kind of blood still runs through his veins.
You are reminded that even death can haunt the Gods.
That night, you dream of tides and currents, swells and whirlpools—of a gorgeous pristine throne room filled to the brim with crystal clear water, with finely-carved stone columns rising up to the marble ceiling that splays out into the engraved tales of heroes.
You dream of Atlantis.
You dream of a son before his father.
When Percy speaks, his voice echoes through the chamber softly. “You’re the one who sent Ares.”
You’ve heard many things about Poseidon, but the man Percy has described as someone who favors ugly floral shirts and khaki shorts is nowhere to be seen. The God of the Seas is wrapped in robes. His expression is heavy and quiet as he studies his son, and after a moment, he says, “I did. Of the council, Ares—”
“I know,” Percy says. His voice is eerily calm, his gaze depthless like the unreadable surface of a body of water that threatens its depths. His hand clenches into the fabric of his toga, stained with gold. “You sent Ares because he is one of the only Gods who would gladly strike me down if he got the chance. He wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to stop me.”
“And yet, you found your way past him anyway.”
Percy does not reply.
“Son,” Poseidon starts tentatively, “if it wasn’t Ares, I would have asked Dionysus. Perhaps Hermes, Apollo, Artemis. Or—”
“You,” Percy says.
A look of surrender—an expression you thought you would never see on a God—flickers across Poseidon's face. “Me."
That is when you notice the water around you is still, unmoving, and strangely silent. Walls and branches of coral obstruct the entrances and windows with such growth, you cannot see the outside world. A barrier of magic billows over the throne room. It sings of power—of divinity.
Percy has always talked about Atlantis with such high regard.
But in this room, in front of his father, Atlantis is nothing more than a cage crafted to keep him inside.
You turn back to Percy as he starts, “I could have saved them. I can still save them, Dad, if you just…” Percy pleads. “They’re still praying to me.”
“As I’ve advised,” Poseidon says, eyebrows furrowing, “it is a trap laid out for you. Something ancient is at play. Whether that may be a foe we have long since beaten, I would not dare let you leave to find out. Whoever may have orchestrated this knows well that you would never ignore a prayer—much less one from a Demigod under your care.”
“So you’re going to let them die?” Percy asks.
Poseidon shakes his head. “You’ve grown too soft, son. Your obsession with taking on the responsibility of protecting every Demigod that washes upon your shores—”
“Are you actually saying that’s a bad thing?” Percy asks, his eyes narrowing. “It’s a bad thing that I don’t stay on the sidelines and let kids fight for their lives.”
“That is how—”
“Don’t,” Percy snarls. The water curdles around him. “Don’t say that’s how they become stronger. They don’t need to be stronger—they’re kids. How, of all people, are you saying that? After you watched me crawl my way through hell over and over again—taking on the mantle of saving the world while most of the Gods sat on their asses because Divine Laws this, Divine Laws that—”
Poseidon’s gaze darkens. “Perseus,” he warns.
“We were kids! Fighting wars that weren’t our own!”
“Perseus, you forget yourself—”
“Smite me, then!”
Above you, below you, all around, an earthquake rips through the throne room. The currents churn. A tide fastens around Percy, swirling and swelling, and his eyes, once gentle like the morning tide, sing with the threat of a tempest.
The supporting columns tremble like a shiver down a spine, and coral branches splinter off from the barriers.
Atlantis threatens collapse.
But it is mere moments later that the earthquake recedes, only the floating debris of coral and stone as a trace of the event that has just occurred.
Then, you realize.
The earthquake from three days ago. The typhoons on the horizon, the unforgiving seas, and Chiron’s warnings to stay away from the Sound.
This dream is a scene that has already played out.
Percy stares forward, but there is this quiet defeat in the inward curl of his shoulders, and in the place of a God, you see a human—carrying a weight that should not be his to bear. “Smite me,” he says softly, “like I’ve wanted you to do from the start.”
The fury on Poseidon’s face falls.
An unconscious current curls around Percy, as if to comfort him. His eyes tremble. His face scrunches up as if fighting back tears, as if fighting to hold himself together as every atom of his body tries to tear him apart from the inside. “You’ve gotten what you wanted—for centuries,” Percy says. “You forced immortality on me even though I begged you not to.”
The world hushes.
“If—” Percy whispers, “If I’m not allowed to do even this—to make sure that no other Demigod has to go through the same suffering I did, just let me go, Dad.” He looks up at Poseidon. The expression on his face is something you don't think you would ever be able to describe, even if you were given entire centuries to. “Let me go.”
And Poseidon—Earthshaker, Stormbringer, King of the Seas, one of the Elder Gods who could wash the world anew with a single focused thought—drifts toward his son, a wave pushing him forth. His hand reaches out. His fingers gently curl around Percy’s face, lifting his chin. “I can’t do that.”
Percy asks softly, “Can’t or won’t?”
“Is this so selfish of me?” Poseidon holds Percy’s face with such tenderness you would think he's made of glass. “To ask that I don’t lose my son to time?”
You expect Percy to pull away, but he makes no move to. Instead, he stares at his father with betrayal bright in his eyes, but in tow, it is intertwined with this wounded love.
Percy can’t hate him, you realize.
Even after Poseidon sent the God of War to stop Percy—even after Poseidon refuses to let him leave Atlantis—even if Poseidon, centuries ago, stole the choice of mortality from his son who wished for nothing more but that, Percy cannot find it in himself to hate his father.
For the God of Loyalty to be bound by his own domain—
You wonder if all heroes face such tragic ends.
Tears break away from Percy’s eyes, rising with the water, as he whispers, “They stopped praying.”
Poseidon, after a moment, nods.
The coral walls retreat to the sea floor as something ancient shudders away—a sheen of powerful magic dissipating with the entry of currents.
“Son—”
And like how the ocean bleeds into chaos from the calm, Percy breaks away from Poseidon’s touch as if burnt.
“They were never going to make it,” Poseidon murmurs.
“You didn’t even let me try,” Percy says, voice low and quiet, turning to the archway. “Again, you didn’t even let me have a say.”
Poseidon starts, almost a plea, “Perseus—”
You dream of Percy, a beloved child of the sea who has prayed for nothing but his returned mortality. For freedom. For choice—to be able to choose to live and die and be buried along with those he should have joined centuries ago.
You dream of Percy, a God and hero once human, wishing the world had loved him less so maybe then, it wouldn't have tried so hard to keep him with it.
You dream of Percy—drowning in his father's cruel definition of love.
Percy looks back at his father. “Maybe you should have just ignored me like you do all your other children,” he says, resignation in his eyes. “Maybe everything would have turned out better that way.”
When word gets out—and word does get out, it comes from a Hermes kid. No one has to ask him where he heard it from.
Hermes was one of the first of the Gods to befriend the former mortal, Percy Jackson, but he was also one of the first to be changed by him—for the better. Perhaps, this is nothing more than a debt being repaid.
The next time you see Percy, he’s sitting on the beach, legs stretched out in front of him lazily, a lack of a gaping wound over his abdomen, and seated right beside him, knees drawn up to his chest, is Michael.
Percy says something. He waves and gestures his hand—probably talking about simple nothings and past tales. Michael listens quietly. He looks completely different from that boy who had ripped into Percy with scalding words not even a few days ago. Now, he's withdrawn. Tired. Regretful.
You realize that on his quest, Michael thought Percy abandoned his friends. Perhaps, he thought Percy abandoned him too.
You walk by without saying hello.
With Percy’s return, Chiron has given aquatic pastimes the go-ahead. Quests, not so much. No Demigod really wants to take one up anyway, at least for now.
No one blames Percy, because everyone knows. Everyone has realized.
They’re children. They shouldn’t be fighting wars or battles or even for their lives, but perhaps, they have hidden behind Percy for far too long. They’ve grown too reliant on this safe harbor.
You spend more time in the arena. You’re not the only one. Days end only by the nights when everyone is sprawled across the sparring grounds, heaving for breath amongst shredded training dummies, golden dust, and ruby blood. When Percy catches you guys, he bursts into laughter.
You still pray to him. You still burn offerings to him at dinner. From what you can tell and what you've heard, everyone still does too.
The only difference is you don't ask for what you did before. You don't ask to be saved. You ask for good luck for capture-the-flag, you ask for extra time when you're rushing to clean your bed before your cabin's inspection, you ask that Percy puts himself first before any other, because he has spent centuries saving lives that aren't his own.
A part of you wants to be protected forever.
A part of you knows that he will gladly do so if you ask—act as a shield until he shatters, shards and all, because Percy is human at his core and will care more than he’s asked to—even at the cost of himself. He’ll bear the burdens of the Gods and their children. Their blunders, their blame, their blood.
When he ascended, Demigods rejoiced—the streams, the rivers, the seas had too. He has always been meant for more. Be that glory, divinity, a command over water that all but one could parallel.
He’s found playing in the rivers with Demigods, too young to bear the weight of the world but must anyway. He’s found comforting scared children in the depths of the night, where even their parents ignore their prayers. He sends out sentient ships. He sends out herds of hippocampi, calls down pegasi from the skies, and blesses the drowning with oxygen.
Percy Jackson’s mortality was stripped away in pursuit of a better world. For his father, an evasion of grief.
The world will take from him until he is no more and forgotten—used for all his worth.
This young God will drown on the consequences of his loyalty, the part of him that has ended wars that weren't his own, saved countless lives and countless children—the part of him that chained his soul down to the world in the first place.
Perhaps, it has always been his fault.