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Jason groans, sweat sticking to the sheets around him; a cocoon of impossibly uncomfortable cotton. He can feel the sun’s morning light filter in, telling him it’s time to get up. He has duties, after all, no matter how shitty he feels.
He gets dressed and immediately heads to the infirmary, where he takes some ambrosia - legionnaires are technically not supposed to take ambrosia without the medic’s authorisation, but he takes some anyway. Such are the silver linings of being a Praetor.
“Jason?” Reyna calls as he enters the Principia. He pulls her close as a greeting, not kissing her, but allowing each other to soak up the closeness. They started dating after Reyna was promoted to Praetor at Mt. Othrys - as was expected of them.
(He wouldn’t tell anyone that it doesn't feel right, that Reyna used to be his best friend, but after they got together, he only feels apprehensive towards her. But this must be what love is. He would never break her heart.)
“Morning,” she says quietly, then her brow furrows, “You feel hot, are you sick?”
“No,” he says immediately, “Besides, there’s too much work to do.”
She nods. Conquer or die, that is their way of life.
Soon the other campers will be waking up. He moves to pray at the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.
It’s late in the afternoon when Jason wakes up. He remembers taking a nap on the floor of Cabin one, silently reprimanding himself for being so lazy. It feels like a monumental effort to push himself up onto his elbows. He audibly groans. Jason hates getting sick. More than the average person, he thinks. He hates being lazy and forcing others to pick up the slack he should be carrying. He used to be a very sickly kid, but grew out of it when he was ten. When he was twelve however, and he was raised on a shield signifying his new role as praetor, the crushing responsibility bringing bouts of nausea onto him that never truly went away. (Those blissful months at Camp Half-Blood were his only reprieve). Now, he’s Pontifex Maximus. His role is holy, and far exceeding that of a praetor -
you think you knew stress? How stupid
- and he can’t afford to get sick, damnit.
He stumbles up and out of cabin one, ignoring the people congregating all over the place, and bursts into the infirmary. Will, at the front desk, jumps. Jason looks around for a moment; it’s a quiet day. Good. He didn’t want to bother Will when he was busy.
“Hey Jace, you okay?” Will says, eyes returning to the desk in front of him.
“Yeah, yeah, what are you up to?” He asks, trying to be polite and also stop swaying where he stands.
“Paperwork, Nike kid headbutted me so,” he sighs, “incident reports.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal. He was delirious. I’ve had a bag of peas on my face for the last thirty minutes, the kid is asleep now, and Kayla should be watching him from a distance, but I know she’s just playing block blast on her phone.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Kayla shouts from the back, and it drills into Jason’s head.
Will chuckles goodnaturedly. “Hey, uh,” Jason starts, “I’m not feeling too good, I might be coming down with something, I was hoping to grab some ambrosia?”
Will’s lips tug downwards into a small frown. Gods, he hates this. Why does he have to be such a bother? “It… usually ambrosia’s just used for injuries, it only takes the edge off illnesses. We let the campers sleep it off usually.”
“Yeah, yeah but,” but i’ve already wasted valuable time, “ It’s not that bad, just something to help, y’know?”
Will squints his eyes. “Sure. I trust you know where to get it?”
Jason nods. He takes the ambrosia as quick as possible, then leaves, throwing a goodbye over his shoulder.
Time for training.
He frantically searches the infirmary. Nectar, ambrosia, I need something-
It feels so bad I feel so ill I need it to stop I want-
Who does he want? His mother, who abandoned him? His father, whose divine presence shouldn’t be wasted on the likes of him? Lupa, who sent him to Camp at a mere three years old?
Thalia. I want Thalia.
Thalia, please come find me. Please come find me, I need you.
But he knew she wasn’t listening. Instead, he wiped his tears; he was twelve after all, far too big to cry. And he was a leader as well. He needed to be strong.
He opens his eyes and sees the too-familiar ceiling of the infirmary. At Camp Half-Blood, not Camp Jupiter. His eyes are crusty. He should get up. He closes his eyes.
When he opens his eyes again, he knows he can’t waste anymore time. He has work to do, duties to attend to, younger campers to be a role model to. With some effort, he slowly yanks the thin blankets to the side and stands up. Immediately, his head swims, his eyes burst with dark spots, and he finds himself laying on the cold tile floor, the next second.
“Hey, whoa, idiot, get back up here-”
He feels someone put their hands in his armpits, lifting him back onto the bed. His body is leaning against this person, and they seem to be worried about him, though he can’t imagine why. But then, he sees a flash of short, black hair, and it makes sense. Thalia.
“Thals, you came back for me?” He says, delirious. Thalia stops talking abruptly.
“I can get Thalia for you, Jace?”
Jason wants to argue, how Thalia being here is all he really needs (or maybe Percy), but he can’t keep his eyes open. He knows he’s being lazy, but he’s so, so tired.
Jason is five when he feels he really understands what it means to be a soldier. He’s had his legion tattoo for a year, after training with Lupa for two. He stands straight at role call, wakes up with the sun every day, no exceptions, always makes his bed to the standard, and trains and trains and trains until he knows each weapon inside and out. He’s particularly good at pilum, but he knows his centurion - a dark haired boy who runs the fifth cohort harshly, but fairly - wants him to favour the gladius, so that's what he trains with most.
This morning, he’s training again, fighting against the other legionnaires in his cohort. He’s trying to keep up, a beat behind all of them but still fighting back for the most part, even though all of them are in their mid to late teens. The youngest is thirteen, the oldest about to turn twenty. None of them hold back.
Eventually, he isn’t quick enough. One girl slashes his cheek, just enough to draw blood. He gasps, then screams when his calf is stabbed. Jason plummets to the floor, holding his leg, and some unknown legionnaire kicks him in the stomach. Hard. He finds himself unable to breathe, then, he’s vomiting all over the floor.
“Training, Centurion?” A voice drawls out, and Jason doesn’t see the reactions but he hears his centurion suck in a quiet breath, then bark out, “Cohort, fall in!”
Dizzy, he finds his feet and stumbles into the line. He raises his head high, feeling blood drip down his face, puts his feet shoulder width apart and his left hand interlocked with his right behind his back. He knows how to look like the perfect soldier.
“Yes, Praetor,” the centurion answers. The Praetor - he wishes he remembered her name, she reminded him so much of Reyna - sweeps past the whole cohort slowly, like a lion gazing at its prey. She stops in front of him.
“Grace?”
Eyes straight ahead. “Yes, Praetor?”
“Remind me who your father is?”
He swallows. He hates saying it - not because he hates his father, far from it! He is happy and humbled to serve Jupiter. But the scorn he receives from his fellow legionnaires always makes his stomach tumble. “Jupiter Optimus Maximus, ma’am.”
She considers him a second, tilts her head. He supposes it’s at this moment that the zebra knows it’s dead. “You’d think a son of Jupiter would be better than that.” She turns to the Centurion. “Carry on.”
Then she’s gone, and the cohort breathes, and the Centurion says, “Back in formation! We’re still running drills.”
Jason takes a deep breath and walks over to him. “Sir?”
“Yes, Grace?”
“Could I take some ambrosia? I feel a little-”
There’s a harsh noise, and his head snaps to the side. He was hit on the side of his face that was still bleeding, still throbbing from the imperial gold, so he doesn’t feel much additional pain. He thinks that the blood must be smeared all over his face now, as well as the Centurion’s palm.
“Don’t be lazy, Grace. Don’t be weak . We’re molding you into something magnificent, something worthy of your father. You’re going to be the best Grace, if you put in the effort. And if not, if you’re content with being a disappointment, well, that’s on you.”
Jason blinks tears out of his eyes, not wanting to be called a crybaby on top of everything else. He runs his sleeve over his face and watches it come back stained red.
He gets back into formation. All he can taste is vomit.
When he wakes up again, his nose is in Thalia’s collarbone, and Percy is sitting at the end of the bed, playing his nintendo switch. He makes to get up and-
“Stop, bonehead. You gotta rest.” He’s pushed back down by his big sister.
“No, no I gotta-”
“There’s nothing you need to do today Superman,” Percy says. “Sleep, you’re safe. We’re here for you.”
“Thali?” He whimpers, looking up at her, and the hand petting his hair stops, just resting there.
“I’ve got you,” Thalia whispers, cradling his head. He sobs.