Chapter Text
The second time leaving home is no easier than the first. Momma certainly hasn’t changed.
“You haven't forgot your good coat, have you, Josiah?”
“It’s summer Momma, I ain’t gonna need it.”
Momma gives me that look of hers, head tilted, eyebrows lifted.
I sigh, “I packed it, Momma.”
I catch a glance at my guide, clearly stifling a chuckle. Not too good at it though; a dumb smirk streaks across his face.
I pay him no more mind as Momma pulls me into a hug, which I gladly accept.
Clearly trying more to convince herself, she somberly whispers in my ear,
“It’ll be good for you.”
“I know Momma. It will be.”
She pulls back, hands lingering on my arms.
“You promise to write won’t you?”
I offer a solemn smirk,
“You’ll be wearing specs by the time I'm back because of all I’m gonna write.”
She shakes her head, but a smile pulls at her lips.
The satyr (I believe that’s what it’s kind is called) clears his throat,
“I’m truly sorry to cut your goodbyes short, but if we are to make the ferries, we really ought to be heading off.”
I sigh, and look back at Momma, anticipating the tears rising in her eyes by her tightening grip on my arms.
“He’s right Momma.”
I can see the effort it takes for her to let her hands drop.
“Don’t you do anything stupid on your way now, boy”
My lips pull slightly at the corners,
“I love you too, Momma.”
“Oh don’t you do that,” she sighs and just looks at me for a second, “I love you Josiah.”
“Bye Momma.”
The trip wasn’t all that long, all things considered; it was much shorter than the ones I took for the war.
We were able to meet both of our ferries with minimal running and had only one scare from a beasty on a forest path the satyr (Holt, I’ve now learned) had us walking. It was a young thing I believe; it gave my Bowie little trouble. Nothing compared to what I've had to fight the last few weeks back home.
Soon enough though, here we are, trekking up a hill which Holt informs me hides the camp from our view.
Boy what a view it is!
Nearest, there is a house. Fairly large one at that. Off to the side, a pit of dirt where figures can be spotted sparring with swords and the like. On the far side streaks of green and gold mark farm land. Just off from that looks to be two cabins, streams flowing on either side leading to a lake centered in the midst of the camp.
My guide voice drags me away from the view,
“Come on then, or would you rather just keep looking from up here?”
I take one last look before hiking my bag up and following him down.
Walking through camp, we pass a few small groups of other children scampering about.
I’m surprised by how many colored people there are.
Sure I didn't figure this camp would be all whites if they were asking me to come, but almost half of the population at least appeared to be not white. Not all of that was black to be sure, but still.
Holt hastily points things out as we pass, I don’t catch most of it.
We stop in front of those cabins I saw before.
“This is about as far as I will be taking you Josiah, I did make sure you would have someone to give you a full tour though, she should be here soon enough.”
He then scampers away.
Sure enough, after only a short while of awkward standing around, someone waves over to me, though it does not look like a lady.
The person is white, seemingly around my age, 15 or 16 I would guess, and well put together, clad in a green-striped summer overcoat, a light colored vest, trousers that match their jacket, and a stark, orange tie. On their brow sits owlish specs.
The only thing convincing me of her femininity was her deep auburn hair that was tied back into a bun, two strands framing her face on either side.
She had no hat though, which again made me question, but, come to think of it, I didn’t see many people wearing hats so I suppose they are not expected here for whatever reason.
She meets me and offers her hand with the confidence of a grown man. I take it; her shake is just as powerful as her eyes as they stare into me.
“Good afternoon, I do hope yer journey was fair. Ye can call me O’Neall.”
She had a noticeable accent (something European, definitely not British, but not completely unlike it.) Besides that, every word out of her mouth seemed to be planned to the syllable.
“Uh, it was fair enough, thank you. It's good to meet you Ms. O’Neall—”
“Just O’Neall, thank ye very much.”
“Oh, I—”
“It’s no bother as long as you get it right.”
I blink.
Well alright then.
“So, have you got a name?” She asks.
“Oh, sorry, it's Josiah Harris.”
“Wonderful. You should go set your bag before we start the tour, it'll be a long one,” she nods to the cabin behind me, a sign on the door has “Misters’” painted on it, “there should be some empty beds in there. Choose any and drop it off, you can unpack later.”
I simply nod and do as I was told.
The cabin is fairly empty, except for a few stragglers. A young man, looking to be Asian, glances up at me from his bed where he tinkers with something.
Wordlessly, he nods to a neatly made bed on the other side of him before returning his focus to his work.
I set my bag down where he said when he speaks, not looking up,
“Who’s giving you your tour?”
I blink and glance over to him.
“Oh, uh, O'Neill.”
“Good, she’s fair enough,” he lowers his doodad for just a second to look at me, “If you run into a dull looking blond with a cane, don't talk to him. He’s a donkey and it won’t do you any good to get in a tussle your first day.”
My brow knit,
“I could lay him out just fine.”
He laughs,
“I am not doubting you, just a suggestion," he goes back again to his work, “welcome to camp.”
I shake my head and head back out.
O'Neill smirks at me as I emerge,
“What did ye get lost? Come on then.”
She starts off toward the other of the two cabins, clearly expecting me to follow, which I do.
“Privies are behind the cabins, and there's a few scattered around here or there,” We come up to the other cabin, “This is the Ladies’ cabin, under no circumstance are you allowed in, or ladies in the Misters’.”
I nod and she hastily moves on, taking a sharp turn to the right; I have to actively attempt to make pace with her, despite her shorter stature.
We come up on a grove of fruit trees next to a field of crops.
“These are used for selling to procure funds for camp, our nymphs have the means to produce plenty of food for our eating with their use of magic, so it is heavily suggested to not steal these fruits.”
She climbs onto the wooden fence and reaches up, grabbing an apple from a tree, tossing it down to me with a smirk,
“At least not enough to be noticed."
I munch on my gift as we continue on.
“We have livestock for the same reason, but much more interestingly, we also house animals of the mythical variety.”
Ahead of us are stables and in their paddock the most wonderful creatures stand: winged horses.
“Pegasi,” O'Neill offers, “mostly fair creatures; every so often they get in an awful mood, but besides that, they’re as nice as they are pretty.”
“Wow... do you ever ride them?”
She laughs, “Good gods no! Not me. I believe there is someone who does, but I don’t remember his name.”
“I suppose I’ll have to see if I can find him then; just imagine flying, seeing as the hawks do while hunting!”
My guide raises an eyebrow,
“I’ll leave the imagining of that nature to ye, Josiah.”
We begin walking again, back and in between the barns where we are met with a grand field of flowers the color of the rising sun. Satyrs and what I assume to be nymphs are about, tending to and collecting the flowers.
“We call this the Field of Sun, I’m sure enough ye can guess why.”
I nod and ask,
“Do you sell these as well?”
She chuckles,
“Some, but mostly we use them to dye,” She points to her tie, “for a reason that I could not tell ye, it was chosen that sun-bright orange would be the camp color. All campers are expected to wear something of that color. There’s a dye house just above us on the hill.”
She frowns slightly and adds,
“You may hear it called the Sun Palace. I would take no mind to anyone who calls it that.”
She quickly perks back up,
“Oh! Also, when yer godly parent claims ye, ye'll be expected to wear a pin with their symbol,” she unclasps a pin from her waistcoat collar. It is silver with an owl emblem embossed onto it, “my mother is Athena, goddess of intelligence and strategic battle.”
“Wow, that’s certainly something to be proud of. When is one claimed?”
She frowns slightly,
“Sorry to say, but it differs quite a lot from person to person, some who have been here for years have never been claimed, but I was claimed on me first day.”
“That is awful, why would the gods not claim their children?"
The shorter shrugs, “Some only claim those who aid their image, and some simply have too many children to keep track of.”
My brows draw together slightly, but it is not lost on O'Neill,
“Please correct me if I am wrong, but you fought in the war, did you not?”
I am slightly taken aback at how she knew,
“I—well, yes I did.”
She nods,
“Me as well, Union, as I could guess ye were, and if yer godly parent is anything like mine, I am sure he would be proud to call you his son.”
“I…thank you O'Neill, I sure hope he will feel that way.”
She offers a smile before turning and leading us back past the stables.
“The pins,” she calls back, as our walk to the next destination seems farther than the last, “they can be made for you, but I believe the gods feel more inclined towards a child if they put in their own effort to do it. The only expectation is that it represents their sacred animal.”
Standing a bit taller, she adds,
“I made mine and it was not a huge struggle at all, quite enjoyable actually.”
I shrug, “I’ve never been much in the way of any artistry.”
She shoots a look at me,
“I suppose it is up to ye what ye do.”
We come up on a small, open faced building. The air gets noticeably hotter as we step closer.
“These are the forges, ye’ll see most of the children of Hephaestus here at some point. They fix weapons, flatten sheets for the pins, and make practically everything metal we use here at camp, so it’s best to treat them well.”
I peek in and see a girl, can't be older than 10 years, hammering away at what looks to be becoming a sword,
“Understood.”
We walk on, she points out the major armory as we do, but we do not linger once I tell her I already have a celestial bronze Bowie. She asks of it, and I tell her:
My father gave the knife to my mother once she told him she would be having me.
She did not see him again after and did not know he was a god at the time, let alone which one he was.
She gave me the knife once I was old enough so as to not hurt myself and it has done me well from squabbles in the town through the war, so, for that at least, I am grateful to my father.
We crossed a bridge over a river flowing down from the lake.
Across is the large house I had seen before.
“This is where the director of the camp, Chiron, stays. Have ye met him yet?”
I shake my head, “I haven’t, no”
A strange smirk pulls at the corners of her lips,
“I’ll introduce you then, come along.”
She leads us up onto the shaded porch and we enter through the propped open front door.
O'Neill calls out,
“Chiron, the new camper is here!”
A man’s voice responds from a side room and the clunks of heavy steps are heard,
“Wonderful.”
Is that a horse?!?
I am met with at first what looks to be a man riding a horse, but as he emerges I see that, no, he is connected to the horse when its head should be.
“Thank you for bringing him O'Neill,” he says as he approaches us, hooves clopping against the wood of the floor, “Josiah Harris, am I correct?”
I quickly try to blink away my shock, and am partly successful,
“I—uh— yeah, yes.”
The man chuckles,
“I see O'Neill did not inform you of my being a centaur, did she?”
He shoots her a pointed look, though it lacks any real spite.
“Uh, no sir, she did not.”
He smiles back at me, he has a warm face with a neat beard and, somehow, I only just notice that he’s black.
I know his blackness should be less surprising than the fact that he is half horse, but I suppose I just expected this much New York land to be owned by a white man.
Well, bully for him then.
“It is no matter,” he continues, “I trust you’ve been settling in alright, haven't you Mr. Harris?”
Nodding slightly, “I haven't had much settling time as I’m on the tour right now, but that has been lovely so far.”
He hums understandingly,
“Well then, let me not keep you any longer than the tour will. Do not hesitate to stop by if there is anything you need.”
O'Neill and I begin to head out, “Thank you sir!” I call back as we do.
We come up along the dirt pit I had seen before.
“This is the Big Pit, it's called that because there's the Small Pit also. That one is out back of the Mister’s cabin and some people play baseball or other sports there.”
We stop and lean on the short wooden wall of the pit, a few campers practice with blades and bows inside.
“As you can see, the Big Pit is for sparring. Spending a fair bit of time here is suggested; it is necessary so that one stays prepared for the threat of monsters and quests.”
“Quests?” I raise a brow.
“Ah…yes. Well, ever so often, the gods need a task done and, as their children, they come to us first to complete it for them,” she fiddles with a splinter of wood on the wall, “despite the great amounts of danger that can come with them, they are excellent ways to win the favor of both the gods and your fellow campers, so one must try to set themselves up for success in that regard”
“Do the gods not have servants or such to do that for them, why do they need us?”
O'Neill chuckles, “Aye, they sure do, just look in a mirror and you can see one!”
I frown and shake my head, but push it no further.
Crash!
The two of us jump back as a camper is slammed into the wall in front of us, seemingly out of nowhere, his adversary falling over him, catching his momentum by grabbing the wall with the hand not holding his sword.
Sweat dripping down from his blond curls and across flushed cheeks, a crazed grin stretches his lips as he scans between O'Neill and I.
I feel his hot breath from where I stand.
“Well what do we have here?”
O'Neill's brows furrow as she regains her senses,
“Don’t ye start Caldwell.”
The young man who was crushed into the wall crawls out from under the blond and scampers away.
“Bridget, Bridget, Bridget, how hard your heart is! I simply want to meet our new camper,” his golden eyes rip into me, “What’s your name, boy?”
He doesn’t look old enough to be calling me that without an overt maliciousness.
I knit my brows and keep an eye on his fingers tapping away at the hilt of his sword, O'Neill seems to have a similar reaction.
“Josiah Harris,” I carefully offer.
The blond hums and sheaths his blade as the boy from before returns, hobbling slightly, holding a pristine cane, which Caldwell takes without looking.
Oh.
He then swings a leg over the wall and slides over, all while shamelessly looking me up and down.
O'Neill steps up to him before his cane even touches the grass, my hand already grasping at my blade on my belt.
He raises an eyebrow at her,
“Bridget, dear, I know you are a woman lacking in sense, so I don’t mind assisting,” His face drops as does his voice, “if you know what's good for you, you will get out of my way.”
My fingers curl around my Bowie’s hilt as she steps even closer, leaning up to meet his gaze.
“If you know what’s ye, yer going to step back before ye don’t have any legs to step back on—”
My fingers unfurl from my knife, I step up to O'Neill, placing that hand on her shoulder, pulling her back from the blond as I step up.
This only causes his snarl of a grin to stretch out further,
“Good, at least he’s got some sense,” he shoots a pointed look at O'Neill before again facing me with a deceivingly soft look to him, “Are you planning on staying for the summer, or even longer?”
My eyes stay fixed on his,
“As of now, just the summer.”
The taller hums and casually leans onto his cane,
“Well, three hips for the Union, right? You wouldn’t be here at all, I figure, without that win of theirs; all of you lot must be just brimming.”
My tongue skates across my teeth and I am forced to bite it.
“What, nothing to say? All that work from good old Abe, God rest his poor, poor soul, and are you still not satisfied, boy?”
Thump!
Before I know it, my fist makes contact with that sweat glistened face of his.
He falls back against the wall and lets out a crazed laugh, flicking up his brows at me before tossing his cane away.
His knuckles meet me in return.
I catch a glimpse of O'Neill stepping forward, but I shake my head at her; my doing so offering the perfect opening for another strike from Caldwell, this time to my ribs, knocking me back, stumbling to the ground.
The strong grip of a hand in my hair pulls me back to my feet.
I reach behind me and yank it at the wrist as I twist away, filing the other into a stumble where I am able to make a few jabs at his kidneys.
He falls to his knees and I follow, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Dust from the dirt around the pit puffs around us as I am flipped onto my back under him, head thudding dully against the ground.
My arms still snare his neck, so I tighten my grip, but am swiftly met with an elbow to my already sore ribs, making me let go.
I roll, throwing him off of me.
Crawling, I try to stand, but he is clearly quicker as I am met with a boot to my side, knocking me back down.
Again comes the boot into me.
On the third kick I roll and catch his foot as I do, trying to pull him down, but to my surprise his leg gives and comes off with a metallic snap coming from under his trousers.
I am struck by the hard of a wooden prosthetic leg, then quickly again struck with the blond’s weight as he had seemingly been knocked off balance.
Kicking, I push the weight off of me and force myself up.
I see a flick of Caldwell’s golden eyes as he spins to meet me, but I am already flinging myself onto him, pounding into that sickly handsome face of his.
I do not know how long I kept on, but I am eventually dragged off by O'Neill.
She helps me to my feet and I see that our scuffle had attracted the small crowd of those previously sparring in the Big Pit.
Looking down to the blond, I find his eyes now looking just above me, wide with some emotion that I can not quite decipher. Fear? Anger? Embarrassment?
I look up.
Above me shines a picture of red light.
From my vantage below it, I can not quite make it out, but it seemed to be an animal of some kind.
I hear a small chuckle from O’Neall before she calls out,
“Josiah Harris, son of Ares, Welcome to Camp Half-Blood!”