Chapter Text
Perhaps, Percy thought to himself, killing Akhlys down in Tartarus was a monumentally stupid idea after all. Annabeth had been begging him to stop. He really, really should have listened.
Ever since she’d watched him kill Akhlys, she’d been too afraid to even look him in the eye. She tried. She stayed by his side even as she flinched every time he controlled water. For her sake, he tried to stop but using his power had become as natural to him as breathing. His nightmares started storms and water leapt to his aid without thought. Some days, controlling water was the only thing that kept him sane.
Percy wanted to believe nothing could tear them apart, that they could get through anything together. But Annabeth was afraid of him. She faced down monsters and armies undaunted with fire in her eyes. But she flinched when he used his powers.
It was death toll on their relationship, as much as Percy tried not to acknowledge it. Percy had promised himself he’d always be there for Annabeth, but he couldn’t be in relationship with someone who was afraid of him. He watched his mom go down that road. He couldn't do that to Annabeth. He could only stand aside and watch her distance herself from him. Their breakup, when it came felt inevitable.
Percy was gutted, but he couldn’t even blame her for being afraid. Annabeth, the girl he loved for years, couldn’t even meet his eyes and Percy had no defense. Akhlys had been begging for mercy. He did have to go as far as he did. He and Annabeth likely would have escaped Tartarus even if he’d backed off before killing a goddess.
A small part of Percy tried to rationalize it. Telling himself that it was necessary. Would they have still escaped if dozens of monsters at the Door of Death hadn’t run when seeing Percy?
Percy had never wanted to be looked at in fear. He never wanted even monsters to skitter away from him as if he were worse than them all.
As soon as the whispers of what he’d done rippled throughout the Gaea’s army—Godkiller. Godkiller. Godkiller—only the bravest monsters remained. Would they have made it through the doors had the rest stayed?
He wanted the answer to be no. He feared the answer was yes.
Surely, they’d needed every advantage they had. Surely, what he’d done was necessary.
Godkiller.
The unasked-for pseudonym echoed in his mind, never leaving his thoughts for long. It felt like a brand. A curse.
It shouldn’t have even been possible to kill a god. Percy had done so anyway.
He’d broken something inside of himself in the process.
Despite the disbelief and awe the other’s expressed when Percy and Annabeth escaped Tartarus, it hadn’t felt like a victory to Percy.
They were able to fight, but only because there were no other options. Neither of them escaped uninjured and the road to recovery was not quick. Even after a week and as much nectar and ambrosia as could be risked, they were still struggling with breathing issues and throwing up Phlegethon water. It shouldn’t have even been possible to be throwing up the cursed river over a week after their escape, but the divine side of his life seemed to have a vendetta against Percy.
Whatever healing abilities the fire water had been giving them in the Pit was tearing up their stomachs and throats outside of it. They struggled to keep down the food they desperately needed after weeks of starvation and malnutrition in the Pit.
Eating was painful, and the blood sitting in his gut made him nauseous. From what little Percy saw of Annabeth, she was faring better but not by much. He wished she’d let him in, but she’d avoided his gaze for days.
They both were constantly jumpy and on edge. What little sleep they did manage to get was plagued by nightmares.
Percy was terrified of losing Annabeth, but Annabeth didn’t seem to have the same fears. Sometimes…
Sometimes Percy though she would’ve preferred he died down there. In the Pit. Percy was man enough to admit that he had cried when Annabeth had woken from a nightmare and started screaming even harder when she’d seen his face.
They’d started sleeping apart after that. Percy had known their relationship was over, but Annabeth finally said the words to end it for good two days after, when she was finally able to stand being in the same room as him again.
He was sure that was as low as he could fall and nothing could possibly make him feel even more miserable. A week and a half after their escape, Percy had realized that the blood he was throwing up was copper, not red. He’d tried to convince himself that it was a mix of Phlegethon and blood causing the color shift, but the water had cleared from his system days prior leaving just bile and blood.
He’d traced it on his fingers and scrubbed at it with ocean water, willing the taint to leave his blood. Days isolating himself underwater healed his throat and healed him enough to cease the vomiting. He though it would make the denial easier, but training was his usual escape and without Achilles’s curse, every scratch bled copper and every bruise was tinged more orange than purple. Day by day his blood seemed to grow closer and closer to gold. It was misery, plain and simple. Undeniable and inescapable.
Percy knew whatever was changing inside him began when he’d shattered that glass ball inside of him into a million little pieces. He’d tried valiantly to shove it back together and smooth it over again, but his attention deficiency had never let him complete a puzzle before, let alone one with a million pieces that seemed to resist coming together.
Nonetheless, he would have kept at it, shoving those pieces together and denying what was happening to him, what he refused even to name.
A month and a half after Tartarus, the Fates showed up.
They were sick of his denial. They insisted he ascend. They said it was fated his thread turn gold. It was fated he turned into a god. They put words to what Percy refused to admit, even to himself. There was no other option. There was no gathering up all the pieces. There was no putting it back together again.
Percy was some fucked up version of Humpty Dumpty.
He’d taken a great fall and now all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again.
Percy had never been one to go down easy though. He thrived on spite. He faced down gods and giants and titans and primordials.
What was one more unwinnable battle?
He should have known.
Percy had never managed to circumvent a prophecy before.
Telling the Fates ‘No’ when they told him he must ascend was admittedly a dumb idea. He expected them to be angry, to insist that he do so anyway. Instead, they had just looked at him, their heads cocked in one creepy synchronous move.
Their eyes looked like they could see through him. See inside of him. Like they somehow knew him better than he knew himself. But then again, they had woven the thread of his life. They knew his fate in its entirety, from his birth to his death—or rather lack thereof. Maybe they did know they did know him better than he knew himself.
They certainly didn’t try to fight him. He wished they had.
“We See we cannot fight you on this, Perseus Jackson,” the first said.
“You do not want to ascend in this life? Very well,” said the second.
“Perhaps you will wish to ascend in another,” the last one said.
Their eyes seemed to stare at his very soul. He felt fingers drifting down his spine—under his skin, on his bones.
The phantom feeling made him want to vomit and claw at his skin, but he was frozen in place, shuddering uncontrollably, unable to move his limbs and fight. His soul was being prodded at. Hands grasped at him. Passing through flesh like it wasn’t there. One grasped his spine near his neck, another in his mid back. The final just below his former Achilles heel.
Then he was drifting away. Up and out of his body. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t feel anything but the phantom hands on his bones—on his soul.
He’d expected resistance from the Fates when he looked them in eyes and told them he refused to ascend. He’d expected to go down with a fight. He’d even expected to lose.
He sure hadn’t expected this.
Loop 1
Blinking awake to the familiar body aches of post-injury unconsciousness, Percy somehow felt miles better than he had in the midst of his post-Tarsus recovery. Considering the last thing he remembered was facing down the Fates themselves, that was definitely not a good sign.
In front of him, he could see the rolling hills of Camp Half-Blood and could smell the strawberry fields in the distance. Despite the sudden reality shift, for a few seconds, Percy actually believed he hadn’t screwed up massively. He was in one of the deck chairs on the porch of the Big House, and everything was fine. Just another day at camp like any other.
A glass of nectar was sitting on the table next to him, which he grabbed absently while taking stock of his situation.
Glancing to the side, he almost dropped the glass.
“Careful,” Grover murmured. Twelve-year-old Grover. Or whatever the satyr equivalent was. Percy could never be sure. Grover, if it really was him, had little baby horns that didn’t yet show over his curls. He was even wearing jeans, shoes, and a camp shirt like he was playing at humanity.
Percy blinked at him dumbly for a moment.
Grover was saying something to him as he handed him a shoebox. Why was Grover handing him a shoebox? Why was Grover a child? Percy felt like his brain was full of static. He couldn’t for the life of him comprehend what Grover might have been saying as the box was set in his lap.
He looked down at the shoebox. Inside was a minotaur horn. The Minotaur Horn. The one from when he was twelve. Hands that didn’t feel like his own reached down toward it. Percy was controlling them, he tested it by clenching a fist, but everything felt wrong. His hands were tiny compared to the horn. No, they were tiny, period. Skinny little fingers with chewed up tiny little finger nails. Percy’s fingers brushed the surface of the horn. It was firm beneath the pads of his fingers. The keratin was smooth and just a bit warm from the summer heat. With his palm lay flat, his small hand didn’t even cover half the circumference.
This was real. This wasn’t a nightmare. And Grover wasn’t the only one who was a child. Percy was twelve years old.
He was twelve years old again.
Gods damn it.
Eventually, after a moment of silence, Grover shifted uncomfortably and began speaking again, “You’ve been out for two days. How much do you remember?”
How much did Percy remember from about five years ago? What an excellent question. Percy remembered approximately nothing from five years ago. So much had happened in his life since then. Two wars had happened since then. Tartarus had happened since then.
Percy tried to think. His disorganised thoughts did not make it easy. It was his first time coming to camp. He’d fought the minotaur. That much was blatantly obvious. He had fought so many monsters, giants, titans, and gods since that moment, though. He’d even fought the Minotaur a second time. His first fight with the Minotaur hardly stuck out compared to everything else he’d faced. He blinked, failing to recall any specific detail from that fight. The only thing that really stuck out from that moment was—Percy exhaled sharply, finally recalling the moment from that fight that was forever burned into his brain “...my mom.”
She was stuck in the Underworld right now. Prisoner and bargaining chip of Hades.
Grover dropped his head in shame. “I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I’m a failure. I’m—I’m the worst satyr in the world.” He moaned, stomping his foot so hard it came off.
Percy watched it rolled away with a detached blankness, still completely out of it.
“Oh, Styx!” Grover mumbled. The exclamation was accompanied by a roll of thunder.
Percy didn’t bother to react in shock. He chugged the entire glass of nectar in an attempt to fortify himself, savoring the taste of his mom’s chocolate chip cookies. It washed away his lingering physical pain in an instant. Gods, he missed the days when his injuries were simple enough to be cleared away by a single glass of nectar. Grover looked ready to start crying. Really, Percy should be the one having a breakdown. Grover was doing great in comparison. Then again Grover was still young and inexperienced. He didn’t know just how bad things could be. Percy was almost envious but being a kid again brought back memories of the relentless insecurity and self worth issues he’d dealt with when he first started at camp. At the very least Percy was more confident now.
He offered Grover what little reassurance he could, even though his brain was still spinning. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you,” Grover immediately countered.
“You did—” Percy cut himself off, clearing his throat. He tried again. “You did—” Nope. Still a high pitched squeak. Gods, he sounded like a child. He was child.
Grover stared at him, concerned.
“You did the the best you could,” Percy finally managed. He knew that at least, even if he didn’t recall any of the specifics.
“I was supposed to protect you. That’s my job. I’m a keeper. At least…I was.”
Keeper. Seeker. Lord of the Wild. Grover really was in for massive glow-up, not that he knew it. Percy grasped for something to say that wasn’t a massive future spoiler and settled on a different sort of truth. “I’m a serious trouble magnet, Grover. You got me here alive. That really wasn’t easy and yet you succeeded.”
Grover dropped the matter with a sigh. He glanced at Percy’s empty glass, “how do you feel?”
“Fine now,” Percy assured. Physically, at least. Mentally, he was still reeling, but luckily, he couldn’t feel the empathy link with Grover. That hadn’t been formed until Grover was trapped by Polyphemus. It was weird not to have the link, but also probably for the best. He really did not want baby Grover subject to the internal turmoil that was post-war, post-Tartarus, suddenly-stuck-in-the-past, Percy. The two of them had grown resilient together. This Grover, who has none of their shared life experiences, would probably collapse in a heap of pain or insanity.
Whatever limited emotions Grover was feeling from Percy thanks to satyrs’ natural empath abilities could hopefully be excused by the whole minotaur fight and ‘death’ of his mother. Grover’s uneasy glances over him meant that that was unlikely, but Percy pretended not so see his worried looks.
“Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting,” Grover said, reluctant but apparently willing to overlook his unease, at least for the moment.
Percy grabbed the Minotaur horn and stood to follow Grover. He valiantly ignored the strange vertigo that came with being significancy shorter than he expected to be and tried not to take long lunging steps to make up for his short stride. They turned the corner of the house, and Percy immediately stumbled, taken aback at his first glance at camp.
He’d thought he’d been handling the whole ‘stuck in the past’ thing pretty well up until that moment. He’d managed to have one fairly normal conversation with past Grover and he hadn’t even started screaming or crying yet.
Seeing camp, though, almost brought him to his knees. It was the same as always, but at the same time completely different than what he remembered. It struck him like a blow to the chest.
In the sandpit, a dozen campers and satyrs were playing a game of volleyball. Percy recognized the blonde heads of some Apollo campers. Canoes glided across the small lake, faint sounds of playful shouts could be heard as kids tried to capsize other canoes or shove each other into the water. Looked like the Ares campers. Laughter rose up as one camper succumbed to the sabotage attempts.
There were more campers scattered throughout. Some were riding pegasi near the woods or practicing at the archery range. Others were chasing each other around the cabins—only twelve cabins now—and that ached somewhere in his chest too.
What hurt most of all, though, was how happy they all were. How carefree. None of these kids had seen war. None of them were veterans, bitter and calloused from watching their friends die. From burning their shrouds. From feeling the betrayal as their own siblings and friends defected to the enemy. From going blade to blade with other demigods.
There were so many demigods here. It was hard to think about how many had died in the wars. Percy had felt the loss every day, but seeing all the campers again—together, carefree, whole and hale—put it into perspective in a way that was utterly staggering. It was as breathtaking as it was heartbreaking.
Percy didn’t think he could look away from the sight if he wanted to. Grover was saying something but Percy couldn’t hear it. He was pulling on Percy’s arm but Percy couldn’t turn away. A volleyball shot long, away from the sand pit and toward the main house, victim of an aggressive shot from one of the satyrs. One of the kids from the Apollo cabin chased after—short with dark hair.
He got closer. Percy recognized him. Younger and somehow even shorter than he remembered him, it was Michael Yew.
Percy had thought he’d made peace with Michael’s death. He thought he had accepted what had happened. Seeing his face in that moment brought it all back.
Percy was no longer standing on the porch of the main house. He was no longer breathing in the sweet and earthy scent of strawberry fields. In an instant, he was in the midst of the Battle of Manhattan, standing at the Williamsburg Bridge and screaming at Michael to go as Kronos descended upon them.
Dust and blood and an army of monsters.
Michael screaming at Percy to break the bridge.
Percy breaking the bridge, and Michael going down with it.
His body was never found. They’d burned an empty shroud.
Percy blinked.
Rubble was replaced by a face. Grover.
But he didn’t look right. Nothing was right.
Dionysus was too tall. Chiron was too tall. Grover reached toward him with a child’s hands.
Grover’s small hands gripped his equally small shoulders. Percy was no longer facing the camp. He could feel his spine pressed into the porch banister.
His Achilles Heel.
Percy jerked away. He fought to escape Grover’s grip. He reached for Riptide. His pockets were empty. Where was Riptide? Grover was saying something. He looked frantic. Percy didn’t hear it.
He tried to jerk to the left.
Chiron was there. He was in a wheelchair. Why?
Everything was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
...
There was a small tap to the side of his head, a flickering touch at his temple. Purple flashed across his vision, spilling across his mind is a fog of godly influence. The world came into focus. He could breathe again. His thoughts slowed, and an unatural clarity seeped in, taking over everything. Even the familiar ADHD-induced disorder of his usual thought patterns faded to sharpness for an indeterminately long second.
His next breath escaped in a choking cough. His lungs stuttered on the inhale but he was present again, no longer trapped in memories on war. He was at camp. He was fine.
Grover was gone from in front on him, replaced by Dionysus. And it certainly was Dionysus, not Mr. D.
Percy didn’t normally bother to separate the two in his mind. Mr. D was Dionysus and Dionysus was Mr. D. But sometimes, like now, they felt very different. Mr. D had always felt more like a facsimile of a god. Pissed at being cut off from some of his domains—suffering and less powerful for it. His chosen form, something looking like a cross between a cherub and a middle-aged gambler, certainly didn't challenge the overall impression.
Dionysus, when he chose to act like a god, was a different story. Percy could only think of a few cases in which he’d seen Dionysus becoming the god he truly was underneath it all—when Castor had died, when the gods were fighting Typhon, and when fighting the giants in Greece.
Whatever this was, it was the closest Percy had seen him to godhood since those few incidents. Whatever PTSD and grief-induced madness rattling throughout Percy’s brain had pulled his godly persona to the forefront, somehow.
However it happened, Percy was grateful. His mind was clear, free from the flashback. He was Percy Jackson. Seventeen years old. He didn’t have an Achilles heel anymore. He was a two-time war veteran. Survivor of Tartarus. Godkiller.
His relief was short-lived, however. Because he wasn’t, though, was he? The porch railing, sharp against his back, dug into his ribcage, not his pelvis. Dionysus towered over him, and Chiron, despite being seated in his wheel chair was practically at eye level.
Percy wasn’t a war-hero. He wasn’t the two time savior of Olympus. He was Percy Jackson, twelve-year-old undetermined demigod. His father hadn’t acknowledged him yet. Percy wasn’t even supposed to know he was a demigod yet.
He breath, only just starting to calm, stuttered again as he began laughing bitterly, hysteria creeping in once again.
Dionysus studied him like he was a particularly interesting species of bug.
Chiron laid a hand on Dionysus’s arm, his face an equal mix of anger and horror. “What did you do to him?” he asked Dionysus, voice a condemning whisper. The joke was on Chiron though—Dionysus wasn’t the one who made Percy crazy.
If Dionysus heard Chiron, he gave him no acknowledgement. Eyes locked on Percy, body unmoving, he might as well have been a statue for all the good Chiron tugging at his arm did.
“You reek of madness, Perseus Jackson,” Dionysus said.
“You would know,” Percy replied. Funny. Percy had always known Dionysus was the god of madness. That sure was handy considering Percy felt pretty damn insane right now.
“I should,” Dionysus mused as his eyes flicked over Percy in quick scrutiny, “and yet, I’ve never seen madness quite like what you’ve got going on.”
“I’d be surprised if you had.” If one thing was for certain, Percy knew his whole situation was entirely unique.
There was a nervous bleating from his right. His eyes flickered toward Grover. He’d nearly forgotten about him. Immediately, senses honed from battle had him taking stock of the situation. Grover to his right, Chiron was to the left, in his wheelchair, one hand still on Dionysus’s arm as if he had the power to stop Dionysus in his tracks.
He wouldn’t be surprised if Annabeth was here as well, invisible in her Yankee’s cap. He had vague memories of their first meeting at camp. She’d definitely shown him around camp. But did he meet her earlier? No time to think it over. He scanned his surroundings, eyes flitting between the empty gaps, listening intently for any sign of her.
No shuffling movements, but as his eyes coasted over the small space visible between Grover and Dionysus, there was the smallest intake of breath, sharp like some who’d frozen in an attempt to go unnoticed. His eyes locked on the empty space. The gasp had given her away. Rookie mistake. She’d gotten better over the years. She was holding her breath now but it was too late. He knew she was there.
His scan over the group, then back to Annabeth, had taken moments only.
“Percy, man, what is going on?” Grover asked. He eyes were wide with concern and he looked like he wanted to reach out.
Percy didn't know what to say. He’d already had a somewhat damning conversation, short as it was, with Dionysus, and said things he should not have even known about at this point in his life.
What exactly was he supposed to say? ‘Don’t worry about it G-man, it’s just that I’ve suddenly appeared in the past after having defeated Kronos and Gaea and walked through the depths of Greek Hell.’ Somehow, he didn’t think that would go over well.
Percy had been silent too long. Now Chiron was staring at him with suspicion. Percy wondered what exactly his suspicions were. No way they were close to the truth.
Percy didn’t have a clue what to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to.
Dionysus came to his rescue once again. “I think we’ll be having a chat later,” Dionysus told Percy. His eyes blazed with a purple fire. Percy kept silent.
Dionysus waved a hand, and suddenly, both Grover and Chiron were blinking, looking confused for a moment.
Grover turned to Percy as if he hadn’t just spoken, “Percy, are you okay? What just happened?”
“The brat had a panic attack. Likely still distraught over that mess on the Hill,” Mr. D said, waving dismissively. “Demigods these days, they really don’t make them like they used to.”
Percy nodded his assent, offering Grover a reassuring smile, despite being taken aback at Dionysus having helped him twice without him having even asked. Three, if he counted the explanation Mr. D had given on his behalf. “Yep, I’m good now, though,” Percy told Grover.
Grover nodded back to him, even though he didn’t look reassured.
Annabeth flickered back to visibility as Grover began introducing the group. “That’s Mr. D, camp director, and Annabeth behind him, she’s a camper. Lastly, Chiron, but you know him already. He’s the activities director.” He gestured to Chiron.
Percy tried not to stare too obviously at Annabeth. She was tinier than he remembered. And…less tense and beaten down. It hurt his chest to look at her and he couldn’t meet her gaze. She was taller than Percy again, at least for now. He really was not looking forward to getting in front of a mirror.
Reluctantly, he let his gaze meet hers. There was no fear in her eyes, which was nice, in a way. Percy had been afraid that he would never get to see Annabeth look at him without the fear that had been ever-present in her since Tartarus. This was the first time he’d made eye contact with Annabeth since the moment it all fell apart. This wasn’t his Annabeth, though. There may not have been fear in her eyes, but there was no recognition either. Percy clenched his teeth in an effort not to react. He wanted to look away but found himself unable to.
Her eyes drifted away from his as Chiron called her name. “Annabeth?” She took a step toward Chiron. “This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don’t you go check on Percy’s bunk? We’ll be putting him in cabin eleven for now.”
Annabeth nodded. “Sure, Chiron.” She looked Percy up and down, her strategic mind no doubt already at work. Apparently, she found him lacking because after a moment, she just said, “You drool when you sleep.” And then she was gone, off down the lawn toward the cabins.
Some of the tightness in Percy’s chest eased as she vanished out of sight.
“I must say, Percy,” Chiron said, “I’m glad to see you alive. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a house call to a potential camper. I’d hate to think I’ve wasted my time.”
A waste of time. That’s really all his death would have been to Chiron had he died when he was twelve? “Wasted your time?” Percy asked, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He half hoped Chiron would backtrack or explain what he meant but he knew it was unlikely. Watching hundreds, maybe thousands of demigods live and die over millennia likely meant Percy really was unremarkable to him, at least for now. A mildly interesting statistic, if that.
“I spent an entire year at Yancy Academy just to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to…ah, take a leave of absence.”
Percy had honestly forgotten that Chiron used to be his mortal schoolteacher. He wondered if any of the other campers had died from lack of training or felt neglected enough to leave camp while Chiron was off teaching Percy some utterly useless middle school class. It was a needlessly bitter thought but Percy couldn't help glaring at Chiron, not that he seemed to notice.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that’s always the first test.”
First test? Percy tried to remember if Chiron had sounded this callous his first time around. Maybe he was just seeing this through a new lens, though. Percy had spent countless hours thinking about all the demigods who turned away from camp, all the ones who died, and all the ones who never made it in the first place. It was in his nature to shoulder the blame himself, but he was starting to think it may have been a group effort.
“Anyway, Percy, now that you’re here, we’ll have four for pinochle,” Chiron said, as if all was well and good.
Pinochle? Seriously? Did Percy really just roll over and accept that the first time around? That was it?
He looked to Grover and Mr. D to try to gauge things. Grover was still standing to the side, looking at him with unveiled concern. Mr. D still had the same studying look he had before, like he wanted to crack open Percy’s skull to see what was wrong with his brain.
Percy was alone in his incredulity. His natural stubbornness pushed him to argue but he was alone and overwhelmed already.
Percy collapsed at the pinochle table, barely resisting the urge to drop his head into his hands. Mr. D sat as well, his eyes never leaving Percy. Percy was fairly certain he hadn’t even blinked, not that gods needed to. Chiron rolled up to the table, leaving Grover as the only not situated.
“Grover,” Mr. D said impatiently, “are you playing or not?”
“Yes, sir!” Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, with an anxious glance between Percy and Mr. D.
“You do know how to play pinochle?” Mr. D asked, eyeing Percy suspiciously.
Percy nodded wordlessly. He’d eventually picked up after his years at camp, though he admittedly preferred games with the Hermes cabin, where rampant cheating was expected and made things a bit more exciting.
“Good, then you’ll be on my team.” Mr. D said.
Percy clenched his teeth, letting out a harsh exhale through his nose. His abandoned stubbornness returned with a vengeance. “Seriously, that’s it? No one is going to explain anything?”
Chiron smiled at him in what Percy thought might be an attempt at sympathy. It felt condescending. Percy wasn’t sure if that was just because Chiron was talking to him like the overwhelmed twelve-year-old he thought he was, or if it really was just condescending regardless. “Percy,” he said. “Did your mother tell you nothing?”
“Let’s pretend she hasn’t told me much,” Percy replied, glaring.
Mr. D prompted him to bid. Percy hadn’t even touched his cards. He bid without looking at them and returned his gaze to Chiron who was still smiling for some reason.
“I’m afraid there’s too much to tell,” Chiron said. “Our usual orientation film won’t be sufficient.”
Just great. Percy supposedly knew nothing, so they were just going to skip over the orientation film so he knew even less. Sounded like a stellar plan. Truly one worthy of Athena.
“Well, Percy,” Chiron started, ignoring or unaware of Percy’s incensed expression. “You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know”—he pointed to the horn in the shoe box—“that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods—the forces you call the Greek gods—are very much alive.”
Percy looked up at the table to see if anyone was going to say anything about this terrible introduction to the life of a demigod. Everyone was just playing pinochle though. Even Chiron’s explanation was given in the midst of looking through his cards, as if the conversation wasn’t worth his full attention.
Mr. D was already sidetracked by the game, no longer bothering to give him calculating looks. Instead, he just thumbed through his cards before shouting, “Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!” cackling as he tallied up his points. They must have lost the bid because Percy didn’t remember exchanging cards with him.
Grover was apparently no longer worried about Percy as he just turned to Mr. D and asked if he could eat his Diet Coke can.
Something in Percy snapped. He stood from his seat, chair sliding across the deck noisily. “This is bullshit,” Percy announced, bracing his hands on the table.
Chiron gave him a look, the same look Percy got from so many of his teachers in the past, when they had him pinned as the ‘trouble child,’ the one kid that needed to be ‘managed’ amongst all the normal children. “Percy, you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that the Greek Gods do exist. They are great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Percy corrected as the humidity on the porch increased drastically with his anger. He pinned Chiron with the wolf stare he’d learned from Lupa. Finally, Chiron seemed to be actually paying attention to him. “The Greek Gods exist. Great. Whatever. I’m saying that that sorry excuse for an explanation is bullshit. Is that really all the explanation you have to offer demigods that show up here?”
Percy’s voice was raised. He didn’t care. Logically, Percy knew it wasn’t Chiron’s fault and yelling at him would get him nowhere. Percy was never one for impulse control, though, and impertinence was practically his middle name. He could hear his pulse in his ears and feel the lake reacting to his emotions, even at this distance.
Oddly enough, his spine ached.
Percy dismissed the feeling as his rant continued. “I mean, seriously. I’m supposedly a twelve-year-old kid who just lost his mother, and that’s all you have to offer? It’s no wonder half the camp defected to Kronos! They probably—” Hair rose on the back of his neck, instant and unnatural and battle honed instinct had him freezing in place, seeking out the threat.
Shit. Abruptly, his anger drained with a sinking feeling. It was quickly replaced by foreboding.
Without the anger overshadowing everything, the hands on his spine were a lot easier to feel.
One up near his neck. The second at mid back. The final just below his former Achilles heel.
It was nauseatingly familiar, yet still unnatural enough to be petrifying.
His vision faded.
Percy drifted.