Prophesied Powder, PJO

2.1

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Chapter 12
Tantalus Ruins Lives

Volume 2: The Sea of Monsters

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The summer session started with slow trickles. First, the early crowd; kids who go to private schools that let out classes in early May and have nothing to do aside from coming to camp early. Then, eventually, on the first of June, droves of demigods come down Half-Blood Hill and hug their friends as they drag giant trunks to their cabins.

Pallas sat on the canoe lake's dock and watched the sun. He was waiting. Lee Fletcher, one of his brothers and the Apollo senior counselor, was the one keeping a lookout for him. He came down to the lake after about two hours of Pallas carving a sundial into the wood.

At the top of Half-Blood Hill, Pat was still not across the border; he was speaking to his father, a pillow tucked under his arm, his walking stick in his free hand. His stepmother was with him too, Harley. He had visited throughout Pat's school year, and seeing them again made him smile. Now, he'd get to go back to seeing Pat every day for three months -- the same with Annabeth and Percy, who surely must have been close behind Pat. They'd arrive soon too.

Pallas hadn't seen Pat in person since November for Pallas' birthday. Tantalus' rule had been a dictatorship, and he couldn't seem to get out of camp at all. He had IM-ed Annabeth once to talk to her about it, but even that was interrupted by Clarisse.

Camp Half-Blood had changed much since last summer. Hopefully, his friends would adjust as Pallas had, despite how unpleasant it all was becoming.

"Pat!" He yelled up the hill to get his attention. He sprinted up when Pat turned his way with a smile.

"Pallas," He greeted him softly, grinning ear to ear, "C'mere!" He reached out his hand, and when Pallas took it, Pat pulled him down into a hug.

Once it was broken, Pallas looked over Pat. He hadn't grown much, but possibly he'd gained an inch. Pallas had grown a lot, awkwardly so; he was still getting used to the longness of his new limbs -- he had to be at least 170 centimeters, compared to most boys his age being Pat's height, probably 154.

Still, Pat looked different. He was 14 now because of his January birthday, and 14-year-olds looked different from 13-year-olds. Pat had still-forming bone structure underneath the remains of his baby fat, and his auburn hair had been freshly cut for the summer, messy on the top and cropped in the back.

"Pallas," Warren Randolph looked a lot like Pat, but he looked normal at the end of the day; when Pallas looked at Pat, it was obvious that he was pretty, that one day he would look like Aphrodite. He shared his son's auburn hair, though his was darker, and he had brown eyes. His son was also tanner than him, more Greek, just like half of the kids at this camp. "How've you been?"

How've. Pallas did not understand some Americans' use of conjunctions. New Jersey was especially liable.

"I am well," Pallas smiled, "I have been training. How is your baby?"

Warren smiled -- he loved talking about his kids, Pallas had realized in the years he'd known him. Get him started, and he'd rant like Hades complaining about the Underworld. Warren and Harley both excitedly told Pallas about how their young daughter, Lilly, was close to saying her first words now that she was one.