Disclaimer: The world of Percy Jackson, its characters and settings are the copyrighted works of Rick Riordan and his publishing companies and affiliates. No profit was made from the writing of this story nor was any malice intended in any way, shape or form to the author or the actors/actresses who so brilliantly have brought them to life.This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country.
I had some pretty strange dreams while I was passed out in the infirmary, one of barnyard animals and oceans, of deep caverns and flaming rivers, even of pretty blondes fighting for their lives. The strangest was probably of rain falling (rising?) backwards and strings unravelling. Mixing demi-god dreams with a concussion is not the best idea. It's practically guaranteed to give people migraines, and I definitely don't need any more of those.
I woke up a few times, one of them to a very blurry blonde figure spoon-feeding me something gold that tastes like pizza rolls. They hovered over me while scraping drips off my chin with what felt like the spoon.
When they saw my eyes open, they blurted out, "What will happen at the summer solstice?"
Ok, what?
They looked around wildly before lowering their voice to whisper. "What's going on? What was stolen? We've only got a few weeks!"
My eloquent response, to who I think was a girl, was to pass the fuck back out again. I think I'll talk to you after my brain doesn't feel like overcooked noodles, thanks.
The next time I woke, I had a pounding headache but my vision seemed to have recovered. There was a dude in the room with more eyes than I imagine Abrahamic angels have, watching. He seemed chill, although he was taking his job way too seriously. All the eyes I could spot were trained on me. If I were capable of thinking straight, I might've been flattered. Or offended. Why the hell...? Urgh, my head.
He must be good ol' Archie. Argie? Argum? Whatever. The dude Hera cursed to be a cow guard or something. I passed out from the pain this time.
When I finally came around for good, there was nothing weird about my surroundings, except that they were way nicer than I was used to. Am I on vacation?
I was sitting in a deck chair on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at green hills in the distance. The breeze smelled like strawberries, and there wasn't any pollution a New Yorker like me was used to. No sea breeze either, so I wasn't too close to the sea. There was a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All of that was great, but my mouth felt like a fucking scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue was dry, my throat was nasty and every single one of my teeth hurt. Gross.
On the table next to me was a tall drink. It looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol stuck through a maraschino cherry. I love apple juice, but I hate cherries.
My hands were so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it. "Careful," a familiar voice said.
"Grover," I croaked, "mind helping me?"
Grover appeared in my vision and I nearly cried out. His forehead had a cut with stitches and he looked exhausted - like he hadn't slept in a week. He's just a kid, barely 14 in human terms, he shouldn't be looking like this!
He knelt in front of me, the cup of what I'm pretty sure is filled with Nectar outstretched so I can take a sip. Holy shit this is delicious! Mmhm. Tastes like Mãe's blue chocolate chip cookies. Can I get more of this? Bet even Gordan Ramsey would love this!
Grover shook me out of my thoughts by speaking. "You saved my life."
I stared at him. "You dragged me to safety," I countered.
His smile was real, if a bit shaky. My heart pangs at it. "Never change, Percy. How're you feeling?"
"Liable to try to fight the concept of mathematics if given the chance."
He snorted. Ha, victory! I got him to laugh!
Grover sobered, "I'm sorry about your mom. The Minotaur dropped a spoil of war, his horn, I got it for you."
In his outstretched hands was said horn. I took it. There was a lump in my throat that I had to swallow alongside my tears. "Thank you, Grover." Faster than he could react, I hugged him and held him tight.
I wanted to cry but I pushed it down. How did Percy Jackson do this? How does any half-blood do this? They're all so young yet they have to do so much.
When I pull away, Grover is blushing and looking at his feet. "You've been out for two days."
"I've missed much?"
"Not that much."
I shot him a smile, he's still trying to comfort me.
I stared across the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, and acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looked beautiful in the sunlight.
Mãe was gone. The whole world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.
But she's not gone either. She's in the underworld. I can still save her; I just need to complete the quest successfully. Easy-fucking-peasy, an actual 12-year-old Percy did this, and I'm an adult. I'm also a complete dumbass with some shitty hand-eye coordination, but at least I've got a better grasp of my powers than Percy did at this age.
I also have a better-than-vague idea of what's going down. Can't forget that.
"I-" Grover struggled to say before giving up. "Come on. Chiron and Mr D are waiting."
Ah, here comes the immortals and my test of 'Don't get yourself killed because of your big mouth.' Probably gonna fail, but that's what I say with every test.
As we came around the opposite end of the house, my breath caught.
We must've been on the north shore of Long Island because on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing.
The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture; I could spot an open-air pavilion, an amphitheatre and a circular arena. None of them would've looked out of place in ancient Greece, except that they all looked brand new with their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some people were shooting targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and some of their horses had wings- pegasi.
Camp Half-Blood. I'm actually at Camp Half-Blood. Holy shit.
Luckily the slight panic and awe making my knees buckle were brushed off as my injuries acting up, and Grover quickly steadied me so I didn't fall.
Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. The blond-haired girl who'd probably spoon-fed me healing pudding was leaning on the porch rail next to them. Annabeth Chase, wise-girl extraordinaire.
Wearing a tiger print Hawaiian shirt (what's with gods and Hawaiian shirts?) was Mr D himself. Dionysus, God of Wine, Festivities, and Ecstasy. Percy Jackson was right; he looked like an overgrown cherub. Maybe if he de-aged himself by some 10 or 20 years I wouldn't think twice about calling him handsome, but right now he looked like a middle-aged washout who got drunk on cheap boxed wine in a trailer park. Actually, he kinda reminded me of my high school chemistry teacher who was in the middle of a divorce where his wife was taking everything- just like Mr.D was banned from his own symbol; wine. I could almost pity Dionysus for being without his alcohol. Maybe I should befriend him?
"That's Mr D," Grover murmured to me. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know Chiron..."
"Chiron!" I cried.
The part-time Latin teacher, part-time Trainer of Heroes turned and smiled at me. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers B.
"Ah, good, Percy," he said. "Now we have four for pinochle."
He offered me a chair to the right of Mr D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you."
I gave him a look, "I never had any expectations in the first place, why would I ever think that?"
Grover and Chiron both shot me a look that just screamed 'Percy! Behave!' Annabeth merely narrowed her eyes at me.
"Uh, I mean, um, thank?" Good job Ophelia, that wasn't even proper English. 'Thank.' Are you simple?
Grover seemed half nervous, half resisting the urge to face-palm. Mood, buddy, mood.
"Annabeth?" Chiron called her.
She came forward and Chiron introduced us. "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 her in cabin eleven for now."
Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron."
I stuck my hand out, "Nice to meet you, I'm Percy Jackson."
She ignored it. "You drool in your sleep," was her parting words before she spun in a whirlwind of blonde hair and left.
That was so fucking rude. What the fuck? What did I do?
"So," I started, eager to change the subject, "Can anyone explain exactly what the fuck is happening?"
Chiron frowned at me, "Language," he said. Mr D hid a snort though so, worth it.
"I must say, Percy," Chiron began, "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."
"House call?"
"My year at Yancy Academy, 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."
Great, that's super cryptic and did not answer my previous question at all. No wonder everyone thought Percy Jackson was a Kelp Head, nobody ever explained shit to him.
"There was another Latin teacher for the first two weeks before she went on maternity leave," I stated.
Chiron nodded. "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."
"Grover," Mr D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"
"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair. Poor guy, don't tremble so much, you'll become the best satyr and Lord of the Wild eventually. Start building up your confidence, G-man.
"Do you know how to play pinochle?" Mr D eyed me suspiciously.
"Nope! I'm more of a Texas Hold'em and Bluff kinda girl, but I learn quickly." Was that too bubbly for a god? Whatever, why do I care for what he thinks?
"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules."
"I'm not a young man," I pointed out.
He looked at me up and down. "No, you're not," he begrudgingly said.
"I'm sure the girl can learn," Chiron said.
The camp director dealt out the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile. Let me tell you, that's a lot of flinching.
"Is anyone going to answer my question? What is this place?"
"Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?"
"No," I looked at him annoyed, "she did not. I have made... guesses and theories. But nobody has properly confirmed anything for me."
"Typical," Mr D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young lady, are you bidding or not?"
"How do I bid?" I asked.
He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.
"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "Our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."
I scowled at him. Stop withholding crucial information! "On the contrary, I believe there is a lot to tell. If you won't let me watch this 'orientation film' then at least answer my bloody questions!" I snapped at him.
"Hmm," Chiron the asshole horse-man said, unperturbed. "Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know," he pointed to the horn in my hand, "that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lass. 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."
"Okay. I'm pretty sure I deduced that already. How many gods?"
Everyone just stared at me. "How many gods?" Chiron repeated slowly as if I just said something tremendously stupid.
"Yeah," I gestured, "How many gods? You just said the Greek gods are very much alive. Once, when I went to Brazil, I saw Saci Pererê. Mãe swears up and down she's seen La Llorona and a Troll as a kid. I'm pretty sure an elf runs a coffee shop downtown. How many gods and pantheons?"
They're still staring at me. Chiron has turned white.
"Uh, so. I'm pretty sure about the Norse and Romani, who else?" I pressed.
Mr D visibly winces at the mention of the Romans and Chiron takes this as his cue to step in. "Percy, we don't talk about that. Do you understand? There are the Greek gods and that's all you need to know."
He seems pretty serious and almost afraid. I quickly agree. "Yes sir, I won't." What? He was creeping me out, and I wasn't expecting anyone here to elaborate anyways.
"Oh, you'd better," Mr D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you."
Grover said, "P-please, sir. She's just lost her mother. She's in shock."
"A lucky thing, too," Mr D grumbled, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with brats who go about causing trouble like that." The look he shot at me accused me of being suspicion incarnate.
He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine.
"Mr D," Chiron warned, "your restrictions." Thunder rumbled overhead.
Mr D looked at the wine and feigned surprise. "Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits! Sorry!" More thunder.
Mr D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game.
Chiron winked at me. "Mr D offended his father a while back. Took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits."
"A wood nymph," I repeated. My mind was whirling. Are jelly shots technically drinking alcohol? What about wine in cooking? Should I point this out to him and get me on his good side? Wait, wait- he insulted me. He keeps calling me a brat and being rude. The bastard can suffer.
"Yes," Mr D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, prohibition. Ghastly! Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time- well, she really was pretty, and I couldn't stay away. The second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you. 'Be a better influence,' he told me. 'Work with youths rather than tearing them down.' Ha. Absolutely unfair."
Mr D sounded like a six-year-old kid who's pouting out of principle.
"Your father is... ?" I keep up the slightly clueless act
"Di immortales, Chiron," Mr D said. "I thought you taught this brat the basics. My father is Zeus, of course."
"So, you're Dionysus," I said. "The God of Wine."
Mr D rolled his eyes. "What do they say, these days, Grover? Don't the children say, 'Well, duh!'?"
"Y-yes, Mr D."
"Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?"
"You're a God."
"Yes, child."
"If you're a god, why do you look like that?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" His tone took a deeper edge. Purple flared in his eyes and for a second they seemed to flare up and out.
"It's an honest question," I continued innocently. "You can look like anything, so why did you pick that form?"
"Girl," he rumbled. "You're dissing me, aren't you, girlie?"
As the cloying smell of grapes grew headier, his purple eyes began telling me a story. A story of choking on vines, of warriors and zealots and sacrificial madness, of dying and liking it, of seeing things that mADe mE WAnnA-
"Mr D!" Chiron interferes. Dionysus doesn't react, but the story stops.
"Are you going to test me, girlie?"
"...No, sir. Not today," I rasp out.
He grunts, but relents with a final picturesque glimpse.
I'm drowning I'm drowning the Daughter of Poseidon is drow-
It stops. I blink. Then I start breathing again.
...Huh. So that's what they call madness. For some reason, not as bad as my panic attacks. I give it an 8/10. 'Would not recommend,' for sure.
He turned back to his card game, "I believe I win."
"Not quite, Mr D," Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and said, "The game goes to me."
"I'm tired," Mr D spoke. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your not-so-perfect performance on this assignment."
Grover's face was beaded with sweat. "Y-yes, sir."
Mr D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners." He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.
Chiron seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. He had looked nervous like he wanted to snatch me from in front of Dionysus and run for it while I was still aggravating him.
"You shouldn't test the patience of the gods, Percy." He looked down at me like he wanted to seem wise and in charge but all it did was flare up my dislike of authority. If someone didn't test the gods, how would they know they are failing?
"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like... in America?"
"Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West."
"The what?"
"Come now, Percy. It's what you call 'Western civilization.' Do you think it's just an abstract concept? No, it's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of the Western civilization was obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know- or I hope you know since you passed my course- the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names, perhaps. Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on. But it's still the same forces, the same gods."
"What? No, the Romani are just great at Syncretism, the past should have died without worship." I'm seething, I'm getting irrational, and a storm is churning in my gut. This fucking horse-man is seriously getting on my nerves.
"Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in the paintings, in the statues, even on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I dare you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not, and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome either, America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West, and so Olympus is here, as are we."
It was so frustrating. I already knew that the gods lingered due to their legacy. Chiron just proved to me that he goes out of his way to tell me absolutely nothing useful, all the time. If you don't want to give it to me straight, then fucking say so! "That's the West. What about the East? The North and South?"
"What about them?" he mused. "Well, that's the question we wouldn't want answered, isn't it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet, and plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s' mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate."
Useless horse-man. Fucking answer my fucking gods-damned question!
Then he rose from his wheelchair.
A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.
I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.
Seven fucking hells. So that's what the Mist and its magic look like in action.
"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Persephone Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."