It was like choosing between two sides of a Divided Soul.
The Greeks raised him.
What else was there to say? He was a Greek first, a Graceus, a Son of Poseidon. That's what he was when he was twelve, when he stumbled across the border and collapsed at Annabeth's feet. That's what he was when he was fifteen, when he was sent flying to Ogygia.
That's who he fought for when he whirled through Kronos's army, because being Greek was all he could ever imagine. There was no life without the gods; there was no life without the Greek gods.
Everything he was was Greek, Greek, Greek. He wasn't much for rules-Hades, he hated them more than anything. That was one of the key factors in his short academic schooling-he could not obey rules. They hated him and he hated them.
Simple, right?
The Romans found him.
What else is there to say? There was nothing he knew but his name-Perseus Jackson-his age, and Annabeth. He carried a roman goddess across the Tiber. He was Roman when he was seventeen and he rescued Thanatos. He was Roman when he returned and fought the giants, and fought maybe for more than his life.
He was Roman when he emerged victorious, and that SPQR tattoo was branded into his skin. He was theirs and they were his, and that was everything it was. There was no life without duty, and he could get used to it.
Eventually.
Everything about it was rules rules rules, but somehow they didn't make him feel quite so out of place. He could get used to saying Pluto instead of Hades, and he could get used to the more civilized version of Ares.
Simple, right?
The Greeks were always too free.
There was that sense, that whoosh of air that was knocked out of his lungs after he rejoined the real world. There was no swinging a sword in a cabin, and there was no 'you can walk around at midnight as long as the harpies don't come.' Everything was free free free, and he should've like it.
He didn't. There was something that was too much like choosing his own roads, and there was always a cost no matter what road he took. He didn't want to make that choice, and everything that went wrong he blamed on himself.
There was chaos on the battlefield when ranks scattered and fled, and there was chaos in everyday life when activities went wrong and there was no planned out backup. There was no order and there was no control.
It was a mess that he should have liked and hated instead.
The Romans were always too uptight.
There was that sense, that invisible bond that held him fast and refused to let him go. There was that feeling of holding his breath even when he wasn't, that feeling of wanting to fly even when he was in the air. There was nothing called freedom and nothing called choices, and everything was laid out in a single file like dominoes waiting to be knocked over.
If he hated what the Greeks had he should have liked this, but he didn't. There was something that was too much like his life already, too much like the gods playing checkers with his fate. It was something that reminded him-why should they care if they died? It would cost them nothing.
There was tension on the battlefield when no one wanted to retreat and there was tension in everyday life when everyone wanted what they could not have. There was no freedom and there was no flying; he was like a bird with no wings.
It was a city of laws that he wanted to follow but could not keep up.
The Greeks were kind.
He should have loved it. He hated it.
There was that longing, that over-filling sensation that drove him to the edge of the world. It was the squeezing that had him wrapped up in worries that were not his own, and it was the shadow that cloaked him when others were unhappy. It was the blandness of living a life that was partly someone elses.
If he wanted something they would give, and give without a second thought. They would remember every favor you had given them and remember to help him in his own time of need. They were a family and they supported each other, maybe a little too much. Sometimes all he wanted was to be alone and that was something he could never have with them.
There was something too much like the gods watching over everything and anything that they did, and too much like watching the replay of his life and wishing he could correct past mistakes. It was too much like being at war with himself, knowing he should not care but still caring anyway.
There was pity on the battlefield when comrades died-it weakened them. There was grief in real life when the whole camp suffered from one individual's mistakes.
It was a life full of emotions he was not meant to live.
The Romans were always too cold.
If he hated what the Greeks had, he should have loved this. He hated it too.
There was that longing, as if the only thing he wanted was for someone to care. For someone to see him and to reach out a hand, but he was encased in shatterproof and soundproof walls. He was invincible to both love and hate and weapons and words. He was untouchable.
He was alone. If he wanted something it had to be earned, and there was no luxury and no extravagance. Everyone lived the same simple life and helped no one but themselves, and everyone tried to be happy but never truly were.
There was a familiar feel to it, a feel of watching others suffer but unable to help. He wondered sometimes if the gods felt the same way-when they were up so high in the heavens and everyone else plummeted below. It was too much like drowning, when he was sinking in his own misery and no one was reaching to help him up.
It was a life of emptiness that everyone lived.
The Greeks were always too forgiving.
He was too. He hated it.
It was like running wild through a hurricane and knowing you would emerge without a single scratch-where was the thrill in that? Where was the danger, the adrenaline rush that he lived for? He could do anything and come out fine. Nothing could ever bring him down.
He could fight and wound and kill and they would let him back in, put him in the stars for retribution. He would be judged in the underworld and fairly condemned, but the Greeks would honor him anyway. They would help him even when he had failed and reassure him it was okay even when it most obviously was not. They were the ones who died because they could not let someone go.
There was something about it that struck a nerve, because why should the others-the ones who committed sins and wrongs-live a better life than him? Orion, the hunter, attempted to seduce and then rape a huntress of the Goddess Artemis. Yet he was placed in the stars and honored still as an honourable marksman. And here he was, having done everything right and still drowning in expectation.
It was unfair and it was justice.
The Romans were always too harsh.
It was sickening. He hated it.
It was like wondering whether to turn left or right and knowing he would be killed anyway, so why bother? He could stand still as a stone for eternity and beyond and still they would catch him, or he could keep running and kill himself trying and still they wanted him. It was an endless chase he could not win.
He could be perfect and honorable and everything they wanted him to be, but with the first spark of a flame he was blown out and thrown away. He was judged for one action that went wrong and absolutely nothing else. People were judged by the consequence and not by logic, not by emotional attachment and not by loyalty. It was life or death.
Something about it struck a nerve, because who was he to decide whether someone else was to live or die? Who was he to call them good or evil when he did not know what they were thinking? Loyalty and madness were decided the same way-if he killed someone he died. It didn't matter if that someone had killed his brother or was an innocent.
It was madness and it was clear.
He chose both. He could not live without either.
A/N: Someone asked me to do this a long time ago. I completely forgot, so...yeah. Oops. Thanks for reading, and I do not own PJO!
~Johanna