A/N- Very random and very short but I did always wonder how Percy felt as a Greek alone in a Roman camp. Hope you enjoy :)
Percy was a Greek.
In whispers, in prophecies, in insults and in blood.
Sometimes he wishes he wasn't, wishes he was more than what a 5 letter word defined him to be; an enemy, an outsider, a Greek.
Other times he's glad because it gives him an identity, a name, a place, somewhere to call home where he'd be welcomed and loved.
But why couldn't that be everywhere?
Why did it matter that he was Greek not Roman. Why did the colour of his midnight hair or the shade of his sea green eyes dictate who he was instead of the love, life and laughter he could gift other people. Where his ancestors actions greater than his promise of passion?
Humans and demigods alike had decided that aesthetics or even an empty word meant more than shining talent or a kind soul.
What gave them the right? Percy often pondered scornfully over a cool glass of Coke with the luscious fresh grass between his toes. What gave them the right to decide his future his friends his life.
For Percy will always be Greek but he will always, always be so much more.