A little knowledge is a dangerous thing…
Author's note: This is my first attempt at a Fanfiction so constructive feedback is welcome. And yes, I know it's short, but I promise there's more to follow.
Boring Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, or any of the characters, ideas etc...etc, you get the picture... They all belong to Rick Riordan and his publishers.
A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,
While from the bounded level of our mind
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky,
Th' eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,
Th' increasing prospects tire our wand'ring eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!"
- Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism 1711
Prologue
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.
'Close this book right now' – if only I could. Unfortunately I have to read it; English Literature can be such a drag at times, especially when there's a big, fat essay to write for next Monday. Still, at least it's not Chaucer or Shakespeare, or Jane Austen for that matter. That's what I had to study last term, and trust me, it was dull, I mean, honestly, who cares about Mr Darcy. Well, my mum does, but that just goes to prove my point: no-one in their right mind would willingly read such utter drivel. Hang on; I've just wasted a minute or two thinking about Jane Austen related thoughts, something I swore never to do ever again. So back to the book at hand,
Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.
I wish my life wasn't so normal; it's bloody boring if I'm honest. A whole stream of essays to write, pointless books to read, groceries to scan, you get the picture. I don't know why anyone would want a normal life. Seventy five years of mediocrity, of sitting exams, getting dull jobs in stuff like accountancy, raising families, divorcing and growing old gracelessly. Then what? You die. The end. Oh yes, sounds like lots of fun. Would you like cash-back with that Sir?
Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.
Ha, I bet this guy has never had to sit through Mr Yates' Latin lessons; death would be a welcome relief. I wonder idly whether I should be taking notes, will this opening passage help with my essay? It's certainly unconventional, a direct address to the reader, breaking the fourth wall and all that. It's almost like he's trying to warn me. I shake my head, how ridiculous; it's a simple literary device designed to catch the reader's interest, nothing more...
But if you recognise yourself in these pages – if you feel something stirring inside – stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.
Something certainly is stirring inside; my stomach rumbles angrily, must be nearly tea time. I pause again. Englishy thoughts swirl around my mind, ideas lighting up my brain like fireworks. I scrabble for a pen. I've got an idea, and what's more, it's a good one. In my haste I miss the last line,
Don't say I didn't warn you.