Warning: Certain ancient Greek names matches words use of foul language but no foul language was intentionally used. Also if you haven't read them yet read 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Early Adventures' 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief' 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Olympians: The Sea of Monsters' 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Olympians: The Titan's Curse' and 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Olympians: The Magical Labyrinth' as well as the one shots 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Stolen Chariot' The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Sword of Hades', 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Bronze Dragon' 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Olympians: The Last Olympian' 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon & the Staff of Hermes' 'The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero' and 'The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Quest for Buford' before reading this story as stuff that happened in them will be mentioned. Lastly, any one who wants to do a Demigods and Olympian reads story using 'The Tales of the Son of Poseidon' is allowed as long as you inform me about it.
A/N: I'm going to MAKE THIS CLEAR. Just like I mention on my bio page about every other fanfiction I done: I DON'T OWN THE PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIAN SERIES OR IT'S CHARACTERS as the rights goes to Rick Rioran. Also I suggest you guys start paying attention to the Author notes and my warnings that I left on EVERY chapter of EVERY story. Because I KNOW I warn all of you about the first chapter before it started.
Keep in mind it would be hard to be original with Hazel's and Frank's Flashbacks in this story. Sorry if this chapter is too much like the book
Frank's POV Part II
I don't remember much from the funeral itself.
But what do I remember was the hours leading up to it—my grandmother coming out into the backyard to find me shooting arrows at her porcelain collection.
My grandmother's house was a rambling gray stone mansion on twelve acres in North Vancouver. Her backyard ran straight into Lynn Canyon Park.
The morning was cold and drizzly, but I didn't feel the chill. I wore a black wool suit and a black overcoat that had once belong to my grandfather. I had been startled and upset to find they fit me so well. The clothes smelled like wet mothballs and jasmine. The fabric was itchy but warm. With my bow and quiver, I probably looked like a dangerous butler.
I'd loaded some of my grandmother's porcelain in a wagon and trotted it into the yard, where I set up targets on old fence posts at the edge of the property. I'd been shooting so long; my fingers were starting to lose their feeling. With every arrow, I imagined I was striking down my problems.
Snipers in Afghanistan. Smash. A teapot exploded with an arrow through the middle.
The sacrifice medal, a silver disk on a red-and-black ribbon, given for death in the line of duty, presented to me as if it were something important, something that made everything all right. Thwack. A teacup spun into the woods.
The officer who came to tell me: "Your mother is a hero. Captain Emily Zhang died trying to save her comrades."
Crack. A blue-and-white plate split into pieces.
My mother's chastisement: Men do not cry. Especially Zhang men You will endure, Fai.
No one called me Fai except for my grandmother.
What sort of name is Frank? She would scold. That is not a Chinese name.
I'm not Chinese, I thought, but I didn't dare say that. My mother had told me years ago: There is no arguing with Grandmother. It'll only make you suffer worse. She been right. And now I had no one except my grandmother.
Thud. A fourth arrow hit the fence post and stuck there, quivering.
"Fai," said my grandmother.
I turned.
She was clutching a shoebox-sized mahogany chest that I never saw before. With her high-collared black dress and severe bun of gray hair, she looked like a school teacher from the 1800s.
She surveyed the carnage I caused: her porcelain in the wagon, the shards of her favorite tea sets scattered over the lawn, my arrows sticking out of the ground, the trees, the fence posts, and one in the head of a smiling garden gnome.
My first thought was that I was in serious trouble. I was certain my grandmother yell or hit me with the box. I'd never done anything this bad before. I'd never felt so angry.
Grandmother's face was full of bitterness and disapproval. She looked nothing like my mom. I wonder how my mother had turned out to be so nice—always laughing, always gentle. I couldn't imagine my mom growing up with Grandmother any more than I could imagine her on the battlefield—though the two situations probably weren't that different.
I waited for Grandmother to explode. Maybe I'd be grounded and wouldn't have to go to the funeral. I wanted to hurt her for being so mean all the time, for letting my mother go off to war, for scolding me to get over it. All she cared about was her stupid collection.
"Stop this ridiculous behavior," Grandmother said. She didn't sound very irritated. "It is beneath you."
To my astonishment, she kicked aside one of her favorite tea cups.
"The car will be here soon," she said. "We must talk."
I was dumbfounded. Sure Grandmother had told me before that Archery was beneath me, despite what our family name means, but this is the first time she actually kicked aside on of her porcelains.
For a horrible moment, I wondered if it contains my mother's ashes, but that was impossible. Grandmother told me that there would be a military burial. So why was Grandmother holding a box so gingerly, as if its contents grieved her?"
"Come inside," she said. Without waiting to see if I would follow, she turned and marched toward the house. I followed her, scared what might happen.
In the parlor, I sat on a velvet sofa surrounded by vintage family photos (most of the people I don't recognize), porcelain vases that had been too large for my wagon, and red Chinese calligraphy banners that I had no clue what it says (mostly because I never take interest in learning it).
Whenever Grandmother started lecturing me about my ancestry—how they'd come over from China and prospered in the import/export business, eventually becoming one of the wealthiest Chinese families in Vancouver—well, it was too boring for me to follow. I was fourth-generation Canadian. I didn't care about China and all these musty antiques. The only Chinese characters I could recognize was my family name: Zhang. Master of bows. That was cool.
Grandmother sat next to me, her posture stiff, her hands folded over the box.
"Your mother wanted you to have this," she said with reluctance. "She kept it since you were a baby. When she went away to the war, she entrusted it to me. But now she is gone. And soon you will be going, too."
My stomach started to flutter. "Going? Where?"
"I am old," Grandmother said, as if that were a surprising announcement. I have my own appointment with Death soon enough. I cannot teach you the skills you will need, and I cannot keep this burden. If something were to happen to it, I would never forgive myself. You would die."
I wasn't sure I heard her right. It sounded like she had said my life depended on that box. I wondered why I'd never seen it before. She must have kept it locked in the attic—the one room I was forbidden to explore. She'd always said she kept her most valuable treasures up there.
She handed me the box. I opened the lid with trembling fingers. Inside, cushioned in velvet lining was the one thing that would later learned that it hasa changed my life forever: a piece of wood.
It looked like driftwood—hard and smooth, sculpted into a wavy shape. It was about the size of a TV remote control. The tip was charred. I touched the burned end. It still felt warm. The ashes left a black smudge on my fingers.
"It's a stick," I said. I couldn't figure out why Grandmother was acting so tense and serious about it.
Her eyes glittered. "Fai, do you know of prophecies? Do you know of the gods?"
The questions made me uncomfortable. I thought about Grandmother's silly gold statues of Chinese immortals, her superstitions about putting furniture in certain places and avoiding unlucky numbers. Prophecies made me think of fortune cookies, which weren't even Chinese—not really—but the bullies at school teased him about stupid stuff like that: Confucius say… all that garbage. I had never even been to China. I wanted nothing to do with it. But of course, Grandmother didn't want to hear that.
"A little Grandmother," I said. "Not much."
"Most would have scoffed at your mother's tale," she said. "But I did not. I know of prophecies and gods. Greek, Roman, Chinese—they're intertwine in our family. I did not question what she told me about your father."
"Wait… what?"
"Your father was a god," she said plainly.
If Grandmother had had a sense of humor, I would have thought she was kidding. But Grandmother never t eased. Was she going senile?
"Stop gaping at me!" she snapped. "My mind is not addled. Haven't you ever wondered why your father never came back?"
"He was…" I faltered. Losing my mother was painful enough. I didn't want to think about my father, too. "He was in the army, like Mom. He went missing in action. In Iraq."
"Bah. He was a god. He fell in love with your mother because she was a natural warrior. She was like me—strong, brave, good, beautiful."
Strong and brace, I could believe. Picturing Grandmother good and beautiful not so much.
I still suspected she might be losing her marbles, but I asked anyways, "What kind of god?"
"Roman," she said. "Beyond that, I don't know. Your mother wouldn't say, or perhaps she didn't know herself. It is no surprise a god would fall in love with her, given our family. He must have known she was of ancient blood."
"Wait… we're Chinese. Why would Roman gods want to date Chinese Canadians?"
Grandmother's nostrils flared and I knew I was going to get another one of her lectures about knowing my family history.
"If you bother to learn the family history, Fai, you might know this. China and Rome are not so different, nor as separate as you might believe. Our family is from the Gansu Province, a town once called Li-Jien. And before that… as I said, ancient blood. The blood of princes and heroes."
I just stared at her.
She sighed in exasperation. "My words are wasted on this young ox! You will learn the truth when you go to camp. Perhaps your father will claim you. But for now, I must explain the firewood."
She pointed at the big stone fireplace. "Shortly after you were born, a visitor appeared at our hearth. Your mother and I sat here on the couch, just where you and I are sitting. You were a tiny thing, swaddled in a blue blanket, and she cradled you in her arms."
Too me, I thought it sounded like a sweet memory. But the way Grandmother told it in a bitter tone, it sounded that even back then she knew that I would turn out to be a big lumbering oaf.
"A woman appeared at the fire," she continued. "She was a white woman—a gwai poh—dressed in blue silk, with s strange cloak in the skin of a goat."
"A goat," I said numbly.
Grandmother scowled. "Yes, clean your ears, Fai Zhang! I'm too old to tell every story twice. The woman with the goatskin was a goddess. I can always tell these things. She smiled at the baby—at you—and she told your mother, in perfect Mandarin, no less: 'He will close the circle. He will return your family to its roots and bring you great honor by coming one of the greatest heroes of all time."
Grandmother snorted. "I do not argue with the goddess, but perhaps this one did not see the future clearly. Whatever the case, she said, 'He will go to camp and restore your reputation there. He will free Thantos from his icy chains—"
"Wait, who?"
"Thantos," Grandmother said impatiently. "The Greek name for Death. Now may I continue without interruptions? The goddess said 'The blood of Pylos is strong in this child from his mother side. He will have the Zhang family gift, but he will also have the powers of his father."
Suddenly my family history didn't seem so boring. I desperately wanted to ask what it all meant—powers, gifts, blood of Pylos. What was this camp, and who was my father? But I didn't want to interrupt Grandmother again. I wanted to her to keep talking.
"No power comes without a price, Fai," she said. "Before the goddess disappeared, she pointed at the fire and said, 'He will be the strongest of your clan, and the greatest. But the Fates have decreed will also be the most vulnerable. he bear the curse of Meleager and his life will burn bright and short. As soon as that piece of tinder is consumed—that stick at the edge of the fire—your son is destined to die."
I could hardly breathe. I looked at the box in my lap, and the smudge of ash on my finger. The story sounded ridiculous, but suddenly the piece of driftwood seemed more sinister, colder and heavier. "This… this—"
"Yes, my thick-headed ox," Grandmother said. "That is the very stick. The goddess disappeared and I snatched the wood from the fire immediately. We have kept it ever since."
"If it burns up, I die?"
"It is not so strange," Grandmother said. "Roman, Chinese—the destinies of men can be often being predicted, and sometimes guarded against, at least for a time. The firewood is in your possession now. Keep it close. As long as it is safe, you are safe."
I shook my head. I wanted to protest that this was just a stupid legend. Maybe Grandmother was trying to scare me as some sort of revenge for breaking her porcelain.
But her eyes were defiant. She seemed to be challenging me: If you do not believe it, burn it.
I choose not to take any chances at the time and closed the box. "If it's so dangerous, why not seal the wood in something that won't burn, like plastic or steel? Why not put it in a safe deposit box?"
"What would happen," Grandmother wondered as if the thought has occurred to her before. "if we coat the stick in another substance. Would you, too, suffocate? I don't know. Your mother would not take the risk. She couldn't bear to part with it, for fear something would go wrong. Banks can be robbed. Buildings can burn down. Strange things conspire when one tries to cheat fate. Your mother thought the stick was only safe in her possession, until she went to war. Then she gave it to me."
Grandmother exhaled sourly. "Emily was foolish, going to war, though I suppose I always knew it was her destiny. She hoped to meet your father again."
"She thought… she thought he'd be in Afghanistan?"
Grandmother spread her hands, as if this was beyond her understanding. "She went. She died bravely. She thought the family gift would protect her. No doubt that's how she saved those soldiers. But the gift has never kept our family safe. It did not help my father, or his father. It did not help me. And now you have become a man. You must follow the path."
"But… what path? What's our gift—archery?"
"You and your archery! Foolish boy. Soon you will find out. Tonight, after the funeral, you must go south. Your mother said if she did not come back from combat, Lupa would send messengers. They will escort you to a place where the children of the gods can be trained for their destiny."
I felt as if I were being shot with arrows, my heart splitting into porcelain shards. I didn't understand most of what Grandmother said, but one thing was clear: she was kicking me out.
"You just let me go?" I asked. "Your last family?"
Grandmother's mouth quivered. Her eyes looked moist. I was shocked to realize she was near tears. She'd lost her husband years ago, then her daughter, and now she was about to send me, her only grandson, away. But she rose from the couch and stood tall, her posture as stiff and correct as ever.
"When you arrive at camp," she instructed. "you must speak to the praetor in private. Tell her your great-grandfather was Shen Lun. It has been many years since the San Francisco incident. Hopefully they won't kill you for what he did, but you might want to beg for forgiveness for his actions."
"This is sounding better and better," I mumbled.
"The goddess said you would bring our family full circle." Grandmother's voice had no trace of sympathy. "She choose your path years ago, and it will not be easy. But now it is time for the funeral. We have obligations. Come. The car will be waiting."
The ceremony was a blur: solemn faces, the patter of rain on the graveside awning, the crack of rifles from the honor guard, the casket sinking into the earth.
That night, the wolves came. They howled on the front porch. I came out to meet them. I took my travel pack, my warmest clothes, and my bow and quiver. My mother's sacrifice medal was tucked in my pack. The charred stick was wrapped carefully in three layers of cloth in my coat pocket, next to my heart.
My journey south began—to the Wolf House in Sonoma, and eventually to Camp Jupiter, where I spoke to Reyna privately as my Grandmother instructed. I begged for forgiveness for the great-grandfather I knew nothing about. Reyna let me join the legion. She never told me what my great-grandfather had done, but she obviously knew. I could tell it was bad.
"I judge people by their own merits, not by the actions of their family," Reyna told me—which I later came to find was true when I heard how Hazel was accepted to the legion. "But do not mention the name of Shen Lun to anyone else. It must remain our secret, or you'll be treated badly."
I didn't have the credentials to get me out of grunt work but unfortunately it didn't matter. The goddess said I would be one of the greatest hero and yet I didn't have that many merits. My first month at camp was spent knocking over rows of weapons, breaking chariots, and tripping entire cohorts as they marched. My favorite job was caring for Hannibal the elephant, but I even managed to mess that up, too—giving Hannibal indigestion by feeding him peanuts. Who knew elephants could be peanut-intolerant? To top that off I kept speaking out of line when I'm not supposed to as a probatio—which Reyna constantly reminded me about. I figured Reyna was regretting her decision to let me join.
Every day, I woke up wondering if the stick would somehow catch fire and burned, and I would cease to exist.
…
I thought of all of this as I walked with Hazel and Percy to the war games. I thought about the stick wrapped inside my coat pocket, and what it meant that Juno had appeared at camp. Was I about to die? I hoped not. I haven't brought my family any honor yet or became the great hero I was supposed to be—that was for sure. Maybe Apollo would claim me today and explain my powers and gifts.
Once we got out of camp, the Fifth Cohort formed two lines behind our centurions, Dakota and Gwen. We marched north, skirting the edge of the city, and headed to the Field of Mars—the largest, flattest part of the valley. The grass was cropped short by all the unicorns, bulls, and homeless fauns that grazed here. The earth was pitted with explosion craters and scarred with trenches from past games. At the north end of the field stood our target. The engineers had built a stone fortress with an iron portcullis, guard towers, scorpion ballistae, water cannons, and no doubt many other nasty surprises for defenders to use.
"They did a good job today," Hazel noted. "That's bad for us."
"So—Roman demigods built that fortress in a day?" Percy asked.
Hazel grinned. "Legionnaires are trained to build. If we had to, we could break down the entire camp and rebuild it somewhere else. Take maybe three or four days, but we could do it."
Percy whistled in amazement. "So you attack a different fort every night?"
"Not every night," I said. "We have different training exercises. Sometimes death ball—um, which is like paintball, except with… you know, poison and acid and fire balls. Sometimes we do chariot and gladiator competitions, sometimes war games."
Percy furrowed for a bit. "Do you ever have to fight against six giant scorpions for a game?"
Hazel and I stared at Percy like he gone crazy.
"Never mind," Percy said when he saw our expression, "Forget I asked that."
"Anyways—" Hazel said unconvinced. She pointed at the fort. "Somewhere inside, the First and Second Cohorts are keeping their banners. Our job is to get inside and capture them without getting slaughtered. We do that, we win."
Percy's eyes lit up. "Oh, so it's like capture the flag, expect with a well-armed fortress and weapons. Cool!"
I laughed nervously. "Yeah, well the cohort that captures the banner gets all the glory."
"Makes sense," Percy said trying to keep time with the left-right marching rhythm. I had to sympathized with the guy. I'd spent my first two weeks falling down. Still, Percy was doing better than I thought he would. "So I'm guessing this is about teamwork?"
"And quick thinking, tactics, and battle skills," Hazel said. "You'd be surprised what you can learn in the war games."
"Like who will stab you in the back," I said.
"Especially that," Hazel agreed.
I think that worried Percy a bit because he straightened his armor so his left side was better protected—which is odd considering Percy had his armor strapped on pretty good. In fact, too good for a new recruit. It was as if he been wearing armor most of his life. There were two things that wasn't regulation. One was of course his bronze thermos strapped to his belt. I wouldn't be surprise if that was a magical item given to him by Neptune. The other was Percy's glowing bronze sword—not Imperial gold, and not a gladius. The blade look leaf-shaped, and writing on the hilt was Greek.
We marched to the center of the Field of Mars and formed ranks. The Third and Fourth Cohorts assembled as far as possible from the Fifth. The centurions for the attacking side gathered for a conference. In the sky above us, Reyna circled on her Pegasus, Scipio, ready to play referee.
Half a dozen giant eagles flew in formation behind her—prepared for ambulance airlift duty if necessary. The only person not participating in the game was Nico di Angelo, "Pluto's ambassador," who had climbed an observation tower about a hundred yards from the fort and would be watching with binoculars.
I looked back at the sword and Thermos, they made me feel uneasy, but there were no rules against using other weapons or magical items, otherwise I wouldn't be carrying a bow and quiver. Although, unless the magical item is counted as a weapon, most Romans looked down on them. Even more so than archers and Calvary. But after seeing what Percy did to the gorgons using the Little Tiber, I wouldn't be surprise if he can improvise it into a weapon.
"Chances are we'll get the worst duty and get eliminated early. They'll throw us at the walls first to soften up the defenses. Then the Third and Fourth Cohorts will march in and get the honors, if they can even breach the fort," Hazel said.
Percy frowned. "They call that teamwork? It sounds more like eliminating the weakest link? Why not just use plan Attack plan Macedonia or something like that?"
"Attack plan Macedonia?" Hazel asked.
"Yeah, split the cohorts three ways, one group to attack the front line and two other groups attack from the side," Percy said.
It was actually a good plan. It would spread the First and Second Cohorts thin trying to guard at all sides increasing our chances. Sadly, it wasn't Percy's call and it wasn't Roman style fighting, so chances were the centurions won't agree with it. But it did give me an idea.
Horns blew. Dakota and Gwen walked back from the officer conference, looking grim.
"All right, here's the plan!" Dakota took a quick swig of Kool-Aid from his travel flask. "They're throwing us at the walls first to soften up the defenses."
The whole cohort groaned.
"I know, I know," Gwen said. "But maybe this time we'll have some luck!"
Leave it two Gwen to be optimist. Everybody liked her because she took care of her people and tried to keep their spirits up. She could even control Dakota during his hyperactive bug-juice fits. Still, the campers grumbled and complained. In the Fifth Cohort, there was no such thing as luck. Not since Michael Varus led a quest to Alaska.
"First line with Dakota," Gwen said. "Lock shields and advance in turtle formation to the gates. Try to stay in one piece. Draw their fire. Second line—" Gwen turned to my row without much enthusiasm. You seventeen, from Bobby over, take charge of the elephant and the scaling ladders. Try a flanking attack on the western wall. Maybe we can spread the defenders too thin. Frank, Hazel, and Percy… well, just do whatever. Show Percy the ropes, try to keep him alive, and see what he can do." She turned back to the whole cohort. "If anybody gets over the wall first, I'll make sure you get the Mural Crown. Victory for the Fifth!"
The cohort cheered half heartedly and broke ranks.
Well, this might go easier than I thought.
"Mural Crown—what is that?" Percy asked. "They mention it earlier."
"It's a military metal," I said. I'd been forced to memorized all the possible awards. "Big honor for the first soldier to breach enemy fort. You'll notice nobody in the Fifth is wearing one. Usually we don't even get into the fort because we're burning or drowning or whatever. But I got a plan that involves you."
"Me?" Percy asked.
"The water cannons on the walls," I said, "they draw water from the aqueduct."
"Design with the aqueducts that travels down in a slight slant every few feet so the water can flow from the source to it's destination, and I'm guessing that there's a pipe system that transfer it to where the water is needed?" Percy asked.
I blinked. "Exactly. Anyways—if you could control them, like you controlled the river—"
"Frank!" Hazel beamed. "That's brilliant!"
Percy thought of it for a bit. "I should be able to do that, but only if I can get close to the wall."
"We can get you closer." I pointed to the eastern wall of the fort, where the Fifth Cohort wouldn't be attacking. That's where the defense will be weakest. They won't take us seriously since we're from the Fifth Cohort."
"Except that Percy prove himself as a swordsman," Hazel reminded me.
Percy thought for a bit and looked at the wall. "It's worth the try. But how do we get close to them?"
I turned to Hazel. "Can you do that thing again?"
She punched me in the chest. "You said you wouldn't tell anybody.
Immediately I felt terrible. I'd gotten so caught up in the idea…
Hazel muttered under her breath. "Never mind. It's fine."
"What?" Percy asked.
Hazel sighed. "Frank is talking about trenches. The Field of Mars is riddled with tunnels over the years. Some are collapsed, or buried deep, but a lot of them are still passable. I'm pretty good at finding them and using them. I can even collapse them if I have to."
"Like you did with the gorgons," Percy said, "to slow them down.
I nodded approvingly. "I told you. Pluto is the god of everything under the earth. Hazel can find caves, tunnels, trapdoors—"
"Labyrinth entrances?" Percy asked.
It seemed out of nowhere but I nodded. "As long as it's underground."
"And it was our secret," Hazel grumbled.
I felt myself blushing. "Yeah, sorry."
"Don't worry. I swear on the River of Styx that I won't tell anyone without your permission," Percy told Hazel, which caught her off guard as the sky rumbled.
"Percy, is that wise making an oath like that?" Hazel asked. "Even for Romans that's one of the most serious oaths."
Percy shrugged like it wasn't the first time he was told that.
"Okay. So even if we knock out the water cannons and scale the wall," I said.
"Percy, can your thermos summon a water blast powerful enough to send the user flying?" Hazel asked.
"Wait what?" I asked, "Your thermos can summon water blast?"
Percy explained to me how the inside was coated with fossilize sea shells that let him summon a water blast if he focuses his power into it. In other words—at least from what I understand—Percy had his own water cannon strapped to his belt.
"The only problem is, I don't know if I can carry two people with me when I do it," Percy said. "It might too risky to try it out while carrying you two."
"Then we'll need another way to scale it," Hazel said.
At that moment I decided to check my quiver. I always stocked up on special arrows. I'd never gotten to use them before, but maybe tonight was the night. Maybe I could finally do something good enough to get Apollo's attention.
"The rest is up to me," I said. "Let's go."