A/N (I recommend reading this): 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 AND THE KANE CHRONICLES OR IT'S CHARACTERS as the rights goes to Rick Riordan. Also I suggest you guys start paying attention to the Author notes and my warnings that I left on EVERY chapter of EVERY story.

Sorry if this chapter is too much like the book.

This is a The Tales of version of the Percy Jackson and Kane Chronicles crossover and takes place after 'The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus part of the series. So if you haven't read them yet read before reading this story as stuff that happened in them will be mentioned:

The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: the Early Adventures
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Lightning Thief
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Sea of Monsters
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Titan's Curse
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Magical Labyrinth
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 Last Olympian
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: the Staff of Hermes
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Quest for Buford
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Son of Neptune
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Mark of Athena
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The House of Hades
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Blood of Olympus
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Son of Sobek
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Staff of Serapis
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Crown of Ptolemy

Also if you haven't got the chance feel free to read:

The Tales of Classical Mythology

A crossover with The Tales of series with my dictionary on Greek/Roman Mythology where The Tales of Percy Jackson tells his version of stories behind famous names in Greek and Roman Mythology.

And if you are a fan of Stephen King:

The Tales of the Heroes of the Stand

Which is basically a crossover of The Tales of series with one of Stephen King's best novels The Stand.

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.

I Shouldn't Have to Pace Myself with Anything, Especially with My Own Domains

I wished I had a doctor's note. I wanted to be excused from PE.

Honestly, I will never understand you mortals. You try to maintain good physical shape with push-ups, sit-ups, five-mile runs, obstacle courses, and other hard work that involved sweating. All the while, you know it is a losing battle. Eventually your weak, limited-use bodies will deteriorate and fall, giving you wrinkles, sagging parts, and old-person breath.

It is horrific! If I want to change shape, or age, or gender, or species, I simply wish it to happen and ka-bam!—I am a young, large, female three-toed sloth. No number of push-ups will accomplish that. I simply do not see the logic in your constant struggles. Exercise is nothing more than a depressing reminder that one is not a god.

By the end of Sherman Yang's boot camp, I was gasping and drenched in sweat. My muscles felt like quivering columns of gelatinous desert.

I did not feel like a special snowflake (though my mother, Leto, always assure me I was one), and I was sorely tempted to accuse Sherman of not treating me as such.

Shame Clarisse la Rue left for University of Arizona. I could at least charm and dazzle her. Oh, why does college have to happen to perfectly good people?

After the torture, I staggered back to my cabin and took another shower.

Showers are good. Perhaps not as good as bacon, but good.

My second morning session was painful for a different reason. I was assigned to music lessons in the amphitheater with a satyr named Woodrow. Chiron wanted to see if I have the musical gift, I often blessed upon my kids to go with the sonic whistle.

Woodrow seemed nervous to have me join his little class. Perhaps he heard the legend about my skinning the satyr Marsyas alive after he challenged me to a music contest. The flaying part was totally untrue by the way. But rumors do have amazing staying powers, especially when I may have been guilty of spreading them.

Using his panpipe, Woodrow reviewed the minor scales. Austin had no problem with these, even though he was challenging himself by playing the violin, which was not his instrument. Valentina Diaz, a daughter of Aphrodite, did her best to throttle the clarinet, producing sounds like a basset hound whimpering in a thunderstorm. Damien White, son of Nemesis and Ethan's half-brother and as it turns out second-in-command, I saw the other night, lived up to his namesake by wreaking vengeance on an acoustic guitar. He played with such force that he broke the D string.

"You killed it!" said Chiara Benvenuti. She was the pretty Italian girl I had noticed the night before—a child of Tyche, goddess of good fortune and head counselor of her mother's cabin. "I need to use that guitar!"

"Shut up, Lucky," Damien muttered. "In the real-world accidents happen. Strings snap sometimes."

Chiara unleashed some rapid-fire Italian that I decided not to translate.

Sensing Chiara's and Damien's argument was not going to end unless the guitar is fixed, I reached for the guitar. "May I?"

Damien reluctantly handed it over. I leaned toward the guitar case by Woodrow's feet. The satyr leaped several inches into the air.

Austin laughed. "Relax, Woodrow. He's just getting another string."

I will admit I found the satyr's reaction gratifying. If I could still scare satyrs, perhaps there was hope for me reclaiming some of my former glory. From here I could work my way up to scaring farm animals, then regular mortals, then demigods (some demigods can be harder to scare than mortals at times due to their experience fighting monsters), monsters, and minor deities.

In a matter of seconds, I had replaced the string. It felt good to do something familiar and simple. I adjusted the pitch but stopped when I realized Valentina was sobbing.

"That was beautiful!" She wiped a tear from her cheek. "What was that song?"

I blinked. "It's called tuning."

"Yeah, Valentina, control yourself," Damien chided, though his eyes were red. "It wasn't that beautiful."

"No." Chiara sniffled. "It wasn't."

Only Austin seemed unaffected. His eyes shone with what looked like pride. I realized I might have subconsciously tapped into another demigod power of mine—to create emotional music even with just something as simple as tunning a guitar. I never realized it was a demigod power before, but I guess that is because being a god of music it just came natural for me.

I played the C minor scale. The B string was flat. It is always the B string. Three thousand years since I invented the guitar (during a wild party with the Hittites—long story), and I still could not figure out how to make the B-string that stay in tune.

I ran through the other scales, delighted that I still remembered them.

"Now this is a Lydian progression," I said. "It starts on the fourth of the major scale. They say it is called Lydian after the old kingdom of Lydia, but I named it for an old girlfriend of mine, Lydia. She was the fourth woman I dated that year, so…"

I looked up mid-arpeggio. Damien and Chiara were weeping in each other's arms, hitting each other weakly as cursing, "I hate you. I hate you."

Valentina lay on the amphitheater bench, silently shaking. Woodrow was pulling apart his panpipes.

"I'm worthless!" he sobbed. "Worthless!"

Even Austin had a tear in his eye. He gave me a thumbs-up.

As thrilled as I am that I still have an affect on people, I realized Chiron would be annoyed if I drove the entire music class into major depression. Especially since one of them was Senior Head Counselor.

I pulled the D string slightly sharp—a trick I used to use to keep my adoring fans from exploding in rapture at my concerts. (And I mean literally exploding. Some of those gigs at the Fillmore in the 1960s… well, I spare you the gruesome details.)

I strummed a chord that was intentionally out of tune. To me it sounded awful, but the campers stirred from their misery. They sat up, wiped their tears, and watched in fascination as I played a simple one-four-five progression.

"Yeah, man." Austin brought his violin to his chin and began to improvise. His resin bow danced across the strings. He and I locked eyes, and for a moment we were more than family. We became part of the music, communicating on a level only gods and musicians will ever understand.

Woodrow broke the spell.

"That's amazing," the satyr sobbed. "You two should be teaching the class. What was I thinking? Please don't flay me!"

"My dear satyr," I said. "I would never—"

Suddenly, my finger spasmed. I dropped the guitar in surprise. The instrument tumbled down the steps of the amphitheater, clanging and sproinging.

Austin lowered his bow. "You okay?"

"I… yes, of course."

But I was not okay. For a few moments, I had experienced this bliss of my formerly easy talent. Yet, clearly, my new mortal fingers were not up to task. My hand muscles were sore. Red lines dug into my finger pads where I had touched the fret board. I had overextended myself in other ways, too. My lungs felt shriveled, drained of oxygen, even though I had done no singing.

"I'm… tired," I said, dismayed.

"Well, yeah." Valentina nodded. "The way you were playing was unreal!"

"It's okay, Apollo," Austin said. "You'll get stronger. When demigods use their powers, especially at first, they get tired quickly."

So unfair. I was a god. Using my powers never been tiring. How could I ever play music again, knowing that I was flawed instrument? Each note would bring me nothing but pain and exhaustion. My B string would never be in tune.

My misery must have shown on my face.

Damien White balled his fists. "Don't worry, Apollo. It is not your fault. I'll make that stupid guitar pay for this!"

I did not try to stop him as he marched down the stairs. Part of me took perverse satisfaction in the way he stomped the guitar until it was reduced to kindling and wires.

Chiara huffed. "Idiota! Now I'll never get my turn."

Woodrow winced. "Well, um… thanks, everyone! Good class!"

…

Archery was the same as music. I started off amazing getting bull's-eye after bull's-eye. But as I kept going, I started tiring and my arms started aching causing my aim to start slipping to where my arrows hit outside the black ring at a mere one hundred meters. I threw down my bow and wept in shame.

Kayla was our class instructor as Chiron—who I was told normally taught the class—was managing the last-minute exploration and traps-check in the Labyrinth for the three-legged-death-race. But her patience and kindness only made me feel worse. She scooped up my bow and offered it back to me.

"Apollo," she said, "you are tired. It's normal for your aim to slip once you start tiring."

"I'm a god of archery!" I wailed. "I shouldn't be missing at all."

Next to me, the daughters of Nike snickered.

They had the insufferably appropriate names Holly and Laurel Victor. They reminded me of the gorgeous, ferociously athletic African nymphs Athena used to hang out with at Lake Tritonis.

"Hey, ex-god," Holly said, nocking an arrow. "It's natural to feel tired. But if you practice you can keep going even longer." She scored a seven on the red ring, but she did not seem at all discouraged.

"For you maybe," I said. "You're a mortal!"

Her sister, Laurel snorted. "So are you now. Suck it up. Winners don't complain." She shot her arrow, which landed next to her sister's but just inside the red ring. "That's why I'm better than Holly. She's always complaining."

"Yeah, right," Holly growled. "The only thing I complain about is how lame you are."

"Oh, yeah?" said Laurel. "Let us go. Right now. Best two out of three shots. The loser scrubs the toilets for a month."

"You're on!"

Just like that, they forgot about me. They would have made excellent Tritonian nymphs.

Kayla took me by the arm and led me downrange. "Those two, I swear. We made them Nike co-counselors, so they would compete. If we had not, they would've taken over the camp by now and proclaimed a dictatorship."

I suppose she was trying to cheer me up, but I was not consoled.

I stared at my fingers, now blistered from archery as well as sore from guitar. Impossible. Agonizing.

"I can't do this, Kayla," I muttered. "I'm too old to be sixteen again!"

Kayla cupper her hand over mine. Beneath the green shock of her hair, she had ginger complexion—like cream painted over copper, the auburn sheen peeking through the freckles of her face and arms. She reminded me very much of her other father, the Canadian archery coach Darren Knowles.

Yes, it is possible for a demigod child to spring from a relationship of a god and a mortal man. Why not? Zeus gave birth to Dionysus from his own thigh. Athena once had a child who was created from a handkerchief. Why would such things surprise you? We gods are capable of infinite marvels.

Kayla took a deep breath, as if preparing for an important shot. "You can do it, Dad. You are already good. You just got to adjust your expectations and pace yourself. Be patient and be brave."

I was tempted to laugh. How could I get used to getting tired? Why would I strain myself to pace myself to remain good when before I had been divine?

"No," I said bitterly. "No, it is too painful. I swear upon the River Styx—until I am a god again, I will not use a bow or a musical instrument!"

Go ahead and chide me. I know it Was a foolish oath, spoken in a moment of misery and self-pity. And it was binding. An oath sworn on the River Styx can have terrible consequences if broken.

But I did not care. Zeus had cursed me with mortality. I was not going to pretend that everything was normal. I would not be Apollo until I was really Apollo. For now, I was just a stupid young man named Lester Papadopoulos. Maybe I would waste my time on skills I did not care about—like sword fighting since Percy gave me a kopis. My Roman demigod children had to learn how to use a gladius, I should be able to learn to use a sword too. Heck, since Meg seem so good at it maybe she can teach me. Kayla is only a year older than Meg, and she is giving me archery advice. Anything but music and archery.

Kayla stared at me in horror. "Dad, you don't mean it."

"I do!"

"Take it back! You can't…" She glances over my shoulder. "What is he doing?"

I followed her gaze.

Sherman Yang was walking slowly, trance like, into the woods.

It would have been foolhardy to run after him, straight into the most dangerous part of camp.

So that's exactly what Kayla and I did.

We almost did not make it. As soon as we reached the tree line, the forest darkened. The temperature dropped. The horizon stretched out as if bent through a magnifying glass.

A woman whispered in my ear this time I knew the voice well. It had never stopped haunting me. You did this to me. Come. Chase me again.

Fear rolled through my stomach.

I imagined the branches turning into arms; the leaves undulated like green hands.

Daphne, I thought.

Even after so many centuries, the guilt was overwhelming. I could not look at a tree without thinking of her. Forest made me nervous. The life force of each tree seemed to bear down on me with righteous hatred, accusing me of so many crime… I wanted to beg forgiveness. But this was not the time.

I could not allow the woods to confuse me again. I would not let anyone else fall into its trap.

Kayla did not seem affected. I grabbed her hand to make sure we stay together. We only had to go a few steps, but it felt like a boot camp run before we reached Sherman Yang.

"Sherman," I grabbed his arm.

He tried to shake me off. Fortunately, he was sluggish and dazed or I would have ended up with scars of my own. Kayla helped me turn him around.

His eyes twitched as if he were in some sort of half-conscious REM sleep. "No. Ellis. Got to find him. Miranda. My girl."

I glanced at Kayla. I remember Chiron saying Ellis was from Ares cabin, but Miranda—"His girl?" I asked.

"Sherman and Miranda started dating about a week ago," Kayla explained.

"Ah." I should have figured. Ares calls Aphrodite 'his girl' often. Most of the time when he does not say Aphrodite's name directly was when Hephaestus was around, but all the gods of Olympus knows when Ares says 'my girl' he is most likely talking about Aphrodite.

Sherman struggled to free himself. "Find her."

"Miranda is right over here, my friend," I lied. "We'll take you there."

He stopped fighting. His eyes rolled until only the whites were visible. "Over… here?"

"Yes."

"Ellis?"

"Yes, it's me," I said. "I'm Ellis."

"I love you, man," Sherman sobbed.

Still, it took all our strength to lead him out of the trees. I was reminded of the time Hephaestus and I had to wrestle the god Hypnos back to bed after he sleepwalked into Artemis private chambers on Mount Olympus. It is a wonder any of us escaped without silver arrows pin cushioning our posteriors.

We led Sherman to the archery range. Between one step and the next, he blinked his eyes and became his normal self. He noticed our hands on his arms and shook us off.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"You were walking into the woods," I said.

He gave us his drill sergeant glower. "No, I wasn't."

Kayla reached for him, then obviously thought better about it. Archery would be difficult with broken fingers. "Sherman, you were in trance. You were muttering about Ellis and Miranda."

Along Sherman's cheek, his zigzag scar darkened to bronze. "I don't remember that."

"Although you didn't mention the other missing camper," I added helpfully. "Cecil?"

"Why would I mention Cecil?" Sherman growled. "I can't stand the guy. And why should I believe you?"

"The woods had you," I said. "The trees were pulling you in."

Sherman studied the forest, but the trees looked normal again. The lengthening shadows and swaying green hands were gone.

"Look," Sherman said. "I have a head injury, thank to your annoying friend Meg. If I was acting strange, that's why."

I doubt that was the cause as he seemed normal this morning. But it is possible any residual damage might have left him vulnerable to whatever is going on in the woods. But somethings were not adding up.

Kayla frowned. "But—"

"Enough!" Sherman snapped. "If either of you mention this, I'll make you eat your quivers. I do not need people questioning my self-control. Besides, I've got the race to think about."

Well, that was a typical Ares response. Ares never liked admitting to weakness either. A memory came to me of Ares denying or dodges the conversation of being manipulated by Kronos to hide the Master Bolt from Zeus for Luke or losing a sword fight to Percy.

He brushed past us.

"Sherman," I called.

He turned; his fists clenched.

"I believe your injury might have helped trigger what happened, but there's still something I need to know." I carefully choose my words to avoid saying vulnerable or weak like I would if I were talking to Ares to get information from him involving a touchy subject. "The last thing you remember, before you found yourself with us… what were you thinking about?"

For a microsecond, the dazed look passed across his face again. "About Miranda and Ellis… like you said. I was thinking… I wanted to know where they were."

"You were asking a question, then." A blanket of dread settled over me. "You wanted information."

"I…"

At the dining pavilion, the conch horn blew.

Sherman's expression hardened. "Doesn't matter. Drop it. We have got lunch now. Then I'm going to destroy you all in the three-legged death race."

As threats went, I had worse, but Sherman made it sound intimidating enough. He marched off toward the pavilion.

Kayla turned to me. "What just happened?"

"I think I understand now," I said. "I know why those campers went missing."