A/N 3194 words this time. Most of this is from cannon, I just edited some of it here and there. Hope you enjoy!
Perseus reached out and grabbed Percy's shoulder, and the world went black.
Percy felt a brief moment of weightlessness and suddenly he was standing on a hill, next to a pine tree.
He stumbled.
A hand reached out and stabilized him. Percy looked up, up into his godfather's amused face.
He huffed.
His godfather chuckled.
Percy shoved him. Or tried at least.
His hands went right through Perseus, and he looked up to see his godfather's dissolving smile.
He spun around, but Perseus was nowhere to be seen. "Looking for someone?" a sly voice said, directly to his right. Percy jumped a good few feet into the air. He spun, again, and this time, his godfather stood to his right, with a teasing look on his face. Giving up, Percy pivoted on his heel and marched towards the camp. Perseus shook his head and followed his godson. As they made their way into camp, most people cowered underneath Perseus's suppressive aura, however, some of the more senior campers were wary of the newcomer. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture-an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena- except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless Percy was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.
Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. The blond-
a haired girl was leaning on the porch rail next to them, along with Grover.
The man facing me was small, but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so
black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels- what do you call them,
hubbubs? No, cherubs. That's it. He looked like a cherub who'd turned middle-aged in a trailer park.
He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties,
except Percy got the feeling this guy could've out-gambled even his stepfather.
"That's Mr. D," Perseus told him. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that's
Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you
already know Chiron..."
He pointed at the guy whose back was to me.
First, Percy realized he was sitting in the wheelchair. Then he recognized the tweed jacket, the thinning
brown hair, the scraggly beard.
"Mr. Brunner!" Percy cried.
The Latin teacher turned and smiled at him. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got
in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple-choice answers B.
"Ah, good, Percy," he said. "Now we have four for pinochle."
He offered Percy a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looked at him with bloodshot eyes and heaved a
great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me
to be glad to see you."
"Uh, thanks." Percy scooted a little farther away from him because, if there was one thing Percy had learned
from living with Gabe, it was how to tell when an adult has been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was
a stranger to alcohol, Percy was a satyr.
"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner called to the blond girl.
She came forward and Mr. Brunner introduced us. "This young lady nursed you back to health,
Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy's bunk? We'll be putting him in cabin
eleven for now."
Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron."
Perseus turned towards Percy. 'I must take my leave. If you need me, call me with the necklace I gave you.' With a wink, he poofed out of existence. Percy shook his head, still trying to get over the fact that the supernatural existed.
She was probably his age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her deep tan and her curly blond hair, she was almost exactly what he thought a stereotypical California girl would look like, except her eyes ruined the image. They were startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she were analyzing the best way to take him down in a fight. Then she turned, and left. "So," Percy said, anxious to break the silence. "You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?" "Not Mr. Brunner," the ex-Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron." "Okay." Totally confused, Percy looked at the director. "And Mr. D ... does that stand for something?" Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at Percy like he'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason." "Oh. Right. Sorry." "I must say, Percy," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think I've wasted my time."
"House call?"
"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a
lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I
decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to ... ah, take a leave of absence."
Percy tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but he did have a
fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation,
he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.
"You came to Yancy just to teach me?" Percy asked.
Chiron nodded. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her
know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had
so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."
"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"
"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so
afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.
"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.
"I'm afraid not," Percy said.
"I'm afraid not, sir," he said.
"Sir," he repeated. He was liking the camp director less and less.
"Well," he told Percy, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games
ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules."
"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron said.
"Please," Percy said, "what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun-Chiron-why would you go
to Yancy Academy just to teach me?"
Mr. D snorted. "I asked the same question."
The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile.
Chiron smiled at Percy sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let him know that
no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer.
"Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?'
"She said ..." he remembered her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. "She told me she was afraid
to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably
couldn't leave. She wanted to keep me close to her."
"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?"
"What?" he asked.
He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so he did.
"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be
sufficient."
"Orientation film?" he asked.
"No," Chiron decided. "Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. What
You may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods-the forces you call the Greek gods-are very much alive."
Percy stared at the others around the table.
Percy waited for somebody to yell, not! But all he got was Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick!
Trick!" He cackled as he tallied up his points.
"Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?"
"Eh? Oh, all right."
Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.
"Wait," Percy told Chiron. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."
"Well, now," Chiron said. "God-capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't
deal with the metaphysical."
"Metaphysical? But you were just talking about-"
"Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the
immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."
"Smaller?"
"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."
"Zeus," Percy said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them."
And there it was again-distant thunder on a cloudless day.
"Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around, if I
were you."
Percy remembered one of Perseus's lectures- Names have power.
'So the gods really exist?' Percy asked.
'Yes. Yes, they do' Chiron replied.
'I still can't believe it' Percy muttered
"Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you."
Percy's head spun. First his godfather, now this camp director. Percy's eyes met Chrion's who gave him a sympathetic look. 'If the gods exist, then who is my father? My godfather said he was a god. Speaking of my godfather, who is he?'
Chiron sighed. 'I do not know about your father, but your godfather….' He trailed off, looking at the necklace that hung around Percy's neck. 'I believe you can find some books about him. Ask Annabeth. See if you can find anything. You know your godfather's name, yes?'
'His name is Perseus' Percy said, not really thinking.
Instantly, the air hummed. The ground shook slightly, and suddenly, Percy felt like he was being crushed from all directions. He felt small, insignificant. He felt powerless, weak. But, as fast as it came, it left. Leaving Percy panting for breath.
'Can't say I didn't warn you' Mr. D said off-handedly, even though a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.
Chiron looked surprised, although he hid it well.
Mr. D waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent,
momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine.
Percy's jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.
"Mr. D," he warned, "your restrictions."
Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.
"Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits! Sorry!"
More thunder.
Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He
sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game.
Chiron winked at Percy. "Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph
who had been declared off-limits."
"A wood nymph," Percy repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke can like it was from outer space.
"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly!
Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time—well, she really was pretty, and I couldn't stay
away—the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you. 'Be a
better influence,' he told me. 'Work with youths rather than tearing them down.' Ha.' Absolutely
unfair."
Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid.
"And ..." Percy stammered, "your father is ..."
"Di immortales, Chiron," Mr. D said. "I thought you taught this boy the basics. My father is
Zeus, of course."
I ran through D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The satyrs that all
seemed to work here. The way Grover cringed, as if Mr. D were his master.
"You're Dionysus," Percy said. "The god of wine."
Mr. D rolled his eyes. "What do they say, these days, Grover? Do the children say, 'Well,
duh!'?"
"Y-yes, Mr. D."
"Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?"
"You're a god."
"Yes, child."
"A god. You."
He turned to look at Percy straight on, and he saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that
this whiny, plump little man was only showing him the tiniest bit of his true nature. Percy saw visions of grape vines choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if he pushed him, Mr. D would show him worse things. He would plant a disease in his brain that
would leave Percy wearing a strait-jacket in a rubber room for the rest of his life.
Suddenly, the visions abruptly stopped. Mist poured in, covering the room, moving as fluid as water, blowing aside the last visons of madness. Then, it dissipated.
Mr. D looked like he had been forced to swallow something sour.
The fire in his eyes died. He turned back to his card game. "I believe I win."
"Not quite, Mr. D," Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and said, "The
game goes to me."
Percy thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin teacher. He got up, and Grover rose, too.
"I'm tired," Mr. D said. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first,
Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment."
Grover's face beaded with sweat. "Y-yes, sir."
Mr. D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners."
He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.
"Will Grover be okay?" Percy asked Chiron.
Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit troubled. "Old Dionysus isn't really mad. He just hates
his job. He's been ... ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he can't stand waiting another
century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."
"Mount Olympus," Percy said. "You're telling me there really is a palace there?"
"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the
convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still
called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Percy, just as the
gods do."
"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like ... in America?"
"Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West."
"The what?"
"Come now, Percy. What you call 'Western civilization.' Do you think it's just an abstract
concept? No, it's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of
years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are
tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization were
obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know—or as I hope you know, since
you passed my course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different
names, perhaps—Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on—but the same forces, the
same gods."
"And then they died."
"Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a
while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in
England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place
they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the
most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. Look at
your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the
Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city
where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not—and
believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome, either—America is now the heart of the
flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here."
It was all too much, especially the fact that I seemed to be included in Chiron's we, as if I
were part of some club.
"Who are you, Chiron? Who ... who am I?"
Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I
knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down.
"Who are you?" he mused. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it? But for
now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of
time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply
adore chocolate."
And then he did rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about the way he did
it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn't move. His waist kept getting longer,
rising above his belt. At first, Percy thought he was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, but as
He kept rising out of the chair, taller than any man, Percy realized that the velvet underwear wasn't underwear; it was the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair wasn't a chair. It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it
must've been magic, because there's no way it could've held all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached. I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But
where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.
"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen
asleep. Now, come, Percy Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."
A/N High school is starting soon, and I have end of year exams. So, updates may come slower. But don't worry, I have no plans of abandoning this story. Updates may be slower, that is all.
Have a nice day,
RagingFusion