On the battlefield, there was no time for tears. Percy recognized that almost immediately, swinging his sword with hostile rage, spreading gold and red across a vibrant green field of grass. He knew, afterwards, that when they counted their wounded—counted their dead—there would be tears. There would be friends and family around a dead demigod's corpse, crying and begging and wishing. However, as Percy's blade tore through a nameless enemy's shoulder, all he could think was that war was grim, its sacrifices grimmer. They'd signed up for this when they joined Kronos's army.
Percy finished another empousa, watching it decay on the ground, popping into a thousand golden flakes. He chuckled at the satisfying display and spat on the ground. Percy tasted victory on his tongue—and it was sweet, so sweet.
The fight continued, dragging for hours. By the end, Percy was smeared with blood and sweat, covered in scratches and faint swelling that would give him bruises later. He shrugged off his pain, and he focused on directing his strength at the mass of monsters and enemy demigods attacking Percy's fellow campers. Percy was sporting a painful cut to his knee that made it painful to walk, but he let sheer adrenaline control him. If Kronos himself had come hopping down from Mount Olympus, Percy would've been able to kill the Titan with only this religious anger alone. Oh, Percy would love to watch Kronos suffer.
In the midst of the fighting, a man yelled, "Stop!"
Percy flipped his head wildly, practically snarling. If this was one of his troops, who thought war was a game, he decided he would deem the man a traitor, right then and there. Here Percy was, practically half-dead, with Clarisse, Charles, and Annabeth not too far behind him on this violent equivalent of death's row. Instead, as Percy squinted his bloody eyes and saw Kronos's troops relax, he realized this wasn't one of his own.
The order came from a tall, broad-shouldered man with inky-black hair that fell down to his eyes. He wore a single black eyepatch, and when he yelled, mountains quaked and trembled. Ethan Nakamura, thought Percy with another snarl.
Ethan nodded at the bloody fight. At least forty wounded, five dead, and here this traitor was, nodding his stupid little head.
Percy clenched his fists, hard, and swung Riptide at a nodding monster. He felt sick satisfaction when the monster tumbled into gold confetti.
"This isn't a civilized chat," snapped Percy, staring at Ethan's dark eyes. "You don't get to choose when you can run away. You surrender, or you fight." Surrendering was out of the question for Ethan Nakamura and his army—it would guarantee a place as a traitor, and only Zeus knew what Kronos did to those unfaithful to his cause.
Ethan pursed his lips. The monsters paused, and the demigods'—including Percy's own—weapons were sheathed. Percy was furious; how could Ethan's one word cause a whole crowd to stop?
"We keep fighting," Percy announced, his tone thick with confidence. "We've fought for this long. Let us honor our fallen with a victory!"
Ethan said, "The fight is over. Take your fallen, and we'll take ours. We recommence when we've healed."
When they healed? Percy felt his jaw work—it would take days, months, for them to heal, even with the Apollo cabin's help. Percy couldn't allow Kronos time to plan his next move. To run away was the coward's way out.
Percy couldn't allow himself to be a coward any longer.
He, quick as lightning, just as muttering started between his comrades, charged towards Ethan, his sword drawn, blood-lust in his sea-green eyes.
"Not one move, Ethan."
Percy went for the neck—something he had never done in all the months fighting Kronos—with little more than hatred and pain fogging his mind. At that moment, one thought dominated the others: It wasn't a clean slice. Ethan fell to the floor, clutching the place Percy had struck, and yelled for help, his voice coming out choked.
Ethan's monsters stayed there; some jeered at their human master falling apart, some stared with sick satisfaction, and others just looked around, wondering what they should do when their commander was knee-deep in the Underworld.
Ethan screamed again. Percy stared and dropped his sword.
Percy swallowed.
Ethan yelled again, "Someone, help me!" He looked around, looking for a child of Apollo. Kayla and Will were on the battlefield, but they stood there, frozen to the ground.
There was silence on the battlefield. There were tears after, but in that exact moment—when a dying, yelling, brown-eyed boy screamed for help—no one cried.
"I hope hell freezes him over," Percy blurted out in the infirmary, while Annabeth tended his wounds. "He deserves it."
For a second there, Annabeth looked deeply uncomfortable, before she rolled her eyes. "Percy… You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because it wasn't him—"
"Are you going to tell me, Annabeth, that you think Ethan Nakamura was brainwashed into Kronos's merry little clan?" Percy laughed bitterly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he begged Kronos to join."
"Percy," Annabeth said strictly, "he was just a kid."
"We're just kids, too."
That made Annabeth silent, so she just pressed a warm towel to Percy's shoulder, inciting a gasp of pain. She sighed and muttered something quietly.
"I think we should just get out of hiding already," Percy said. "We should storm Kronos and his lair in Mount Olympus. Head-on." He smiled at the thought, then winced in pain as Annabeth directed the towel towards Percy's scratches. "We're wasting our time here, while Kronos only gets more powerful."
"We can't do that," said Annabeth, ever the military planner. "We'd lose before we'd even have a chance to win. We need to play it safe—just a bit waiting, Percy; that's all."
"I'm tired of waiting. Kronos is weakening us down to bones and skin. We've mourned enough losses, Annabeth. You saw how easily the monster army crumbled without Nakamura. Imagine what would happen if we killed Kronos."
"What you did…with Ethan," Annabeth said with a swallow. She opened her mouth, possibly to say something, but instead a "Never mind" came out.
Percy was not having it. Where had Annabeth—brilliant, strong, ferocious Annabeth—gone? She couldn't still be angry about yesterday.
It happened yesterday, after all.
"It was an accident. I was angry," Percy gritted out. "If you dare tell Chiron about this—"
"I'm not going to tell Chiron," Annabeth said, annoyed. "But that's beside the point, Seaweed Brain—he probably already knows. News gets around fast here."
She was right. By now, half of camp probably knew of Percy's…tantrum. At least Percy knew Poseidon—and the other resident gods at Camp Half-Blood, who were forced off Olympus—wouldn't bat an eye at Percy's battle victory. They'd also done bloody things for the greater good. They would understand.
She stared at him with fierce grey eyes, and she looked like she was battling what to say next. Percy snorted and gestured for her to continue—the silence was as thick as mud.
Percy was sick of this…this…distance between them. He wanted to bridge this gap.
Annabeth sighed. "We can't just kill Kronos."
"Is it because of Luke?" Percy bit out. "Your little boyfriend isn't there anymore, Annabeth." Percy tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, exposing a burnt column where Kronos had marked him with the symbol of a scythe. "It's all Kronos now. Luke's gone."
Annabeth bit her lip, extracting her hand from Percy's bruised ribs, and said, "You don't know that."
Percy said, "His pretty gold eyes don't tell you that already?"
Annabeth's hand tightened around the towel. She stared at him, those searing silver eyes going straight through stubborn green. Twelve-year-old Percy Jackson would've been seriously freaked by Annabeth's intense gaze, but at seventeen, Percy had witnessed worse atrocities than angry eyes.
"Percy, what's happened to you?" she said, still berating, still calm.
Percy snapped back, "War. What do you think?" He forced his lips into a sardonic smile. "Not everything can be all peaches and cream, Annabeth. My comrades are dying—"
"Your comrades?" Annabeth angrily shouted. She quieted down her voice, noticing a few injured, sleeping demigods close to Percy's infirmary bed. "We can't all just…swing our swords around and face Kronos. There is no way to win unless we train and practice and wait."
The way Annabeth said "wait" sent Percy tumbling down the edge. Percy couldn't wait. He couldn't wait one more day of blood and sweat and tears. He couldn't wait one more second for another Sally Jackson and another Paul Blofis to be dead on the floor.
His green eyes were two oceans of rage and fervor. He stood up, ignoring the burn in his legs. He tilted his head, mania dancing in his expression.
"You picked a side, you know," he said. "If you want to wait and watch Kronos rule the world, then be my fucking guest, but don't pretend like you're actually on our side, then." Percy crossed his arms and quickly paced out of the room, a muscle ticking in his jaw; he heard Annabeth's disbelieving laugh behind him, the promise of tears not far from her eyes.
He fled the room like it was a crime-scene. Hearing the sound of Annabeth's sobs behind him, he started to think it was.
It happened months ago, but it still stung, like a fresh, bleeding wound.
His mother had died per Kronos's command. He later found out the monster Kronos had designated was only supposed to maim and torture his family. He had taken it too far—obviously—and then, when sixteen-year-old, bright-eyed Percy Jackson had walked into the apartment, he saw two bloody corpses on the ground.
There were blue jellybeans on the counter and a birthday card in Sally's hands.
Percy had been sick with grief and anger for months after. His only therapy was his sword, Camp Half-Blood's practice dummies, and the sound of slashing back and forth. Back and forth. It was poetic in a sense that the same violence that put his mother in the Fields of Elysium gave Percy peace.
His eyes wet at this thought, nausea curling in his stomach.
He had no one. Not a mother to comfort him, not a friend to sling their hand over his shoulder, not a mentor to instruct him. There was one constant in Percy's life now—war when Percy slept, war when he was awake.
Percy made sure to slam the door on his way out.
Rage and sadness fought for dominance in his head. There was also the smallest sliver of a grieving little boy in there. Somewhere.
He walked towards the coastline. It was five o'clock, and he saw Clarisse LaRue out punching a cotton-stuffed dummy. He observed for a moment, then moved on. Older campers walked around, solemnness in their expressions, while the younger laughed and giggled, playing tag along the camp. The kids had to be orphans—no sane parent would force their child into a war-zone.
People perfected their skills, next to gods. Percy spotted a cocky Apollo, teaching a young blonde-haired child how to heal, while Zeus walked around the camp, acting as a stricter, second Chiron. Percy's eyes looked for Poseidon, but his father wasn't anywhere among the mixture of demigods, gods, and nymphs.
He made his way to the lake's shore. It was calm, a light, serene blue that was undisturbed by the camp's constant movement.
Percy moved his hands to the water, and the surface-level scratches faded, making Percy smile softly.
He saw his reflection in the water, then.
His smile vanished.
Percy was still there: the same messy streaks of raven-black hair, tan skin, passionate sea-green eyes. The same tight-lipped smile. He was there in the water, yes, but he also…wasn't. He tried to find what he was missing, but he couldn't even place a finger on it—
"Percy."
Percy scrambled back, on edge. Then his brain registered the voice, and he calmed down, sitting next to the shoreline, gesturing for Poseidon to the same. His father stood, inclining his head.
"Percy," Poseidon repeated, and Percy allowed himself a smile. "You seem agitated, are you all right?"
Percy shrugged, a furrow in his brow. "Sure," he said in a no-big-deal tone.
Poseidon raised a skeptical eyebrow. Unlike Percy, who had changed, Poseidon was still strikingly the same with a calm, handsome face and high cheekbones and a tame brown beard. He wore his standard mint-green Hawaiian shirt and a crooked cap. He wreaked of casual arrogance and power.
On the other hand, Percy felt like an imposter in his own skin.
"Percy, my son," Poseidon said softly. "It is natural to feel angry. The sea is not always calm, after all." His eyes skimmed over the tranquil water. It felt ironic.
"The water makes me feel…relaxed."
"What comes from the sea, Percy, can always return to the sea."
And he was right. For the time being, Percy stared at the expanse of the lake—pretending it was the great blue crashing waves of the ocean—and relaxed himself. War was coming, but as Percy healed his wounds with his father's domain, he was calm. The hurricane was hardly over, but Percy could pretend in these tiny, scarce moments. Those moments were the only break Percy got, after all.
Percy wasn't invited to the war meeting, but he came anyway. After the sun set, and the sky bled into a midnight-black, he stood there outside the door, banging his fist on it.
Someone tipped it open. A girl with wavy dark hair, a petite nose, and blue eyes.
Silena gestured him in, and Percy offered a single, short nod of gratitude.
Let it be known that Percy Jackson was grateful to the ones who treated him with respect.
Silena visibly swallowed and brought a chair out for Percy. He sat, sharply examining the room. The gods and Chiron had their own chairs, while the majority of the demigods leaned against the wall, listening. Percy felt out-of-place in the chair, but the damage was done. It'd be more awkward if he saddled out of the wooden chair.
The room was tightly packed with Camp Half-Blood's best fighters and strategists. Percy felt…excluded. He could fight, too—hell, he fought harder than all of them.
"What did I miss?"
Annabeth was the first person to notice him, and when she did, her mouth was left slightly ajar. Their fight was still fresh—a few hours at most—and when Annabeth got over her surprise, her grey eyes hardened in warning.
Percy ignored her purposefully, bringing his gaze to the seated deities.
The Greek gods flicked their eyes to him, almost in tandem. Poseidon's eyes were calm, crinkled with understanding, while Zeus's were like dark storm clouds, distrusting and stormy. Percy resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Zeus's stupid face.
"Not much," Chiron assured him, ever the peace-maker. "We're going over resources at the moment."
Resources. That was something Percy could understand.
Hell, it wasn't like Camp Half-Blood could keep itself going on strawberries alone.
The voices continued, instructing a set of older demigods to smuggle food from a nearby demigod shelter. The gods decided that they would only generate food if the situation called for it—they would save their strength for the fight.
As if the gods were fighting. The twelve Olympians had hardly stepped out into the battlefield, while Percy was sacrificing demigod after demigod.
Percy raised his hand, his expression daring.
"Yes, Percy?" Chiron asked.
Was that exasperation in Percy's old mentor's tone? Annoyance was tipping Percy's already souring mood, but he shoved it down. He could handle this.
He smoothed back his jet-black hair. "When will we attack?"
At this, Annabeth made a noise of disapproval. She shook her head, silent and angry.
Zeus was the first to speak. "You speak hastily, Perseus Jackson." He adjusted his tie, smoothing the wrinkles of his navy pinstripe suit, his gaze never once leaving Percy's face. "We must train before initiating an attack. That is one of the most common battle strategies, is it not?"
His lilting tone made Percy's eye twitch. "We?" he breathed. "As in you, you, you?" He started pointing at the gods, avoiding Poseidon for old time's sake. Percy spat, "Or just us. Just the demigods."
Percy felt satisfaction curdling in his gut. Ever since his first quest—some five years ago—he'd had simmering resentment from the gods. Not hatred, not exactly…but it was there. He was sick and tired and so, so angry at watching Clarisse work her bleeding body to perfect a punch, watching Annabeth spend late nights crying over battle plans, watching Grover's lifeless body be put in the weekly coffin, watching everyone at camp suffer in an uncomfortable silence, while the gods did nothing.
It was unfair. The gods had fought before—had fought hard in wars—but now it was like…like they were domesticated house pets.
It was disgusting, Percy thought.
"Percy," Poseidon said, his eyes sad and wistful, "you are not the only one with losses. We are all trying to adjust."
Thinking of their time near the lake, Percy couldn't bring himself to criticize Poseidon. He loved his father, would do anything for Poseidon, even if the favor was rarely reciprocated. He couldn't stand seeing Poseidon's disappointment
(He'd already disappointed enough of his parents.)
Percy leaned his back to the chair, and the droning chatter continued. Meaningless things were tossed around, nothing about battling Kronos or securing victories against Titans. Percy thought bitterly, There's been a war, and people are dying, and here they are, pacing around like animals in a zoo.
His ADHD-addled mind started acting up some thirty minutes into the meeting. His fingers tapped, obnoxiously loud, on the chair's arm. He started nodding his head back and forth, frantic. When Percy didn't have a sword in his hand and the adrenaline of a battle, he was a bottled bunch of nerves, waiting for the perfect moment to be released.
He wanted to storm Kronos's palace and take the whole damn thing down, brick by brick.
"—and what do you think, Percy?"
That got him out of his thoughts, as rapidly as quick-fire.
"What?" Percy said.
Chiron was staring at him with warm chocolate-brown eyes, melting just at the sight of Percy. He looked at Percy so sincerely, so lovingly, that Percy almost felt…safe again. Home again, if that was even remotely possible.
Chiron reiterated, understanding: "The Titans haven't attacked us, and Camp Half-Blood—for the most part—has been a safe haven. We're wondering what we should do from here, whether we should find another base, or if leaving is a trap."
Percy didn't know whether he should be shocked or proud that they, or at least his old mentor, cared about his opinion. Ever since his second battle, where Percy actually killed a thirteen-year-old enemy demigod, they'd all looked at him differently. On the battlefield, he was a leader, but because of his...intense ideas, he was an outcast at camp. Even Annabeth hardly looked at him, and he knew if Grover were still alive, he'd hate him, too.
Well, no matter. He could handle it, as long as they followed his orders when they stepped into the real world.
"We leave," Percy said. "We take our supplies, we get the hell out of here, and we find somewhere else to stay. It'll be in secret."
Percy was just about to open his mouth again, only to be interrupted by a stern goddess in golden armor.
"This establishment," Athena enunciated carefully, like Percy was a child, "is safe. It has protection around it, protection no other place has. We are vulnerable if we leave, and we will put all of camp in imminent danger." Percy tried to speak, but the goddess of wisdom smoothly continued, "And I've been tracking our current fights, as of late—"
His nose scrunched at this. He hated the idea of the Greek goddess flipping through their battle files, looking over all of his fallen comrades like statistics. Percy glanced at Annabeth, who seemed unfazed. Athena continued, "Whenever we have left camp for food and communication, we haven't sought the Titans out a single time—they have found us. We think we may have a traitor in our midst."
Percy practically rolled his eyes. The news was obvious. All of camp knew there was a traitor running around in Kronos's name.
"I don't know much about Greek mythology," Percy said, his eyes scanning the room, "but I do know there has to be some sort of god of truth. There's a god for everything, after all. We give everyone a dose of truth, and we'll find the mole easily. Then we can leave from here."
It was a bluff. A test to gauge the room's reaction.
If there was a traitor, they would be in this room. They knew enough information about Percy's formations to not know. Eyes nervously skittered through the room. Percy scanned around. If the traitor was in the room, they would be the first to object.
"That's a complete invasion of privacy," Annabeth said firmly. "How can you even suggest that?"
Percy was surprised beyond words. He thought Annabeth would support him. "It's not torture!" Percy insisted.
"It might as well be." Her eyes were little more than tiny grey slits. "Percy, not all of us have clean records that we can broadcast. If there is a traitor, we can come up with a better way."
"Plus," Apollo added unhelpfully, "there isn't a god of truth."
Artemis murmured, "Not a god, no. Not Greek either."
Percy tried to analyze Artemis and Apollo's words, but everyone seemed to ignore it, chattering amongst themselves, leaving Percy with a pounding headache. He redirected (he was quite good at doing that).
"Then," said Percy, "we can forget about finding another haven. We can go to Mount Olympus and fight them where they stand."
A million uncomfortable looks were exchanged. Percy felt something tight in his throat.
He wasn't embarrassed—he was...disappointed.
Because where Percy expected a room full of soldiers, he instead saw room full of fearful children. Even the gods were scared. The fear took over them, choking them like tight nooses. Percy felt like the only free man in the room—
Percy Jackson was not like them. He wasn't some scared little animal, hiding from a fight, scared of taking on his parents' murderer. He was going to take the problem head-on, and consequences be damned, even if it killed him—
"I agree," Dionysus said. Percy stared at the wine-glass in his hand, briefly wondering if the god was drunk.
The other gods were clearly skeptics, still frozen in fear: Zeus with a firm, booming "no." Apollo with his cowardly arrogance. Athena with her battle strategy. Poseidon with his fear. Hestia with her calm nature. Hermes with his son. Aphrodite, Demeter, and Hestia, with nothing to gain.
Three gods stood up for Percy's idea. Dionysus, Ares, and Artemis. Percy didn't even think the first vote counted, considering Dionysus's intoxicated state. One demigod—the same black-haired, pretty girl, Silena—also agreed with Percy, but Percy was distracted by the gods' admissions.
Gooseflesh spread over Percy's skin, prickling and anxious.
He clenched his jaw and thought: Cowards.
"Let us rest for another month," Athena said in her all-knowing tone. Annabeth nodded at her mother, and in that moment, Percy was stupidly reminded of a bobblehead. "Then we can revisit this meeting and plan our attack."
A chorus of cheers rang out. Percy unconsciously sneered.
He left the room, just as dramatically as he came. Furious at their decision, he jogged to the Poseidon cabin, grabbed his two orange shirts, and stuck them in his bag. He grabbed everything he would need—a toothbrush, Riptide, a set of sneakers, and his Camp Half-Blood beaded necklace. He took a look at Poseidon's cabin—empty and silent, sans the soft echo of rolling waves. It looked, smelt, sounded, and felt like…
But this was not Percy's home.
Nowhere would be, unless Percy killed every last Titan there was.
He adjusted the backpack strap, breathed thickly, and took one last look behind him.
Let it be known, Percy Jackson left camp with no regrets.
A/N: Welcome! As a heads-up, this will be a Tartarus story, featuring a slow corruption arc, Titan fights, betrayal, and maybe a hint of romance somewhere later (tell me if you'd like to see that). Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the rest.
