So this story was written for a very specific reason: It's my headcanon for a backstory that I desperately want included in BoO, purposefully published before BoO is released and I'm disappointed by the absence of the backstory I want. :P

Anyway, before you start reading, I figured I'd better mention that I don't consider this a justification or excuse for the awful things Octavian's done throughout HoO—he actually makes me really mad a lot of the time. But I thought . . . well, even crazy blond augurs who murder teddy bears for fun have a motive for their murder of teddy bears (or Fifth Cohort Centurions), right? And then I started wondering what could've possibly happened to Octavian my-family-has-been-a-part-of-Camp-Jupiter-for-generations to make him turn out the way he did, and this fic emerged. And I have to say that for the first time in several months, I'm actually mildly satisfied with something I've written, so I think you guys will like it. (I hope so, anyway!)

Oh, and this is going to have two parts. It was originally going to be a oneshot, but it got too long, so I decided to split it up after I hit 5,000 words. :) Expect another chapter sometime soon!

Happy Reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes of Olympus.

Overshadowed

After dealing in secrets for most of his life, Octavian considered himself an expert in knowing which facts about himself would be most useful shared, and which details should be hidden at all costs.

For example: Advertising that he was a legacy of Apollo with the gift of prophecy from the moment he walked into camp? That was pure genius. The First Cohort's centurions were eager to snap up a potential augur, knowing how much power he could offer by joining their ranks. While Octavian's older brother Marcus had trained for months before he was considered a good enough fighter to transfer to the First, Octavian was admitted immediately. He gained a fourth of the legion's respect without lifting a sword.

Explaining just how he could be a legacy of Apollo when his siblings were all claimed by Mars, however . . . Well, Octavian was glad he'd lied then. He'd told everyone that his parents had both Mars's and Apollo's blood in their family trees, and he'd just happened to end up with more Apollo than his brothers and sister—and that had definitely paid off. People considered him lucky—blessed, even—because he'd inherited a gift from a distant relative. He gained another tenth of the legion's respect that way . . . and respect was much better than the pity that Octavian was sure would have come, had he offered everyone the truth—the truth that although his family did have an extremely distant relative who was a son of Apollo, that wasn't where he'd gotten his gift of prophecy.

No, it was definitely a good thing Octavian had learned to lie at an early age . . . because his real backstory wouldn't have gained him even one person's awe. Nobody would have been impressed by the fact that he was adopted. Nobody wanted to hear that the worst nightmare of most descendants of the gods—legacies and demigods alike—was his reality.

Nobody needed to know that both his parents were killed in a monster attack when he was four.

The only thing that Octavian really remembered from that night was crying. Crying, kicking, and screaming as child services came into their house and asked the babysitter to leave; bawling as they explained that his parents' first date night in over two years had been interrupted by a monster attack that they hadn't been prepared for. New Rome had made them complacent. They hadn't trained with weapons in years. The monsters took them down easily.

Crying, crying, crying for three days straight. He was only four, but even if he didn't quite understand what death was, he knew his parents weren't coming back. Later on, Octavian—heartless, cruel Octavian—would feel bad for the virtual strangers that had taken care of him for the six months after his parents' deaths. He'd been a wreck back then, liable to burst into tears at any moment. For the most part, the adults were kind—New Rome's foster care system was much better than the mortal version—but Octavian wasn't ready for kindness. He just wanted to wail about the parents he barely knew.

Then, abruptly, the tears stopped. Octavian woke up one morning with his eyes hard and his heart harder. His parents were dead because they weren't strong enough. Five-year-old Octavian realized that was their own fault, and if he didn't want to go out the same way they did, he couldn't afford to cry like a child. (Never mind that he was a child.) He needed to start training instead. Octavian started running over a mile a day; he practiced sit-ups, push-ups, and even chin-ups on the bar of their shower curtain. He became as muscular as a scrawny five-year-old with a shock of straw hair could get.

But even as he stopped crying, the tears continued . . . from another source. They belonged to the reason his parents hadn't been on a date for two years when they were killed—his little sister Abigail. Thanks to the generosity of the volunteers in New Rome's foster care system, Octavian and Abigail always went to the same foster family, so he knew that she cried incessantly—when the newest foster parents didn't pick her up correctly, when they tried to feed her a dish Mom had known she hated, when a foster dad chose the wrong kind of story to read to her at bedtime. She was too young to understand that Mom wouldn't come to bring them home in the morning. She wailed and asked where her parents had gone every night. Octavian felt bad for their foster parents, who didn't know how to explain death to a two-year-old. And he loved his little sister (as much as a little boy can love his sister without seeming pathetic). He really did. But when Mayor Aurelius and her husband came looking to adopt a child, they wanted a strong legacy who was already complaining about extreme déjà-vu, not realizing that he was actually gifted with prophecy. They weren't interested in coming home with a crying toddler who showed no particular godly prowess. Instead, they whisked Octavian home after six months of adoption papers and a tearful (on Abigail's part) goodbye, and they never told him what became of his kid sister, even when he asked.

Octavian hadn't seen Abigail in thirteen years. For all he knew, she'd been killed during the Titan War, and nobody had told him because nobody knew he cared. For all he knew, she enjoyed life in New Rome and never even joined the legion. But Octavian didn't dare let his parents know that the ignorance bothered him. Ever since he'd come home with them, the Aurelii had wanted him to act like he'd been living with them all along—like he was their biological child. In public, anyway.

As soon as the door to their mansion closed, Octavian's adoptive mother slumped against the door, unraveling her cashmere scarf with a sigh.

Octavian looked at her worriedly. "Why are you so tired, Mom—?"

"Margaret," she said sharply.

He furrowed his eyebrows.

"When we're at home, you are to call me Margaret," she clarified.

"But I thought you were my new mommy!"

"That," she said with another sigh, "is in public, Octavian. In public, you are my darling son, and you call me Mommy. But I am not your real mother. I'm Margaret at home."

He frowned. "That's confusing."

He expected her to be proud of him for knowing such a big word—his kindergarten teacher had been. But his mo—Margaret—just draped her scarf over their coat rack and sighed again. "Get used to it, Octavian. That's how it's going to be."

"But I—"

"No complaining!" She sighed. "And the adoption people said you were clever."

Mayor Margaret Aurelius was always sighing at him for one thing or another—he was doing his chores too hastily, he was taking too long to do his chores; he wasn't progressing in his classes fast enough, he was turning into a smart-mouth and know-it-all at school; he was gobbling down his dessert like a barbarian, he wasn't eating enough and was becoming as skinny as a pila. No matter what he did, Octavian couldn't seem to please his new mom. And his dad wasn't any better.

Mayor Aurelius was only one-half of the most important power couple in New Rome. Her husband had been the legion's praetor for three years back in his day, and he was still in charge of New Rome's reserve forces. Praetor Aurelius (because he still demanded that others use his title when addressing him, even if he hadn't been the Twelfth Legion's praetor in over thirty-five years) prided himself on how well he stayed in shape, and he expected his children to be just as athletic—even the child that he refused to treat as his own. Suddenly, the mile Octavian was running each day wasn't enough. Twenty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and ten chin-ups weren't enough. Praetor Aurelius pushed his adopted son to run two miles, then three, then four before taking a break. He required five sets of fifty push-ups each day, with about a minute in between (when he was feeling generous). It wasn't enough when Octavian achieved normal standards of fitness, just like it wasn't enough when he had average grades in class and average proficiency with his budding prophetic abilities—abilities that no six-year-old could possibly understand. No, Octavian had to be exceptional. At all times.

Not that being exceptional gained Octavian his parents' praise.

"Dad—Praetor Aurelius, I finished running four miles, like you wanted me to!" Octavian called, trotting into the foyer and wiping sweat from his forehead. "And I did it faster than ever, too—it only took me forty minutes!"

Praetor Aurelius didn't even turn his head. "That's hardly an improvement from yesterday," he said harshly. "I want you doing it in thirty-five by the end of the week."

Octavian frowned. "But it's already Thursday—"

"No excuses!" Praetor Aurelius barked. "None of my children made any excuses. Isn't that right, Anthony?"

Anthony nodded crisply, even as he shot what might have been a sympathetic glance in Octavian's direction. "Yes, sir," he added dutifully, just in case.

"That's what I'm talking about," Aurelius said with some satisfaction. "My children know to obey me when I give them orders. You might want to follow their lead, Octavian. Now go do your homework. I'm having a conversation with my son, and you're interrupting."

Octavian walked away without voicing any of the thoughts swirling through his mind, mixing in with the weird images and warnings that he was too young to interpret as prophecies. Your children? he thought bitterly. According to New Rome's laws, I'm your child too, Praetor. Did you even know how the adoption process worked before you signed those papers? I wish you did. I wish you had read them more carefully and realized what a horrible adoptive parent you would make. I wish you had backed out before I got stuck with you. I'd rather be bawling like a toddler in foster care than ignored here—especially since I could've stayed with Abigail that way.

Octavian fumed silently the whole way to his room, too afraid of the consequences to put his opinions into words. And for a few hours, he even meant it. He wanted to leave the Aurelii. He wanted to return to the foster care system and take his chances. He even considered walking down to the system's main office and asking to be brought back in.

Then Octavian remembered Matthew Parker, the other orphan boy in his class—only his mom wasn't really dead, just declared "unfit for parenthood". (Losing Matthew's father to a freak car accident in Berkeley—not even something god-related—had broken her somehow, and all of Matthew's sweet concerns and heartfelt words couldn't cure that.) Anyway, Matthew Parker was in the foster care system, just like Octavian would have been, and kids teased him every day about his crazy mom. They made jokes about the secondhand—or third- or fourth- or fifth-hand—clothes his foster parents had scrounged up for him. They mocked the pain he still felt from his father's death and laughed when they made him cry. And truthfully . . . ?

Truthfully, sometimes Octavian joined in. Because the guilt he felt as he watched little Matthew Parker cry was nothing compared to his fear of not fitting in with the other kids in his grade. It was bad enough that the Aurelii didn't care about him. He at least wanted his peers' respect. . . . And he couldn't get that if he was known as a foster care kid.

Needless to say, Octavian didn't make that trip to the social services office.

And by the end of the week, he could run four miles in thirty-four minutes and twenty-two seconds.

A few years later, Octavian looked on wordlessly as Mayor Aurelius swore, almost snapping a high heel as she stomped her foot. "Holy Mars Ultor, where are my gods-damned keys? I swear, the one day I have to drive myself to work because my driver went and got himself infected with drakon poison . . ."

In the midst of her rant, as Octavian half-listened and paid more attention to staying out of her way, he stepped backwards and knocked his head on the stair rail . . . And all of a sudden, an image flooded his mind—no, more than his mind. His senses were being attacked as well. "Ma-Margaret," Octavian said hesitantly, sitting down from the force of the picture's invasion, "your keys are under the cabinet over there."

Margaret spun around as soon as he uttered his first syllable—probably to rebuke him for interrupting her—but by the time he finished his sentence, she was just frowning. Then, slowly, she bent down and checked under the cabinet. Moments later, she withdrew her key ring and gaped at Octavian. "You . . ."

If he had been hoping for surprise or praise, he was about to be disappointed yet again. "You little brat! Did you hide my keys under there just to spite me? Need I remind you that it's thanks to us that you're not rotting away in some foster home—"

"But I didn't hide the keys!" Octavian cried. He usually knew better than to interrupt the mayor, but his indignation got the best of him.

Margaret wasn't having any of it. "Then how did you know where they were, you lying little—"

"I don't know!" he insisted. "I just . . . I just saw it. You were talking about your keys and asking where they could be, and I . . . I saw it."

Slowly, the anger on Margaret's face faded and was replaced by total shock. "Legacy of Apollo . . ." she said softly, as if she was just now remembering—and for the first time in as long as he'd known her, Margaret looked at Octavian—really looked at him. Scrutinized him, actually. A few tense minutes passed before she turned away. "Well, then," she said finally, already on her way out the door. "Maybe the adoption fees were worth it after all."

Margaret never saw the way Octavian's face lit up as soon as he heard that compliment, as doubtful as it was. It was the first time either of his adoptive parents had had even the slightest positive thing to say to him.

At that moment, he remembered how good praise felt. And he resolved to make them proud more often.

The only problem was, the gift of prophecy wasn't as reliable of a talent as, say, sword-fighting. After the lost-keys incident, Margaret and Praetor Aurelius started paying more personalized attention to Octavian—Margaret began asking him leading questions, hoping to spark another vision, and Praetor Aurelius researched all he could on the ancient texts' references to augurs—but when a few weeks passed without another miracle, they quickly lost interest. "Chances are," Octavian heard Praetor Aurelius grumbling one day, "he really did make the whole thing up, just to be annoying. It's not worth wasting any more time on this."

When Margaret offered her assent, Octavian whirled around and fled. He dashed straight out of the house and turned right without bothering to figure out where he was headed. So that was it, then? His parents would just stop caring and turn him into another box on their checklists again? Oh, yes, we'd better not forget to feed Octavian. We'd better make up something Octavian did wrong and yell at him for it. A charge of "child neglect" would negatively affect our resumés in the future.

Gods, Octavian didn't know why they'd bothered to adopt him at all. It wasn't like they were desperate for kids or anything. As Praetor Aurelius loved to remind him, he and Margaret already had seven biological children. Seven biological children that apparently surpassed Octavian's measly achievements in every possible way. The oldest, Nathaniel, had risen through the legion's ranks at record speed, becoming praetor at only fourteen. He was still regarded as one of the five best praetors to serve in the last hundred years. (Naturally, Praetor Aurelius also made that list.) Anthony only ever rose to centurion, but his medical prowess more than compensated for his mediocre leadership skills. By now, he was one of the best doctors in New Rome's hospital—including full-fledged sons of Apollo—and people were always discussing how strange it was that a son of Mars had decided to study medicine. Thomas, their third son, made headlines when he saved two little kids who accidentally irritated the unicorns in Camp Jupiter's stables. If he hadn't swooped in on his pegasus Julius—because of course Thomas was serving his second year as praetor at the time, so he possessed the camp's only pegasus—and scooped the two kids up, they both would have been trampled.

Mary was the Aurelii's only daughter, but she didn't have any trouble holding her own against her brothers—not even her twin Marcus. She earned her Mural Crown medal just two weeks after enrolling in the legion—while it took Marcus two months—and became praetor a full six months before him, leading the legion to two major victories in that time span. And of course, once Marcus partnered up with her, the pair was unstoppable. More ruthless than Nathaniel had ever been, sure—but they were commanding, charismatic, and confident, and that won them major points in Camp Jupiter's books. So what if they sneered at the efforts of the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Cohorts, even when they had valid advice or strategies to offer? So what if they worked the legion almost ragged with extreme training exercises? (Octavian had heard that once they made a boy go three days without food in order to "increase his endurance" after he lagged behind during a race.) So what if they were suspected of bribing senators in order to obtain their votes, promising them better assignments, prime weaponry, and quests that would bring them guaranteed glory? Mary and Marcus Aurelius may have used harsh methods, but they were effective. Under the leadership of the twins, the Twelfth Legion was unstoppable.

And after their ten years of service ended, Mary and Marcus enrolled in the military. Both of them had been promoted to First Sergeants just last month, and Margaret still mentioned her brave, patriotic children at least three times in every speech. Her four brave, patriotic children, actually, since Atkins and William also enlisted as soon as they finished their years in the legion.

Octavian kicked one of New Rome's architecturally perfect walls, ignoring the accompanying flash of pain. Why did all of the Aurelii's seven children have to be so perfect? Why couldn't at least one of them have been dishonorably discharged from the legion or something? Why did they all have to make it so hard for Octavian to live up to their achievements? Thanks to all of them, the name Aurelius had been practically synonymous with power in the legion for the last twenty years—and even before that, if he counted the time that Margaret and Praetor Aurelius had spent in its ranks. Gods, ever since he'd learned Latin numbers in school in kindergarten, he remembered the coincidence of his name each and every day. Sure, it was the name of Rome's first emperor . . . but he later renamed himself Augustus Caesar, so that didn't really boost Octavian's self-esteem. It wasn't all that great, having a name that wasn't considered good enough to befit an emperor. Besides, he never forgot the second meaning of his name: it stemmed from octo.

Eight.

And that's what Octavian was, wasn't he? The eighth child, the one that wasn't even really a part of the family? The one that was completely overshadowed by his seven better siblings? (Not counting Abigail, who hardly seemed like his sister anymore. By now, those days in foster care felt more like daydreams than reality. He'd spent so much time pretending to be biologically related to the Aurelii that he often forgot he'd once had a real family. Octavian? Family? The two words didn't belong together.) Gods, what chance did he have, when his older siblings had been centurions and praetors and military heroes and medical heroes and regular old heroes and—?

All of a sudden, Octavian realized where he had ended up. The Field of Mars. The site where so much of the Aurelius children's success stemmed from—fittingly, considering that they were all legacies of Mars. Joining the Twelfth Legion led to most of the reasons that Margaret and Praetor Aurelius were so proud of their children . . . And just like that, Octavian knew how he was going to spend the rest of his adolescence.

If he wanted to earn his parents' respect, he would have to do what nearly all of his adoptive siblings had done.

He would have to become praetor.

That night at dinner, Octavian made an announcement. "I'm going to join the legion," he said proudly. Part of him hoped that they would at least be pleased with his decision. Still, he wasn't surprised when Praetor Aurelius just snorted.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out," he said. "All my children join the legion, Octavian—even the one that isn't really my child."

Octavian refused to be deterred by his adoptive father's harsh words. "Well, I'm going to do it better than they did," he claimed. "I'm going to join tomorrow."

At that, Margaret flat-out laughed. "Like they'd accept you," she chuckled. "You're barely seven years old, Octavian."

"I'm eight."

"Details," she said dismissively. "Either way, you still have a lot to learn before we'll let you join. We can't have you embarrassing us."

To Octavian's surprise, Praetor Aurelius then nodded thoughtfully. "Still, though, it's good that you're finally starting to show interest. I think it's time I started teaching you about politics."

Margaret laughed again. "Please," she said. "You couldn't convince a faun to leave you alone if you bribed him with ten denarii. You can continue with his physical training, but leave the politics lessons to me." She looked at Octavian sideways. "Who knows," she added grudgingly. "With a little work, I might even make a half-decent public speaker out of you."

Octavian could hardly believe his luck. Both of his parents had just basically volunteered to spend more time with him? Gods. He should have expressed interest in the legion ages ago.

Over the next two years, Octavian learned all there was to know about the legion's hierarchy, its cutthroat approach to public office, and how to become equally ruthless. He studied Roman history and godly history and fighting history and the history of public speakers, and he figured out how to meld techniques from ancient Rome's best orators and apply them eloquently. Sometimes, he even managed to talk Margaret into agreeing with him (which, among other small victories, allowed him to keep the mountains of stuffed animals in his room long after Margaret considered them "too childish"). Although his sword-fighting was never quite on par with the level Praetor Aurelius expected, it became passable, as did his athletic abilities. Overall, Octavian got the sense that his parents . . . well, they weren't exactly pleased—part of him doubted that they could ever be truly pleased with him—but they were almost . . . satisfied. And that was more than Octavian had imagined possible back in first grade.

Most importantly, though—at least in his adoptive parents' opinions—Octavian learned how to keep Rome strong. Praetor Aurelius drilled the danger of Greek influence into him, and Margaret talked endlessly about the inferiority of certain portions of the legion. Before long, Octavian woke up reciting mantras about the evil graeci and fell asleep muttering about the invincible First Cohort. He knew which weapons would earn his fellow soldiers' respect, and which would brand him lazy, unskilled, or worst of all, un-Roman. Octavian became an expert on the ins and outs of being a successful legionnaire.

Meanwhile, although he didn't always notice it, Octavian's gift of prophecy slowly strengthened. He became an expert on finding lost things and made accurate predictions about the weather on a regular basis—far more regularly than the meteorologist on the news. Even if his parents didn't fully appreciate the progress he made in his talent, Octavian did himself. He knew that his gift was mildly impressive, at the very least.

Then, one day, he brought a teddy bear into the kitchen with him, and Praetor Aurelius noticed. "What the hell?" he demanded without preamble, pushing himself out of his chair and marching over to Octavian. He'd had a growth spurt over the last few months, but his adoptive father still towered over him.

Octavian gulped and stared upwards. "What's wrong, sir?" he mumbled.

It was the wrong thing to say. "What's wrong?" Praetor Aurelius growled. "WHAT'S WRONG?! Why are you clutching that teddy bear like a toddler? You're ten years old, Octavian."

Octavian frowned. "But I was going to—"

"NO EXCUSES!"And with that, Praetor Aurelius snatched the stuffed bear out of Octavian's arms and ripped it in half, dumping stuffing all over the kitchen floor. Now that part of his anger was spent, Praetor Aurelius lowered his voice half a notch. "What were you thinking?" he demanded. "What could have possibly possessed you to carry around something so childish? I thought you knew better?"

"I just—"

"Don't let me catch you with a toy like this again!" Praetor Aurelius warned. "And clean up this stuffing!"

For a moment, Octavian considered staring down his adoptive father and arguing the point he wanted to make—but one look at those blazing eyes, and all he said was, "Yes, sir" before bending down to sweep away the mess. He reached out a hand to pick up the stuffing—and froze, hovering over the white fluffy mess.

Overhead, he could practically feel the force of Praetor Aurelius's glare. "Well? What are you waiting for, brat?"

Octavian barely even heard him, he was so focused on the stuffing. Slowly, he sank onto his knees and withdrew his hand, still gaping at the teddy bear's sad remains. After a few seconds, he began mouthing Latin words.

If he had been able to tear his eyes away from the white pile long enough to glance up at his adoptive father, Octavian would have noticed something interesting. The strong, powerful Praetor Aurelius was backing away. "Octavian," he said nervously, "what are you—?"

"Major," Octavian announced simply.

Praetor Aurelius frowned. "Major what?" he asked, still keeping his distance. "A major mistake? A major mess? A—"

"Sergeant Major," Octavian interrupted. "Sergeant Major. Mary will be promoted within the week, despite her occasionally overzealous distribution of harsh disciplinary actions. Marcus will also receive a promotion approximately one month after hers, and he will not be happy that she beat him again."

Praetor Aurelius gaped at him. "Are you saying . . . ?" He trailed off, then shook his head, as if dislodging his amazement. "No, you're just making excuses," he muttered, half to himself. "Pick up that mess, Octavian!"

At his command, Octavian finally snapped out of it. He cleaned up the teddy bear's entrails obediently, never mentioning that the whole reason he'd brought it into the kitchen in the first place was to dismember it to practice his augury skills.

That night, the Aurelius household received a call from their only daughter. She'd just learned that she was to be promoted to Sergeant Major within the week, despite her occasionally overzealous distribution of harsh disciplinary actions. At the news, Praetor Aurelius forgot to even congratulate her. He just stared at Octavian with obvious shock. Apparently, neither he nor Margaret had ever considered that Octavian might actually be seriously gifted with seeing the future.

A month later, they got another call. Marcus had also been promoted, but he wasn't too excited. All he could say was, "It's about time! I can't believe Mary beat me again!"

The next day, Octavian joined Camp Jupiter. According to his "parents", he had some talents that they felt the legion could benefit from.

Within days, he had half the legion's respect. Octavian had never felt more whole.