A rather late Secret Santa
Percy gasps, swaying on his feet, the minotaur's horn still in his hand. He's not sure if the monster is dead. He expected a body, a corpse. Instead, he's covered in golden dust.
"Grover?" Percy weakly murmurs, and his friend, who is a satyr—and Percy is still trying to wrap his mind around that—rushes forward. "Is she…"
His body feels strangely weightless, and the sky above him rolls with dark storm clouds, laced with vibrant colors.
"Percy!" Grover shouts, flinging salt into his face.
With a thud, Percy hits the ground. An angry screech makes the world tremor around them, and Grover seizes his hand, pulling him away.
They go past the tree, and the world settles down again. Behind them, the ground ruptures with a plume of lava. The sound of military drums calls for a great battle.
Grover finally stops, bending over and heaving. "We're safe here."
Safe from what, Percy wants to ask, but the incredible strength that buoyed him in his fight against the minotaur has abandoned him. Darkness engulfs him.
A new little godling awakens, an old man announces as he pours himself a cup of tea. Grand sweeping robes of swirling black and white drape over his body.
Three ladies, young yet old, held out their tea cups. A grand tapestry lay behind them and spools of thread clung to their feet. Their edges flickered, as if they hadn't quite settled into their form.
Able to alter the balance, says one as she spins the thread onto a spindle.
The second laughs as the measuring rod in her hand slowly bent to the gentle rhythm of the waves. She says, An unruly future of twists and turns, depending on where his loyalty lies.
The last, her hair a wild tangle of grey, runs her blade along the edge of the thread, slowly flaying the fibers. Cruel we are, she whispers. The thread snaps. Balance is kept.
Balance, intones the old man.
Justice, interrupts another woman, a gleaming feather in her hair and a scale in her hands. From the three ladies, she takes the spool of thread and sets it one balance of the scale.
The scales tip, and Percy staggers forward, suddenly needing to know the outcome.
A visitor, the old man says. Fools playing outside their domain. He puckers his lips and blows.
The steam from the tea hurtles towards, engulfing him before he even has time to scream.
He wakes, drenched in sweat, in an unfamiliar room. The walls are made of old worn wood, carved with exquisite craftsmanship that hints at great luxury. Yet, it feels rural, worn down, aged beyond its time.
On the nightstand is a small blue smoothie, and Percy eagerly grabs it. It tastes like his mother's cooking, and tears well in his eyes.
Is this real? Is she there?
He stumbles out of bed and limps to the door. The air smells like salt. They're at the beach. They've somehow upgraded their cabin. Everything is alright. His friend isn't a satyr. There was no giant bull-man. His mother didn't die.
He steps outside into a wooden clearing, surrounded by a dying forest. The trees are yellow, sagging with nearly bare branches. Weeds erupt through cracked flagstones, threatening to drag it back into nature. The air is thick and heavy with the lingering scent of rot.
"Perseus Jackson," a girl of his age says. Her grey eyes are filled with condescension, disassembling him into his basic components and finding him lacking. "They say you killed the Minotaur."
He nods stupidly. And here he was hoping all of that had been a terrible nightmare. Or is this still a nightmare?
Subtly, he pinches himself.
The girl's tight black braids sway in the air as she tilts her head to focus on his motion. She reminds him of a bird with her narrow eyes and predatory gaze.
Nancy Bobofit may have made Percy's life hell, but she never felt dangerous.
"I'm Percy," he says stupidly. "Who are you?"
"Annabeth," she answers slowly, drawing out her name. "Come with me."
He glances around wildly, because surely there's someone else here who can tell him what's going on instead of the scary girl.
No one.
"Where's Grover?" he asks as he rushes to catch up with her. The back of his neck prickles. "And what is this place? Is my mom—"
"I'm sorry," Annabeth whispers. "She's dead."
His voice catches in his throat, and he takes a strangled breath. That can't be. She's— What is he supposed to do now? He can't go back home, to smelly Gabe who'll throw a fit about the car.
Annabeth sighs. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood, the last refuge of our kind, displaced by a few centuries. We once had a city but that was overrun."
"By who?" Percy asks because overrun implies all sorts of nasty things. Maybe, she means fans. Or rodents. Or maybe it's just developers buying up everything.
"The monotheists," she grumbles.
"What?"
"I'll let Chiron explain," she says, gesturing to a small table up ahead.
There, three people sit. The tallest has white wispy hair and the aura of someone who had once been something. His skin sags over his bones, like some crappy Halloween decoration. His eyes meanwhile sink deep into his face and his teeth are half-fallen out.
And next to him… "Grover? Mr. Brunner?"
"Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner greets happily. He wheels backwards from the table. "It is good to see you up, Percy. We were quite worried about you."
"Yeah," Percy mumbles. "What... How are you?"
Mr. Brunner smiles bitterly and slowly rises. Except that doesn't make sense because he's in a wheelchair. And maybe he can walk a little, but that's still wrong because his legs are still sitting down.
And is that a horse chest! Emerging from the wheelchair?
Mr. Brunner winces, and his shoulders sag. He collapses back into the chair.
"Am I…" Percy shakes his head. He's hallucinating. He hit his head. He always had an overactive imagination.
"No, you're not imagining things," Mr. Brunner says. "I doubt you imagined most of the things you saw. I'm a centaur. Or I was. It's hard to say you're one when you use an extra-dimensional wheelchair." There's bitterness in his words. "I imagine you have questions. I used to give grand speeches to herald heroes into the new age. Now… I am afraid that enthusiasm has left me."
"Heroes? Sir, I don't understand," Percy says.
The gaunt man pushes back his chair with a laugh that sounds more like a croak. "Come here, Peter Jackson."
"Percy," he corrects, taking a slight step back.
The man scowls. "I do not give a jack's ass what you call yourself. Pfft. Come here, sprout and listen to your elders. No respect at all these days."
The man doesn't seem quite right in the head but at the encouraging nod from Grover and Mr. Brunner, Percy takes a few cautious steps forward.
Beady, milky eyes focus on him. Mad intelligence flares within them, and Percy can feel himself standing on the edge of the cliff, overlooking a sea of insanity. It would be so easy to lose himself; the depths are calling to him.
"What are you?" Percy asks, wrenching himself away. This… This is impossible. It cannot be. Mr. Brunner can't possibly be a centaur and this being—
"A god," the man says. "Dionysus. And yes, I'm quite mad. You may call me, Mr. D."
"Wine," Percy blurts out.
"Oh, we've got a smart one here," Mr. D. sneers. "Does that mean we get to skip all this tediousness? The gods are real. Divinity, magic, or whatever new name your little inept brains conjure is real. All of it. Every single one of them, from the pretentious Egyptians to the holier than thou capital G god. Santa is real. So is Slenderman. Every now and then your excessive practice of idolatry turns your brethren into proto-gods who then go quite insane."
"Celebrity worship," Mr. Brunner grumbles.
"But…" That's insane. They're all insane. The world would know if the gods were real, if they were all real. "Where's my mother?"
Mr. Brunner sighs. "Percy… She was caught by the Minotaur."
"But—" He needs to find her and go home. Forget everything that has happened as some grotesque nightmare.
"You want to go home. I know. But you are a child of the gods. Your mother brought you here so you could be safe."
"Safe from what?" he asks.
"Gods and myths and monsters need agents to express their will in reality. For the Greek gods, they have children. Others claim prophets or possess mortals. But as a child of the gods, your blood is potent. It would grant them power to step forth and bend reality to their whims. They are aware of you know. You will be hunted."
Percy shivers.
Mr. D. leans back. "Should just let them get it over with and end this sordid existence once and for all."
Mr. Brunner and Grover stare at him in annoyance.
The god shrugs and twirls his fingers, summoning a crumbling coke can. "Only fools don't acknowledge when their time has come to an end. I may be the god of madness, but I treasure my sanity too much to end like the Egyptians."
"Annabeth," Mr. Brunner says, his smile painfully fake. "Can you show our new camper around?"
The girl nods stiffly, her braids swaying lightly. He follows her silently, still unsure what he should do. This place is mad, but there's an uncomfortable itch in the air that whispers they're right. It would be dangerous to leave.
But what of his mother? If the gods are real… There's a dangerous thought there, and he focuses again on the camp around him.
"Welcome to Camp Half-Blood," Annabeth says dully. Rot permeates the air, and it feels less like a summer camp and more like a health hazard that should've been shut down decades ago.
"Where is everyone?" Percy asks, noting the empty cabins. "We can't be the only ones?"
"On a hunt," Annabeth whispers. "They're strengthening the barriers. There aren't a lot of us, not anymore. Faith fuels the gods, and who believes in Greek myths anymore? Most of the gods stopped having kids when Camp Jupiter fell. They're resigned themselves to a slow death now."
"Oh," Percy says. "Who is your dad?"
"A history professor."
Percy stares.
She rolls her eyes. "My mother is Athena, the goddess of wisdom. I am her last remaining child."
"You do seem smart," Percy says and flushes at her unimpressed look. She's terrifying. "I don't think my mom is a goddess. She could be, but she would've told me." He frowns. "She didn't say my dad was a god either."
"If she raised you, she was mortal. And if she told you who your father was, you would've become a target. Knowledge is power… and bait."
He shivers. "Then who do you think he is?"
"You will find out soon enough. Once we know… We're not human and it begins to show."
"Athena is a bird, right?"
"Her symbol is an owl," Annabeth corrects with a glare. "I can hear you thinking it."
He raises his hands. "Sorry. It's just…"
"Uncanny, I know." She leads him to a clearing filled with long wooden tables. Once the sight would've been impressive, but now, it only brought to mind decay. "It's why I can't go home, even if it were safe. Normal people… We're too different."
"I was always different," Percy admits.
"ADHD?"
"Yeah."
"That's still normal. Think of it as magical puberty."
Percy makes a face, and finally, she laughs.
Days turn to weeks and Percy slowly acclimates to camp. The other campers return from their hunt. Apparently, most of them are children of Ares, the god of war. He meets Luke who teaches him how to use a sword. And he desperately tries not to think whether there is an afterlife, whether he can get his mom back.
He fails. He has already squirreled away a week's supply of food and a few hundred dollars.
Time also brings other changes. His hearing is sharper. His eyes are suddenly attuned to the slightest motion. He can always tell where the nearest horse is. His emotions ebb and flow, frustrating him with their lack of reason.
"It's your godly heritage," Annabeth explains, her tone lacking any sympathy. "You'll get used to it."
"But horses?" he asks, exasperated. "Who is the god of horses? Or maybe it's grass because it's screaming at getting trampled."
She laughs. "You know, the god of the sea also made horses."
"That makes no sense."
"Since when have myths made sense?" Her grin fades. "It would be bad if he was your father."
"Why?"
"There's a prophecy."
He shudders and remembers his dream. "What is the prophecy?" He has to know.
The three sisters of fate laugh in his ear.
"I'm not supposed to say. We're not supposed to know."
But she is a child of wisdom, so of course she found out a way to know.
"Please," he begs. "I… I had a dream. And if—"
"A half-blood of the eldest gods, shall reach sixteen against all odds, and see the world in endless sleep, the hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap, a single choice shall end his days, Olympus to preserve or raze."
He shivers as she finishes with a whisper. It can't be him. He won't be a destroyer. That's not who he is.
Annabeth continues, her voice lost in sadness. "After the last world war, the Big Three swore to never have children again. But… Zeus broke his oath. A child of the Big Three is too powerful, and we were hunted by all sects. Thalia, she sacrificed herself to save us, and Zeus turned her into a tree instead of letting her die. It's the only good thing he has done."
"Why?" Percy asks, his gaze drifting to the tree that marked the boundary of the camp.
"Because the Greek gods can't agree whether they want to be destroyed or saved. If she died, they would've bargained for her soul, and forced her to fulfill the prophecy."
"Her soul?' Percy asks. "They can bring the dead back?"
"Percy…" Annabeth winces. "It's not like that."
"But you just said it's possible. I could get my mom back."
"No. You can't."
"Why? I can go to the underworld. It's a quest, right? I'll do whatever is needed. My mom deserves better than this. I only ever brought her down."
"Because one of the other sects interfered," Annabeth snaps. "You don't know where she is! She could be with the Egyptians, the Norse, the Abrahamic. You go out there, they'll use her to control you, to do their bidding, and destroy us all!"
Percy looks at the broken chairs and dying forest around them. "It seems to be happening without any help."
She huffs and storms off, leaving him to his cold thoughts. He doesn't want to destroy, but his mom… Slowly, he stands up and lets his feet lead him forward.
The forest creaks and moans around him as he enters. The bare twigs catch on his shirt and pants, drawing blood. For a moment, the trees seem revitalized, standing a little taller, stretching back to the sun, then they droop again, resigned to death.
He swallows and pushes his way deeper into the forest. He meets a small stream thick with algae. An old woman sits in the water, her skin a murky translucent green.
Their eyes meet, and she slips back into the murky depths.
Finally, he breaks free from the forest and the rotting stench of death to the beach. He slips off his shoes without a second thought, the soft sand a welcome relief to his toes.
Flies buzz around the corpse of a dead seagull and carcasses of dead fish. Here too, everything is dying.
"Percy," a voice warm as the ocean breeze says. A greyed man sits down next to him. "You know the truth."
"Poseidon," Percy whispers. He's known since Annabeth said his name. "Why?"
"That covers too many topics, but I loved your mother. I still do."
Percy quietly studies his father. There's a dash of grey in his hair and stress lines weather his face. He has none of that rigidity that Percy always saw in other's fathers. He's one to go with the flow, never to fight his way through the storm.
"You don't seem as weak as Mr. D."
His father chuckles and gently drapes an arm over his shoulder. "Hades, Zeus, and I were always the strongest, but… it is more than that. We live off worship and the sea is always alive with myths. Giant crab. Giant octopus. The titanic. Atlantis. It calls people, invites curiosity. A man adrift at sea inevitably calls out to faith. The ocean is alive in everyone's imagination. And water has always compromised. I am not like Zeus, demanding sole dominion over my domain. And so I merged with Oceanus and Neptune and Njord and Varuna and so many others. The problem is with every minor deity that succumbs to irrelevance, my domain and responsibilities grow. Lack of faith in others makes my job very stressful."
"So you're not weak?" Percy asks.
"No. And that's the problem." He raises an eyebrow, having expected some reaction. "They didn't tell you then. Of the Lighting Bolt."
"What?"
"Zeus claims I stole his Lightning Bolt in order to usurp him. He's scared I might be too strong, and is trying to rally the others against me. And with Hades… Well, he's always been smarter than the two of us. It's quite easy for a god of the Underworld to appear weak."
"He's not weak?"
"Oh no," Poseidon says. "Quite the opposite. For as much as a man at sea may pray, so does every soul on their deathbed and all those around it. I'd say he stole the Lightning Bolt, but that isn't my brother's style. He's never relished war."
That's honestly not what Percy expected of a god of the dead.
"Is there—" Percy's voice fails him. "Mom. Can I— Can I save her?"
"She's alive, but where, I cannot sense," Poseidon says. "There is a chance. Go to the attic of the main house and ask the seer for a prophecy, a quest. Perhaps, it will solve both of our trouble and prevent my foolish brother from starting a pointless war."
"Don't you care that Mom is gone," Percy accuses. Shouldn't he be more concerned about what happened to her?
"I'm a god, my son. Your mother knew and understood that before she had you. It's not my nature to grieve with restraint. I either go with the flow or rage. And you, my dear son, are not ready to drown."
"What?" Percy asks, but the weight over his shoulders is gone. His father has vanished, only the scent of lively sea air left in his place.
The ocean surges forward, enveloping the corpses and dragging them back out to sea. The water shines a vivid dark blue, full with life and vigor.
Brushing the sand off his pants, Percy stands up. He will do as Poseidon suggested. He will do anything if it means a chance to save his mother.
The Big House looms ominously in the evening dusk. The roof hangs precariously to the right, like a bank of snow just waiting to slide off and crush the poor soul walking underneath. The building moans in the evening and the windows stare at him, with the unflinching eyes of a corpse.
Shuddering, Percy pushes his way inside. The floor shudders beneath his feet and there are faint skittering sounds as insects take flight. He gropes the wall for a lightswitch and recoils, pulling away a sticky hand covered in white threads.
Taking a fortifying breath, he fishes through his pockets for his keys and the small keychain flashlight. The light illuminates the empty path before him, in a cone of faint yellow. It does nothing to assuage his unease. The shadows flicker, running slender tendrils back and forth, somehow darker, deeper than any shadow has a right to be.
Light only gave them strength. Percy switches off the flashlight, relying on the faint glow of the dying sun to pick his way forward through the minefield of rotten wood.
Somehow, he reaches the attic without an incident. Still, he runs his hands down his leg, checking that he is in one piece. Checking that some creature has not latched onto him in his hike and stands poised to drive its fangs into his body.
He comes back empty, yet he shudders, feeling ghostly hands crawling down his back. He needs to get out of here.
The urge is overwhelming. Unwelcome tears brim in his eyes. His heart pounds, drowning out the arthritic pops of the building around him.
His mother. The thought drives through the fear like a fin slicing through foamy water. His mother.
She may be alive. He has a chance to get her back. For that, he must enter the room. He must overcome his fear.
He closes his eyes. That's easier. Without the phantom shapes taunting him from the corner of his eyes.
He feels for the doorknob and steps inside.
There's one loan window, staring out at the camp. It has a small bench before it, perfect for little children looking longingly out on a rainy day. The rest of the room has no such charm, filled with boxes and chests and linen sheets futilely draped over moth riddled furniture.
And then, there's the mummy.
Percy pauses, unable to breath as if he's spent too long at the bottom of the pool.
The mummy lurches forward. It makes no sound as it crosses the rotting floorboards. The dying light from the window helps form a long shadow that creeps up the wall. It splits in three, and for a moment, they smile.
You shall go west,
And face the god who has turned.
You shall find what was stolen
And see it safely returned…
Written for the Emerald Library
