Percy's POV:
Okay, I may project an aura of composure, a facade of having it all figured out, but truth be told, I was stumbling through this new reality just like everyone else. The instant the sea-green trident shimmered above my head, proclaiming Poseidon as my father, the probing began. It felt less like a welcome and more like an inquisition. Leading the charge, predictably, was Annabeth. Her intelligent grey eyes, sharp as honed obsidian, missed nothing. She drilled into my past, each question a carefully aimed dart seeking to pierce my carefully constructed walls. What had I been doing for the last four years? And even before that, she wanted to know about my life, my childhood, the whole messy, complicated tapestry of my existence. Honestly, I couldn't fault her curiosity. Placed in her shoes, I'd probably be just as relentlessly inquisitive.
Then came the inevitable question about the snow. The unnatural, out-of-reason flurry that had swept around the trident during my whole claimage. Apparently, localized, spontaneous snowflakes were not typical demigod occurrences when the parent has no official with that particular phenomenon. Fair enough, I guess. But how do you explain something you barely understand yourself? I bled red, just like them, yet they were looking at me with this unnerving mix of awe and suspicion, like I was some exotic specimen under glass. Or maybe they were just dense. It was like people preferred the mystery, the unknown, to any plausible explanation. Maybe it was more exciting to concoct wild theories than to accept a simple truth, or even a complex one.
And wild theories they conjured. Whispers started to circulate, escalating into booming pronouncements: nature spirit, minor god, some sort of earth elemental gone rogue. They were spouting complete and utter nonsense, these half-bloods, their imaginations running wilder than a herd of stampeding centaurs. And nobody, nobody, bothered to let me get a word in edgewise. They were too busy building their fantastical narratives. Finally, frustration boiling over, I pulled at the nearby water – it was a reflex, really, a twitch of my fingers and the water obeyed – and with a flick of my wrist, I sent a controlled splash over a cluster of the loudest theory-crafters. They sputtered, their grandiose pronouncements dissolving into surprised yelps.
"Just let me explain!" I yelled, my voice echoing in the sudden hush. "Jeez! Before any of this camp stuff, before the overgrown bull decided to crash the party, I was… asked… to come here by a goddess."
A chorus of voices erupted, a confused and excited clamor. "WHO?!" they shouted, the single word reverberating across the clearing.
I straightened my spine, refusing to be intimidated by their collective demand. "I'm not going to tell you," I stated firmly, my voice ringing with conviction. "I was sworn to secrecy. And what kind of person would I be if I broke a promise like that? Besides," my tone softened slightly, a hint of genuine affection coloring my words, "I happen to really like this goddess. I think of her as a sister. I won't let anything bad happen to her, not on my watch. She helped me when I needed it, was kind enough to guide me here. I'm not about to betray her trust." My stern gaze swept across their faces, daring anyone to challenge my resolve. Yet, I could see in their skeptical stares that my cryptic explanation had done little to improve my standing.
Chiron, ever the voice of reason, or at least, the voice of camp policy, trotted forward, his equine lower half shifting smoothly on the grass. "Perseus," he said gently, his tone laced with a hint of exasperation, "we don't keep secrets like that at Camp Half-Blood." He was trying to coax the answer out of me, to use gentle persuasion where outright demands had failed. But I wasn't budging. This was bigger than camp rules, bigger than their curiosity. This was about loyalty, about gratitude, about a bond forged in something deeper than demigod lineage. And, honestly, it was a chance to shake things up, to finally speak a truth that had been simmering beneath the surface of this gilded cage of privilege.
"Is that right, Chiron?" I challenged, my voice rising in volume and passion. "No secrets? How about the secrets whispered in the shadows of Cabin Eleven? How about what happens to the kids of minor gods, the ones who go unclaimed, lost in the shuffle? How can you stand there and say that when kids are left wondering why their mommy or daddy doesn't care, why their entire existence feels fundamentally unfair?" I paused, letting my words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken grievances. "The answer to that question, my dear friend, is devastatingly simple. Because their parents aren't represented here, aren't thought of as important. Because they are… minor?" The word dripped with sarcasm. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, a celestial growl that mirrored my own rising anger.
"That's enough, Perseus!" Chiron snapped, his usually placid demeanor cracking under the pressure. He raised a hand, attempting to cut me off, to silence the inconvenient truths I was spilling. But I was beyond stopping now.
"They sit and rot in Cabin Eleven," I continued, my voice ringing with righteous indignation, "stuck in limbo until they fade away into nothing. No one here truly cares for them." I swept my arm out, encompassing the assembled campers. "I see it in the hollow look in some of your eyes – dying to know who your parent is, to finally belong. And you stand there," I pointed a finger at Chiron, my voice trembling with emotion, "and say secrets like mine aren't kept around here. When literal parentage is a mystery for some, a glaring absence, and you claim nothing can be done. Get off your high horse, Chiron! Start being worthy of your namesake, a wise teacher, not just a glorified nanny overseeing a privileged summer camp."
Frustration consumed me, a burning fire that mirrored the storm gathering on the horizon. The wind picked up, whipping through the camp, leaves swirling in miniature tornadoes, the sky darkening ominously. Campers shifted nervously, sensing the raw power radiating from me, the tempest brewing within. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I let the outward storm abate slightly, though the turmoil within remained. I met the gaze of each camper, one by one, my expression softening with a flicker of empathy. "For those of you who don't know your parents, who are languishing in Cabin Eleven, my cabin will always be open. Cabin Three. I'm sure," I said, the words tinged with a fragile hope, "I'm sure I can make my dad listen to reason. If not… well, at least I tried." With that final pronouncement, I turned and started walking towards cabin three, leaving a stunned silence in my wake. The camp was frozen, caught in the aftermath of my outburst, the air thick with unspoken questions and simmering discontent. I had planted a seed of doubt, a seed of rebellion, and now, they were left to grapple with it, to decide what, if anything, would grow from it.
Back in the solitude of Cabin Three, I collapsed onto the bunk, exhaustion washing over me, but sleep remained elusive. My mind raced, replaying the confrontation, the faces of the campers, Chiron's wounded expression. I hoped the gods had heard my rant. It was directed at them just as much as it was at the campers, at Chiron. Maybe I had been too harsh, too confrontational. Doubt gnawed at the edges of my bravado. I'd have to work things out with everyone tomorrow. Smooth things over, maybe apologize, but I wouldn't retract a single word of what I'd said.
With sleep a distant dream, I left the stifling confines of the cabin before the first hint of dawn painted the sky. The training arena was deserted, bathed in the cool, pre-dawn air. I picked up a practice sword, the familiar weight grounding me. I was my own counselor now, my own guide. I could train when I wanted, go where I pleased, answer to no one but myself. And maybe, just maybe, to a certain goddess who believed in me enough to guide me here in the first place. The steel sang as I began to spar with the shadows, each strike a release of pent-up frustration and a reaffirmation of my own burgeoning power. The camp slept, unaware of the tempest still brewing within its newest resident, a tempest that was just beginning to gather strength.
A few days had bled into one another, each marked by the lingering sting of my own blunt words. I'd swallowed my pride and said my apologies to almost everyone, they didn't deserve the rant of a camp newbie. Yet, the apologies seemed to bounce off them like arrows off celestial bronze. The camp, once buzzing with camaraderie, had become a place of hushed whispers and darting glances whenever I walked by. It was like I'd sprouted scales overnight. They avoided me as if I carried a particularly nasty strain of monster pox.
Truthfully, the behind-my-back murmuring didn't bother me as much as it should have. Maybe I was just used to it. What truly gnawed at me was the sheer scale of the reaction. My rant hadn't been that outrageous, had it? I'd just voiced what everyone knew to be true, the messy, slightly rotting underbelly of Camp Half-Blood, the things we all politely ignored. Okay, maybe I'd delivered the truth with the grace of a charging Minotaur. Fine, I'd come off like a colossal dick. I admitted it to myself, begrudgingly.
And so, Camp Half-Blood became a solitary island for me. Every meal in the dining pavilion felt like a performance in an empty theater. Training sessions in the arena were lonely echoes of the lively clashes they used to be. Even the woods, usually a refuge, seemed to whisper judgments on the wind.
Almost everyone had ostracized me. Almost. There were flickering embers of normalcy. Charles Beckendorf, ever the steady hand, still chatted with me about cabin repairs, the forges, anything but it. Luke Castellan, with his unsettlingly knowing gaze, still met me in the sparring ring, our blades clashing in a familiar rhythm of steel and sweat, no words needed. Grover Underwood, bless his nervous, perpetually-worried heart, still rambled about satyr business and nature spirits, pretending nothing had changed. Jessica, a daughter of Aphrodite, surprised me by being genuinely kind, offering a hesitant smile in the hallway, a murmured, "Hey, Percy." Annabeth Chase… well, Annabeth was a different story. She'd stick by my side, yes, but her brow was perpetually furrowed, her lips moving silently as she mumbled to herself, always about "a plan," her eyes distant and calculating whenever we were together. Then there was Selina Beauregard. The head of the Aphrodite cabin, with her sharp wit and even sharper eyes, seemed to regard the whole camp drama with a detached amusement. She'd even tossed me a wink in the dining pavilion one evening, utterly unfazed. Selina was… unexpected. And, honestly, pretty awesome.
Only one apology remained unsaid, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. Chiron. I needed to face Chiron. With hesitant steps, I made my way to the Big House, the familiar scent of pine needles and old books doing little to soothe my nerves. My knuckles were raised to knock when the heavy oak door swung inwards, revealing a disheveled Grover. His usually bright eyes were wide and frantic, his brow slick with sweat despite the cool morning air.
"I was just coming to get you, Percy!" he blurted, his voice a strained whisper. "Mr. D wants to send you to… I mean, he wants to see you." He finished sheepishly, avoiding my gaze. Something was definitely off. Grover was never this flustered just to deliver a message.
"Where are they?" I asked, my gut twisting with unease.
"Just on the porch. Other side of the Big House. Come on, you don't want to keep a god waiting!" He seized my wrist in his surprisingly strong grip and half-dragged me around the corner of the house.
There, on the porch, in the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves, were Chiron and Mr. D. They were engaged in a bizarre game of pinochle against invisible opponents. Two sets of spectral hands floated in the air, holding cards, gesturing emphatically. Mr. D, lounging in a wicker chair, took a long sip from a scarlet goblet – undoubtedly grape juice – and fixed me with a languid, disdainful stare.
"Well, if it isn't the camp celebrity," he drawled, his voice laced with bored sarcasm. "Anyway, don't expect any special treatment from me just because your father is old barnacle beard." As if on cue, a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, but Mr. D remained unfazed, sipping his juice. Grover, however, flinched violently, cowering behind the porch railing as if expecting a lightning bolt to spear through the roof.
"You caused a lot of trouble on Olympus, brat," Mr. D continued, his eyes narrowed slits of purple. "If it were up to me, you'd be a pile of ashes swept under the rug and forgotten. But alas, it is within my… mission to keep you from harm. Sadly." He sighed dramatically. "Anyway, I'm off to Olympus for an emergency meeting. All thanks to you." With a flick of his wrist and a faint pop, he vanished, leaving behind only the cloying, artificial sweetness of grape-flavored air.
I turned to Chiron, feeling the weight of my earlier defiance settle back onto my shoulders. "Chiron, I came here to apologize for my actions. It wasn't my place to—"
He raised a hand, cutting me off gently. "It's quite alright, child." His voice was weary, tinged with a sadness that went deeper than my little camp drama. "You weren't wrong, Percy. This place… Camp Half-Blood… it isn't perfect. But there isn't much that I, or anyone, can truly do, Percy." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths.
"Still," I pressed, feeling a flicker of the guilt I should have felt days ago. "I'm sorry. I was raised better than that. If it weren't for you, for this place, monsters would have free reign over all the gods' spawn."
Chiron nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "Hmm, that would appear to be the case. But that isn't the primary reason I asked to see you, Percy. It is time for you to take on your quest." He straightened in his wheelchair, his tone shifting to a more formal, serious cadence. "The tension between Zeus and Poseidon… the fighting… it hasn't ceased, child. In fact, it is much worse than before. No one on Olympus knew of your existence until recently, you see. And now, Zeus openly blames you. Considering your… absence during the winter solstice, he believes you stole his master bolt for your father."
"Figures," I muttered, a cynical laugh escaping my lips. "I knew Zeus was crazy."
"Perseus, we do not speak of the King of the Gods like that!" Grover squeaked, half-yelling, half-pleading. He peeked out from behind the chair, his eyes wide with terror, convinced Zeus's wrath was about to descend upon us.
Chiron ignored Grover's outburst, his gaze fixed on me. "Will you accept the quest, Perseus?"
I looked at Chiron, then at Grover cowering behind the chair, then back at Chiron. The weight of Zeus's anger, Mr. D's disdain, the camp's cold shoulder, it all pressed down on me. But there was also something else, a sliver of purpose, a familiar stirring within me. "Just tell me when I leave," I said, my voice firm despite the turmoil inside.
"Not so fast, child." Chiron's tone was gentle but firm. "You must first visit the Oracle. Obtain a prophecy before you depart. This situation is exceedingly fragile, Perseus. You must find the master bolt and return it to Olympus before the summer solstice meeting. June 21st. Which is approximately ten days from now." As the last word left his lips, a sudden drumming started. Rain. Not a gentle drizzle, but a torrential downpour, erupting within the magical boundaries of Camp Half-Blood. Every camper, every centaur, every dryad stopped what they were doing, staring up at the impossible rain, then turning to fix their collective gaze on me. A silent, accusing rain. Zeus was furious, that much was terrifyingly clear. But punishing the whole camp? Because of me? A cold fury began to bloom in my chest, eclipsing the fear.
"The Oracle is in the attic, Perseus," Chiron said, his voice quiet amidst the sudden deluge.
Wordlessly, I turned and headed for the Big House. I climbed four flights of creaking stairs, the rhythmic drumming of rain against the roof growing louder with each step. At the top, a green trap door hung suspended from the ceiling. I pulled the frayed cord, and the door swung open, revealing a narrow wooden ladder leading upwards. Climbing into the attic was like stepping into a forgotten museum, a repository of broken dreams and faded glories. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that squeezed through cracks in the boarded-up windows, illuminating a chaotic collection of relics. Broken armor gleamed dully in the gloom, dented shields leaned against walls stacked high with dusty boxes, and the ghostly shapes of forgotten weapons hung from the rafters. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and something indefinably… old.
Near the far window, bathed in a sickly green light, stood the Oracle. Not a grotesque, mummified creature as I'd imagined from campfire stories. Just a slender female figure, a husk of a woman, dressed in a faded tie-dye sundress and draped in an absurd amount of beads and necklaces. A woven headband, adorned with tarnished silver charms, held back her long, lank black hair. Her eyes were unnervingly white, blank slits that seemed to see nothing and everything at once. As I approached, she stiffened, then slowly sat up, her joints creaking like ancient timbers. I instinctively tensed, my hand reaching for the empty space where Riptide usually resided. Then her mouth, a thin, bloodless line, opened wide, impossibly wide, and a thick, sickly green mist poured forth, swirling and hissing like acid eating away at the floorboards. The stench of sulfur filled the air, stinging my nostrils. And then, the voice, not from her lips, but directly in my head, resonated, colder and more ancient than Khione's icy whispers, laced with the heavy weight of centuries.
I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.
My breath hitched in my throat. I took a shaky step forward, the acrid scent of the oracle stinging my eyes. "What is my destiny?" I managed to croak, the question feeling inadequate, foolish in the face of such ancient, unsettling power.
The green mist in front of me thickened, coalescing, swirling, solidifying into a series of fleeting visions. First, a woman, young and beautiful, with kind eyes, clutching a baby to her chest, her face etched with a familiar sadness - my first mother. You shall go west, and face the god who has turned. Then, a shimmering figure rising from the sea foam, a goddess with fierce, knowing eyes, wielding a trident – Phoebe. You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned. Next, a blur of faces, women with the restless, shifting beauty of the ocean – Nasaea, Amphite, Kyrene, Asea, their voices a chorus of the waves. You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend. Finally, the chilling whisper of winter, the icy breath of Khione, her face pale and beautiful, her eyes like glacial lakes. And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end. The mist dissipated, leaving me breathless, cold despite the muggy attic air, the Oracle's white eyes fixed unseeingly on something far beyond me.
As the last chilling word of prophecy faded, the green mist receded, dissolving back into the leathery folds of the Oracle's mouth. It was a grotesque, fleshy opening in the dessicated face, and for a moment, I was mesmerized by its unnatural elasticity as it swallowed the last vestiges of the swirling vapor. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the trance broke. The air in the attic, thick with the musty smell of old wood and forgotten magic, returned to a semblance of normalcy. Sunlight, hazy and weak through the grime-coated window, filtered down in dusty beams. The Oracle, her white eyes vacant and sightless, remained motionless, a porcelain doll discarded in a forgotten corner. It was as if the terrifying pronouncements had never been uttered, a phantom echo in the silence. But the icy chill that had settled in my bones remained, a stark contrast to the humid air clinging to my skin.
I stumbled out of the attic's oppressive heat, my legs feeling strangely weak. Descending the narrow, creaking stairs, the pronouncements of the prophecy echoed in my mind, each word a cold stone settling in my gut. Reaching the bottom, I spotted Chiron in the cool shade of the entryway. His powerful centaur body, half-horse, half-man, filled the space, the polished wood of his equine half gleaming in the dim light, the human torso above radiating a quiet, ancient strength. Grover, ever present, stood nervously shifting from hoof to hoof beside him, his goat legs trembling slightly. I walked towards them, each step feeling heavy, the weight of the prophecy dragging me down. I finally reached a worn wooden chair and slumped into it, the breath escaping my lungs in a rush. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to collect myself, the images from the mist still vivid behind my eyelids. Opening them, I took a deep, shuddering breath. Chiron and Grover waited patiently, their expressions a mixture of concern and anticipation, the silence stretching tight around us.
"You shall go west, and face the god who has turned," I started, my voice low and unsteady, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I recounted the vision, each phrase replaying in my mind with unnerving clarity. "You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned." Grover's already pale face seemed to lose even more color, his eyes widening with each word, his nervous bleating momentarily suppressed. "You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend…" The air in the room seemed to thicken, the temperature dropping noticeably. I could almost feel the icy breath of Khione even in the muggy air. "…And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end." As the final, chilling line left my lips, a profound silence descended. Grover's ears drooped, and he fidgeted, his usual nervous energy replaced by a palpable fear. Chiron, for his part, brought a thoughtful hand to his neatly trimmed beard, his brow furrowed in concentration, the ancient wisdom in his eyes deepening.
"Prophecies… are rarely straightforward, child," Chiron said finally, his voice measured and calm, a reassuring anchor in the tempest of my fear. "They tend to have layers, double meanings, sometimes even triple. To fixate on one interpretation, especially the most dire one, is often a path to despair, and rarely illuminates the true path forward. Trust me on this, Percy, dwelling on the darkness will only cloud your judgment and harm you." He looked at me directly, his eyes holding mine with a steady, encouraging gaze.
My breath hitched, but I nodded, trying to absorb his words. He was right. Panic wouldn't help. Action would. "West it is then," I said, a newfound resolve hardening my voice. "Who can I bring?" The daunting weight of the prophecy still pressed down, but beneath it, a spark of determination ignited.
"The Oracle stipulated nothing about companions, but in my experience, journeys are best undertaken with allies," Chiron replied, his gaze shifting thoughtfully towards Grover. "However, wisdom dictates that smaller parties travel more discreetly and efficiently. I would advise no more than three individuals in total."
I turned to Grover, my best friend, his fear still radiating off him in waves. "Grover?" I asked, my voice softer now. "I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't absolutely certain you could do it. You're the best satyr I know, and… and I think I might need you." I knew his quest for Pan, his lifelong dream, still burned within him, a far more powerful motivation than any fear. His large, brown eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were clouded with apprehension, but he nodded slowly, then more firmly. "For Pan," he mumbled, a flicker of his usual enthusiasm returning. "And… and for you, Percy." He straightened his posture, though his trembling knees betrayed his inner turmoil. He was scared, but he was loyal, more loyal than anyone I knew.
"Anyone else?" Chiron prompted gently, bringing me back to the immediate task. His eyes held a hint of amusement, as if he already knew what I was about to say.
A grin spread across my face, a sudden lightness breaking through the gloom. "Well, since Annabeth is already here, and she's about as capable as they come… why doesn't she come along?" As if summoned by my words, the air beside Chiron shimmered and rippled, the light bending and distorting for a split second before solidifying. Annabeth Chase materialized into existence, standing slightly off-balance, her stormy grey eyes wide and fixed on me, mouth agape in a perfect 'O' of surprise. She was clutching a worn copy of Daedalus and the Labyrinth, the pages fluttering from her sudden arrival. "Come on, guys!" I exclaimed, adrenaline surging through me, the weight of the prophecy momentarily forgotten in the thrill of action. "We don't have any time to waste!" Already moving, I grabbed my few items, slung them into my pockets and waist, and sprinted towards Half-Blood Hill, the scent of pines and fresh earth filling my lungs, leaving my two slightly bewildered friends scrambling in my dust.
"Seaweed Brain!" Annabeth's voice, sharp and exasperated, echoed after me, but I was already halfway up the hill, the thrill of the quest, the challenge, overriding the looming dread of the prophecy. Behind me, I heard Grover's panting breaths and Annabeth's muttered but determined curses as they raced to catch up, and for a fleeting moment, the terrifying weight of the oracle's words lifted, replaced by the familiar, exhilarating anticipation of adventure.
An hour had bled into another, and the gnawing impatience in my gut had grown into a full-blown roar. Here I was, perched on the crest of Half-Blood Hill, kicking at the dry grass with the toe of my worn sneaker, while the rest of the questing party seemed to be operating on 'Camp Time' – which, as far as I could tell, was approximately three times slower than normal time. Life-threatening quest, possible world-ending stakes, you'd think a little pep in their step would be warranted. Maybe I was the weird one, the one who was too ready. Too eager to face down whatever monstrous threat was looming. Or maybe, just maybe, they were still trying to wrap their heads around the sheer, terrifying reality of what we were about to do. But honestly, how long did it actually take to pack for the apocalypse?
"Hey Percy! Are you ready to go!?" Grover's cheerful bellow finally shattered the heavy silence of the afternoon. I craned my neck, peering down the grassy slope, and there he was, a small brown blur bounding up the hill. Close on his heels were Annabeth, her brow furrowed in that familiar way of hers, and Chiron, his wheelchair magically navigating the uneven terrain with effortless grace. And… was that Argus? Yup, unmistakable even from this distance – the sheer number of eyes blinking all over his form was a dead giveaway.
"Been ready and waiting, guys! What took you so long?" I called back, trying to inject a lightheartedness I wasn't entirely feeling. They reached the hilltop, Grover panting slightly but grinning widely, Annabeth a little pink in the cheeks, and Chiron radiating his usual calm wisdom. Argus lingered a few respectful paces behind, his gaze – gazes? – sweeping over the landscape.
Annabeth rolled her grey eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "Supplies, Seaweed Brain. You know, just in case things go south. Like… catastrophically south? Fatal injury south?" She gestured to the bulging canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
Intrigue piqued, I leaned in. "Ooh, sweet! What did you get?"
Annabeth rattled off the list with practiced efficiency. "Drachmas, naturally. Nectar and ambrosia, plenty of both. Sleeping bags, mortal money, some bandages, extra rope, a few books I think might be useful…" She paused, finally taking a good, assessing look at me. Her gaze swept over my usual attire – the obvious lack of my Camp Half-Blood t-shirt, baggy shorts, and of course the no sneaker look. She took in the hunting bow slung across my back, the quiver of arrows, the twin daggers strapped to my thighs, and even the simple wooden flute poking out of my pocket. I subtly shifted, hoping she wouldn't notice the sleek, silver wood of the hunter's arrow hidden in my boot. That was a secret for now.
"What about you, Percy?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Bringing anything besides your… usual?"
Chiron cleared his throat gently, drawing our attention. "And this is Argus," he announced, gesturing to the multi-eyed giant. "He was going to escort you all into the city."
The word "city" hit me like a punch to the gut. Ugh. The concrete jungle, the suffocating crowds, the constant noise and smells… It was a sensory assault, a place that always felt fundamentally wrong to a son of the sea. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a sudden wave of reluctance crash over me. "Actually," I said, trying to sound confident, "I… uh… I have another way to get there. If you don't mind."
Perplexed glances were exchanged between Annabeth and Grover. Chiron simply raised a knowing eyebrow, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes. Argus, ever stoic, just shrugged his broad shoulders, his myriad eyes blinking in unison, and began lumbering back down the hill towards the Big House. I could practically hear Annabeth's mental gears grinding.
"Great! Now we don't have a ride, Seaweed Brain!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation. I just rolled my eyes, a familiar, fond annoyance bubbling up. I turned to start walking down the hill, towards the edge of the woods where I thought my… alternative transportation might be waiting.
"Hold up, guys!" A voice called out. I spun around again. Luke, his blond hair slightly tousled, was jogging up the hill, panting slightly, a shoebox clutched in his hands. Luke? What was he doing here? I glanced at Grover and Annabeth; they looked just as surprised as I was. But I did catch the faint flush creeping up Annabeth's neck, dusting her cheeks a delicate pink.
"I just… wanted to wish you guys off," Luke said, a little out of breath, reaching us. He offered a warm, genuine smile, his usual easy charm radiating from him. "And perhaps… you could use these." He extended the shoebox to me.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a pair of sneakers. They looked perfectly ordinary – white trainers with navy blue stripes. Ordinary, that is, until Luke spoke. "Maia!" he said, his voice low, a strange inflection to it. And then they happened. White, feathery bird wings erupted from the heels of the shoes, unfurling in a glorious, unexpected burst of life. They flapped once, twice, brushing the grass, before drooping to the ground, then folding themselves neatly back into the shoe, disappearing as if they were never there.
My jaw dropped slightly. Wings? Growing out of shoes? Cool, yes. Practical for me, son of the Sea God, constantly trying to avoid the wrath of Zeus, Lord of the Sky, who wasn't exactly thrilled about my existence? Not so much. "Too bad I can't actually use them," I said, trying to sound appreciative but also a little resigned. "You know, Zeus being the… lord of the sky and all."
"Right," Luke chuckled, a hint of understanding in his eyes. "Still, thought they might be useful. Maybe for… Grover?" He winked at Grover, who was now staring at the shoes with wide, saucer eyes. "Anyway," Luke continued, turning back to me, his expression becoming more serious. "Listen, Percy. We're all placing a lot of hope on you. Just… go out there and kill some monsters for me, okay? Kay?" He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring.
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. "Yeah, kay." He shook my hand, a strong, man-to-man grip. Then he turned to Grover, giving him a friendly pat on the back. Finally, he turned to Annabeth, and for a fleeting moment, his hand lingered on her arm as he spoke, his voice softer, almost inaudible. Then, unexpectedly, he pulled her into a quick, brotherly hug. Annabeth, though surprised, leaned into it for a brief second before he released her. A faint blush still lingered on her cheeks as Luke turned and started walking back down the hill, leaving us on the summit, a strange mix of emotions hanging in the air.
"Hey Grover?" I said, picking up the shoebox and offering it to the satyr. "Would you like a pair of magic sneakers that could fly?"
Grover's brown eyes widened, lighting up like it was Christmas morning. "Would I!?" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. With a speed that belied his cloven hooves, he snatched the shoebox and eagerly untied the laces on his own worn sandals. He shoved his hooves into the sneakers, the human shoes looking comically large on his goat legs, and clumsily tied the laces. He took a few hesitant steps, wobbling slightly. "Ready to take off and fly!" he declared, puffing out his chest. "Maia!" Grover shouted the magic word, his voice ringing with anticipation.
The wings sprang back to life, white feathers blossoming from the heels of the shoes. They flapped vigorously, lifting Grover… about a foot off the ground. Then, gravity reasserted itself with a vengeance. Grover faceplanted into the grass with a loud 'oomph'. The winged shoes, still flapping erratically, dragged him across the ground in a chaotic, comical circle, kicking up dust and grass. Annabeth and I watched, stifling giggles that threatened to turn into full-blown laughter. Finally, the shoes seemed to run out of magical steam, the wings collapsing inward. Grover lay sprawled on the ground, slightly dazed, grass sticking to his curly hair.
Chiron approached, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, his expression sympathetic. "He meant well, Percy."
"I know," I said, managing to swallow down my laughter. Grover, brushing grass from his face, was already trying to untangle himself from the shoes, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Oh! I almost forgot." Chiron reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out… a pen? A perfectly ordinary, ballpoint pen, black plastic with a simple silver clip. I stared at it, confused. Was this some kind of joke? A parting gift for the son of Poseidon?
Instinct took over before logic could catch up. My fingers closed around the pen, and I, without even thinking, pulled off the cap. And then… it happened. The pen in my hand lengthened, widened, shifted. The plastic dissolved, replaced by the cool, reassuring weight of metal. It grew, not with a violent explosion of magic, but with a smooth, almost liquid transformation, until I held in my hand a weapon of breathtaking beauty and lethal grace.
It was a sword. A double-edged bronze blade, gleaming with an inner light, sharp enough to cleave through bone and sinew. The grip was wrapped in soft, worn leather, fitting perfectly into my palm as if it had been molded just for me. The flat hilt was riveted with gold studs, catching the sunlight. It felt… perfect. Balanced. Alive.
"It's a gift from your father, Percy," Chiron's voice was low, resonant, filled with a weight of history. "I've lost track of how long I've been holding onto it, waiting for the right moment. But it is clear now. You are the one. The prophecy… it is clear." He didn't need to say more. I knew what prophecy he meant. The one that hung over my head like a storm cloud, the one that predicted either my triumph or my catastrophic failure. "It holds a tragic history," Chiron continued, his gaze distant. "Its name… is Anaklusmos."
"Riptide," I breathed, the Ancient Greek name echoing in my mind, morphing into its more familiar English form. Riptide. Yeah. That was a dope name.
"It holds magic, Percy," Chiron said, pulling me back to the present. "You can never lose it. As long as you believe in it, it will always return to your pocket."
I carefully retracted the blade, the sword shrinking back into the innocuous form of a pen. I slipped it into my pocket, feeling a surge of gratitude so intense it choked me up. "Thank you, Chiron," I managed to say, my voice hoarse. "Thank you."
Shouting my thanks again, a little louder this time to cover the emotion in my voice, I grabbed Annabeth's hand and then Grover's arm, pulling them along with me. "Come on!" I yelled, breaking into a sprint down the rest of the hill. I scanned the grassy field, my eyes searching for something specific. And then I saw it. Near the base of the hill, nestled in the tall grass, a puddle. Not just any puddle, but one of those unexpectedly large, suspiciously deep puddles that seemed to appear out of nowhere after a rain shower. Perfect.
Without a word of explanation, I veered sharply towards it, leaping directly into the murky water with a splash that sent muddy droplets flying in all directions. I dragged a protesting Annabeth and a yelping Grover in with me. The cold water shocked my skin, and for a dizzying moment, the world around us dissolved into swirling blues and greens. This was the way. The way to the city. The way to start a quest that could save, or shatter, everything.
We erupted into existence right in the throbbing heart of Manhattan, the city air instantly thick and humid compared to the crisp air of Camp Half-Blood. One moment we were knee-deep in the creek bed, the next, we were sprawled awkwardly on cold, gritty pavement, blinking against the sudden glare of sunlight bouncing off skyscrapers. The puddle we'd just plunged into, expecting it to lead to the canoe lake, now seemed like a cruel joke shimmering on the asphalt, utterly ordinary and reflecting double-decker buses rumbling past.
"What in the Hades was that!?" Annabeth's voice was sharp with disbelief, laced with a hint of panic. She scrambled to her feet, her grey eyes wide and darting around, desperately seeking something familiar in the chaotic urban landscape. "We were just at camp…and now we're…where are we?!" She spun, taking in the towering buildings, the yellow cabs honking impatiently, the sheer volume of people rushing past. Then, her gaze snagged on a street sign, and her breath hitched. "We're in Manhattan!? Upper East Side! How, by the gods, how is this possible?"
Grover, poor satyr, was a green-tinged mess. He was down on all fours, muttering incoherently about bad tin cans and the distinct possibility he'd just ingested something profoundly indigestible. He looked like he was about to lose his half-digested breakfast all over the pristine sidewalk. I winced in sympathy, feeling a pang of guilt for dragging them both into whatever watery mishap had landed us here.
"Calm down, both of you!" I hissed, trying to project an air of control I definitely didn't feel. "You're attracting attention we seriously don't need." Predictably, my hushed urgency only seemed to amplify the spectacle. Heads turned, curious eyes lingering on our disheveled trio. Great, just what we needed – more gawkers. I grabbed Annabeth's hand, then Grover's arm, hauling him upright despite his groaning protests. "Come on," I urged, pulling them towards the sidewalk and away from the immediate puddle-portal. We fell into step, moving with the flow of pedestrian traffic, while I desperately tried to make sense of what had happened and, more importantly, explain it to my bewildered companions.
"Okay, so," I began, my voice low and rapid, "you know how water is, like, my thing? Like, really my thing?" Annabeth shot me a withering look, reminding me silently that sarcasm wasn't the solution right now. "Right, sorry. So, I… Well I can travel through water. Like, move from one place to another, as long as the water came from the same source." I gestured vaguely back towards the puddle, then towards the bustling street fountain a block away. "The puddle back at camp…and this puddle… well it did rain so it's not big a leap."
I was about to suggest we test my theory again, maybe jump into a fire hydrant and see if we ended up in Central Park, but Annabeth cut me off with a look that could petrify Medusa.
"Absolutely not, Percy. We are not doing that again anytime soon. We have no idea where we are, how we got here, or if it's safe. We are going to do this the normal way." She pointed towards a bus stop sign down the street. "We're buying bus tickets. We're going west. That's how normal people travel, and that's what we're doing."
West. That was vague, but anywhere was better than being stranded on the Upper East Side with a nauseous satyr and a very displeased daughter of Athena. "Fine by me," I conceded, figuring we could at least figure out our destination later.
Grover, miraculously recovering slightly from his near-death-by-puddle experience, perked up at the mention of tickets. He trotted off towards a nearby ticket kiosk, his goat legs surprisingly agile on the hard pavement. A few minutes later, he bounded back towards us, waving three bus tickets in the air like they were golden drachmas. "Got the tickets! Westward ho!" He grinned, a little too enthusiastically, considering we were essentially running away from… something. We just didn't know from what yet.
We endured a few minutes of awkward small talk while we waited – the kind where you pretend everything is fine when you're all collectively freaking out internally. Then, with a hiss of brakes and a whoosh of air, the bus lumbered to a stop in front of us. People disembarked, a stream of weary faces and rumpled clothes, while others began to clamber on, jostling for seats. As the boarding process unfolded, a prickling sensation crawled up my spine. It emanated from across the street, from the shadows cast by a grand, imposing building. Technically, I couldn't see anything concrete, but there was a wrongness in the air, a subtle disharmony that resonated deep within my gut. It was like the air itself was vibrating with malevolence. It creeped me out just glancing in that direction, yet I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from the unseen source of unease.
Hiss! The bus doors hissed shut, the hydraulics sighing as the vehicle settled, ready to depart. The wheels turned, pulling us away from the curb and onwards. The weird feeling lingered, a cold knot in my stomach, even as the street scene around us seemed to snap back to normal, the flow of city life resuming its relentless rhythm. I just wanted to get away from whatever that feeling was, to put as much distance between us and that unsettling presence as possible. No matter how I tried to rationalize it away, the ominous weight of it pressed down on me. It wasn't a good sign. Not at all.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Annabeth's voice cut through my unease, her hand lightly touching my arm. Grover, too, was looking at me, his brow furrowed with concern. They were both staring at me, awaiting a simple answer to a question that felt terrifyingly complex.
I glanced back across the street, but the feeling was gone. Vanished as abruptly as it had materialized. The shadows looked just like shadows again. The building, simply a building. "I don't know," I admitted, the words sounding weak even to my own ears.
If the estranged emotion wasn't a bad omen, then Grover constantly glancing over his shoulder, his nose twitching and sniffing the air like a hound dog on a scent trail, definitely was. "What is it, Grover?" I asked, my voice low, nudging him gently.
He jumped, startled, then tried to play it cool. "I don't know, maybe nothing," he mumbled, but his eyes darted nervously towards the front of the bus.
"Grover," Annabeth said patiently, "since when is it ever 'just nothing' when you're twitching like you're about to sprout extra goat legs?"
Reluctantly, he admitted, "It's… it's just a feeling. Something… sharp." He shivered, rubbing his arms as if suddenly cold.
Finding the relative safety of the bus seats infinitely more appealing than the unsettling atmosphere outside, we settled ourselves in the back, away from the other passengers. Being back on my own again, running, constantly on edge, had become almost routine in the months since… well, since everything. But now, it wasn't just me I was looking after. The weight of responsibility for Annabeth and Grover settled heavy on my shoulders, amplifying my anxieties. And I wasn't the only one on edge. Grover gnawed nervously on a half-eaten apple, the core disappearing in alarming bites, and Annabeth kept fiddling with the brim of her Yankees cap, the gesture a telltale sign of her unease. Something was definitely up.
"Percy." Annabeth's voice was low and urgent. She nodded discreetly towards the front of the bus.
Following her gaze, my blood turned to ice. Three figures had just boarded and were making their way to the front seats. An old woman in a ridiculously crumpled rose dress, incongruously elegant gloves, and a hat that resembled a bird's nest perched precariously on her head. She was flanked by two others, equally ancient and unsettling, their faces obscured by shadows and severe expressions. They weren't the source of the feeling from across the street, but they carried a similar, if not stronger, ominous aura. Great. More trouble. They settled into the very front seats, directly behind the bus driver, their legs deliberately crossed, effectively blocking the aisle. No one was getting past them.
The Furies. The horrifying realization hit me like a physical blow. They were here. On the bus. For us.
"What are they doing here?" I whispered, my voice tight with fear.
"Clearly trying to stop us… But, all three of them!?" Annabeth's voice was barely above a breath, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Oh, gods, oh, gods," Grover whimpered, sinking lower into his seat, his voice trembling. "Di immortals! What are we going to do?"
Annabeth quickly surveyed our surroundings, her mind already strategizing. "The windows don't open, no back exit, nothing…" Her pause hung in the air, thick with unspoken dread. Just as the bus plunged into the oppressive darkness of a tunnel, the three hags stirred. The woman in the rose dress rose, her voice surprisingly sharp and commanding. "Restroom," she rasped, her two companions echoing the word like a sinister chorus. They moved with a disturbing, unnatural fluidity, their eyes, now visible in the dim tunnel light, burning with an unnerving red intensity. They began slowly making their way towards the back of the bus.
Annabeth cursed under her breath. "Here, take my hat. They want you, Percy. Maybe you can get past them, get out of here, get help." She shoved the Yankees cap into my hand. She had a point. Distraction, misdirection. But a different idea, reckless and desperate, sparked in my mind.
"No," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but firm. I leaned in, quickly outlining my plan. It was insane, bordering on suicidal, but in this cramped metal tube hurtling through the city, we were running out of options. I could practically hear the gears in Annabeth's sharp mind whirring, processing the sheer audacity of my suggestion. Time was a luxury we didn't have. With a shared look of grim determination, they nodded, positioning themselves on either side of me. I pulled on Annabeth's cap, the familiar scent of lemon and old parchment filling my nostrils, and the world around me shimmered and dissolved into shadow. Invisible, I crept up the aisle, ducking into an empty seat just as the bus roared back into the daylight, emerging from the tunnel.
Sure enough, the Furies moved past my hiding spot, their bat-like noses twitching, sniffing the air, their crimson eyes scanning the rows of seats. A jolt of pure terror shot through me as one of them paused, her gaze lingering a moment too long on the empty space beside me. They knew something was off. But they kept moving, lumbering towards the back of the bus.
Now. It was now or never. Creeping up behind the last Fury, the one in the rose dress, I uncapped Riptide. The familiar weight of the celestial bronze sword sprang into my hand, growing with a soft shing into its full glory. I raised it, aiming for the Fury's back, ready to strike, when a hellish wail ripped through the air, pounding against my skull, sending shards of pain through my brain.
The Furies spun around, their forms shifting, solidifying. Gone were the old women. In their place stood grotesque winged creatures, their leathery skin the color of dried blood, their clawed hands now brandishing whips crackling with hellfire. Hideous beasts ripped straight from nightmares. "Where is he!?" one shrieked, her voice a grating rasp that echoed through the bus.
They lashed out with their fiery whips, tearing through the plush bus seats, the smell of burning fabric and singed plastic filling the air. Passengers screamed, scrambling away from the terrifying creatures. In the chaos, I darted forward, adrenaline surging, and plunged Riptide into the back of the Fury nearest to me. She shrieked, a truly earsplitting sound, and collapsed, dissolving into dust and vile-smelling smoke. Her demise drew the attention of her two remaining sisters, creating a split-second opening. Annabeth, impossibly brave, lunged forward, using the distraction to slash at the second Fury with her bronze knife, striking her in the side. The Fury crumpled, hissing. But Grover wasn't so lucky. The third Fury, her eyes blazing with rage, grabbed him, her claws digging into his arm. "WHERE IS HE?!" she roared again, her fiery whip lashing dangerously close to Grover's face.
I couldn't risk hitting Grover with Riptide. Thinking fast, propelled by pure desperation, I lunged for the steering wheel. With a brutal yank, I pulled it hard to the left. Pandemonium erupted. Screams filled the bus as we swerved violently, careening across lanes, horns blaring as we narrowly missed colliding with oncoming traffic. We blasted through red lights, the bus shuddering and groaning, heading inexorably towards the glint of water I could see in the distance – the East River.
Ignoring the terrified cries of the passengers, I wrestled with the emergency brake, yanking it with all my strength just as we reached the riverbank. The bus screeched, wheels locking, skidding sideways, then plunged into a shallow ditch with a bone-jarring crash. Passengers were thrown forward, a chaotic tangle of limbs and screams. Smoke began to curl from the engine compartment, and then flames erupted, licking at the front of the bus, likely ignited by a Fury's whip.
Chaos reigned. People surged towards the exits, a panicked stampede of screaming humanity, shoving and pushing their way out of the burning bus. Perfect. As the passengers evacuated in a frenzy, I flung off Annabeth's cap, invisibility fading, and rushed towards the Fury who had been attacking Grover. Incredibly, amidst the mayhem, Annabeth had somehow managed to scramble onto the Fury's back, clinging to its leathery wings, trying to wrestle it down.
I raised Riptide, ready to strike the final blow, when every hair on my neck stood on end. A wave of pure, primal dread washed over me. "Out! NOW!" Annabeth screamed, her voice drowned out by the screams of the fleeing passengers, but her frantic energy conveyed the message. Without hesitation, Annabeth leaped from the Fury's back, grabbing Grover's arm. Together, we scrambled out of the burning bus, leaving the inferno and the remnants of the Furies behind us, the roar of the flames swallowing the last vestiges of their hellish shrieks. We ran, not knowing where we were going, but knowing with terrifying certainty that we were far from safe.
Just as I jumped out of the bus, a massive lightning bolt struck the vehicle, igniting it in a fiery explosion. The blast sent a wave of heat rolling over me as I hit the ground, the sky flashing with electric blue. "Our stuff!" Grover shouted in disbelief, his eyes wide as he stared at the inferno. Everything we had packed for our trip, lost in an instant. Damn it. A horrendous screech echoed from the burning wreckage. "She's calling for reinforcements!"
We had to get out of there, fast. So we ran—through the pouring rain, our feet slipping on the muddy ground, the sound of the bus crackling behind us like some monstrous beast. Grover muttered under his breath about losing a perfectly good bag of tin cans, while Annabeth fell in line next to me. "Thanks for the save back there. And for not... dying."
"You're welcome," I replied, a hint of a smile creeping onto my face.
"It's just that if you had died, it would mean this whole thing would be over." Her voice grew softer, tinged with sadness at that revelation.
"You haven't left camp since you got there, have you?" I asked, half hoping she'd say no.
She nodded. "Camp Half-Blood is my home, but I never got to go out and explore the real world. To test myself, you know."
"Well, you're pretty good with that knife," I replied, trying to lighten the mood. "Plus, who else can say they gave a Fury a piggyback ride?"
She laughed, the tension easing between us, and we continued on our journey, the trees looming around us as the sun began to dip behind the horizon. Soon, colorful lights flickered ahead—a bizarre assortment of neon signs illuminating a shop filled with oddities: flamingos, bears, and a collection of what looked like random junk. The only place open for miles, and our stomachs were growling with hunger.
The entrance was at the back, which only added to the oddness of the place. It was even stranger inside, with highly detailed statues of people, satyrs, and animals frozen in expressions of terror. A chill ran down my spine, but my grumbling stomach drowned out the warning bells in my head. "Guys, come on, this place is freaking me out," Grover said, his eyes darting nervously from one statue to another. I had to agree, but my hunger was relentless.
"I smell monsters," Grover noted, eyeing one of the statues suspiciously. That was enough to snap me out of my food-focused daze.
"Your nose is still clogged from the Furies, goat boy. Besides, don't you smell that delicious scent?" I pressed on, and before I knew it, I was standing behind Annabeth as she knocked on the door.
A woman answered, draped in a long black gown that concealed her figure, save for her hands. A veil covered her face completely, adding to the air of mystery. With a Middle-Eastern accent, she spoke softly, "What brings you children here so late?"
"Umm, we got lost. Actually separated from our tourist group that came to visit New York City. But we smelled your food and couldn't help but come over," I lied smoothly, hoping she wouldn't see through my excuse.
"Oh, you poor children. Please come in! I'm Aunty Em," she said, her smile unsettling yet welcoming. She shuffled away from the door, beckoning us into the depths of her store.
As we entered, more statues lined the walls, their frozen faces haunting us as we walked past. Aunty Em led us to a dining area, and our stomachs growled louder in anticipation. We must have looked like foolish children, lured into a stranger's lair by the promise of food, but hunger had dulled our instincts.
"You have such lovely eyes, Perseus," Aunty Em said, glancing at me as she moved behind the counter to start cooking.
Wait—how did she know my name? I exchanged worried glances with Grover and Annabeth, who seemed too entranced by the promise of food to notice anything off.
"I'm just going to ask her what she's making. And tell her Grover over here is a vegetarian," I replied to Annabeth when she questioned my movement.
I approached Aunty Em cautiously, making sure my friends wouldn't overhear. "You can drop your act," I said quietly.
"Surely, I don't know what you mean," she replied, her voice sweet yet chilling.
"Cut the crap. The statues, the too-nice demeanor, and knowing my name before I even told you. It's all a little too convenient."
She paused for a moment, then resumed cooking, as if my words had barely registered. "You know, I actually feel sorry for you," I continued, trying to gauge her reaction.
"Sorry?" she echoed, her voice growing colder.
"Yep. You got punished for being in the wrong place with the wrong person. Then you were left alone and cursed because of someone else. None of this is your fault—or your sisters'."
At that, her expression hardened. "That's right. They deserve to suffer for what they did to me!"
In an instant, she ripped off her veil, revealing the horrifying visage of Medusa. Panic surged through me as I barely managed to avert my gaze in time to avoid her petrifying curse. Instinctively, I uncapped Riptide, swinging wildly in her direction as pots and pans clattered to the floor.
"Run! It's Medusa!" I yelled, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I tried to follow her into the maze of statues. The eerie silence of the store was broken by Grover's horrified scream.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the panicked bleating I'd heard moments before. Without thinking, propelled by pure instinct and adrenaline, I rushed towards the sound. The air grew thick with a strange, earthy smell, and the bleating intensified, punctuated by frantic thuds and sharp cracks. Rounding a dusty corner, I skidded to a halt, my breath catching in my throat. My eyes struggled to make sense of the chaotic scene unfolding before me.
Grover, bless his furry little hooves, was airborne. Not gracefully, mind you. He looked more like a brown, woolly projectile launched from a malfunctioning catapult. Blindfolded with what looked suspiciously like someone's discarded tunic, he flapped his arms with surprising force, hovering a good few feet above… Medusa.
Her serpentine hair writhed and hissed, each snake head a miniature fury of fangs and venomous intent. Even blindfolded, Grover managed to swing a hefty branch – probably torn from a nearby tree in his ascent – whacking it clumsily but effectively against Medusa's scaly scalp whenever he got close enough. It was a ridiculous ballet of panic and desperation, a chaotic dance of doom fought with a tree branch and sheer, goatish willpower.
Annabeth was nowhere to be seen. A cold dread washed over me, turning my stomach to lead. Annabeth, the strategist, the brains of our operation – gone?
"Grover!" I yelled, my voice cracking with a mix of fear and determination. He startled, nearly losing his already precarious balance mid-air, and then, bless him again, let out another panicked bleat in my direction. It was all the confirmation I needed. He needed help.
Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes tight, the world dissolving into a swirling blackness. It was terrifying, willingly plunging myself into blindness in the face of Medusa, but I had no choice. Drawing Riptide, the celestial bronze humming faintly in my hand, I joined Grover's chaotic fight. My sword felt heavy, a reassuring weight in the disorienting darkness. I moved forward, my senses heightened, listening to the rustle of Medusa's snakes, the frantic thud of Grover's branch, the subtle shifts in the air around me.
I slashed and stabbed blindly, aiming for the general direction of the monstrous hissing. Every swing was a gamble, a desperate prayer that I wasn't just chopping at empty air. I felt Grover's weight above me, the air displaced by his panicked flapping. He was still up there, still fighting. Our wild assault continued, a bizarre and erratic dance in the echoing cavern, a counterpoint to the silent, frozen figures that lined the walls around us.
With every blind movement, the unsettling feeling that had been nagging at me intensified. It was the same prickling unease, the same sense of being watched, that had haunted me since we entered this place. Someone, something, somewhere was stalking us. It was more than just Medusa's presence, more than the creepy atmosphere of her lair. It was a deliberate, unseen watcher, and the feeling was chillingly familiar, like a predator circling in the shadows. It coiled around my nerves, tightening with every second, raising the hairs on the back of my neck even with my eyes squeezed shut.
Instinct screamed. Jump back! My body reacted before my mind could process the command. I leaped backwards, stumbling over unseen debris, and a monstrous, ear-splitting screech ripped through the air, so close I could practically feel the vibrations on my skin. The stench of monster, acrid and reptilian, assaulted my nostrils. I wanted to open my eyes, to see what I was fighting, to understand the threat that had just been inches from my face. I couldn't risk it. I just couldn't trust myself to glance away, even for a split second.
Then, a calm, steady voice cut through the chaos. "It's okay, guys. I covered it. You can look now."
Annabeth. Relief flooded through me, so intense it was almost dizzying. Slowly, tentatively, I peeled my eyelids apart. Blinking against the dim light, I saw it. Medusa's head, or at least what I assumed was her head under the circumstances, was completely encased in a familiar grey material. Grover, still suspended a few feet in the air, slowly descended, his branch clattering to the ground beside him. He looked utterly bewildered and slightly green around the gills.
Annabeth walked over to me, her grey eyes sharp and assessing, and then, without a word, punched me hard on the shoulder.
"Ow! What was that for?" I yelped, rubbing the spot. The pain was surprisingly real, and strangely reassuring.
She rolled her eyes, a classic Annabeth expression that somehow managed to convey exasperation, fondness, and a hint of relief all at once. "That was for thinking we were gonna leave you, Seaweed Brain! Honestly, Percy, sometimes you're so…" she trailed off, shaking her head, words failing her.
Oh. Right.
"So, uh… what are we going to do now?" Grover chimed in, finding his voice again and wobbling slightly on his hooves as he approached. He looked at the veiled head with a mixture of apprehension and morbid curiosity.
Annabeth sighed, the exasperation returning full force. "We need to get out of here. And find a way to transport… her." She gestured towards the shrouded head with a disgusted flick of her wrist.
I ignored Annabeth's practical concerns for a moment, my mind already buzzing with a mischievous idea. "Actually," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face. "Grover, can you get me a box?"
He blinked at me, seemingly confused by the sudden shift in topic. "A… box? Like, a regular box?"
"Yeah, any kind of box will do."
Grover, ever eager to please, nodded and trotted off, disappearing behind a stack of petrified figures. Annabeth watched him go, then turned back to me, her eyebrows arched in a silent question.
"Why do you need a box? Her head is already covered," she asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "Are you planning something, Percy?"
I just smiled back at her, a wide, innocent smile that I knew didn't fool her for a second. "Maybe," I said, enjoying the way her eyes narrowed.
Grover reappeared a moment later, triumphantly brandishing a dusty, wooden crate that looked like it had once held some kind of exotic fruit. Perfect. We carefully, and with much suppressed gagging from Grover, placed Medusa's veiled head into the box. The weight was surprisingly substantial, even through the wood.
I grabbed a piece of crumpled parchment from my pocket, miraculously still intact, and a pen I always kept handy (you never knew when you needed to jot down a monster's weakness or a god's grocery list). On the parchment, I scribbled a short message.
I'll be seeing you soon.
Then, underneath it, with a flourish, I wrote the address: Olympus, Empire State Building, New York. I folded the note and taped it to the top of the box, right beside the veiled head. Finally, with a dramatic air, I placed the box in the nearest, most inconspicuous mailbox we could find – a battered metal thing perched precariously on a rusty post near the entrance to Medusa's lair.
Annabeth stared at me, her mouth agape, her usual composure completely shattered. "Are you INSANE!?" she finally exploded, her voice rising several octaves. "Percy! Are you actually sending Medusa's head to OLYMPUS? The gods will kill you! Have you even thought about that!?"
Grover, who had been watching the whole process with increasing wide-eyed horror, echoed her sentiment with a trembling bleat.
I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, though inside I was already picturing Zeus's face when he opened his mail. "Yep," I replied, grinning. "But it will be funny." And honestly, the thought of it, of the chaos and uproar Medusa's unexpected delivery would cause in the halls of the gods, made the potential celestial wrath almost… almost… worth it. Almost. We'd probably regret this later. But for now, in the dusty silence outside Medusa's lair, the sheer audacity of my prank felt intoxicatingly, hilariously right.