A quick note about languages:

I absolutely love languages, and I love to incorporate them in my writing, so here's the lowdown in RoC

So, historically, Saxons (Anglo-Saxons) speak Old English, especially once they settle in Briton and they became present England's predecessors essentially. Which kind of messes with the fact that they speak Old English and Annabeth and Percy would speak modern English, so nothing really lines up. For the sake of creative license, I am saying that the Saxons speak a legendary Ango-Frisian language that I am constructing out of Old English, Old Frisian, and modern day German. Albion speaks Albion or a Celtic language.

"Perseus."

Percy blindly felt along the mattress for blanket, although the movement was more of a twitch than anything. His right side was strangely chilled, but the bundle of warmth curled against his left was needling his subconscious back into slumber. His shoulder stung, creaking from having it tucked under his head for so long, but a distant memory of a certain blonde nestling up next to him told him it was better not to move.

So, his fingertips patted the oddly scratchy cotton for an extra layer, and his brain drifted back into an even wavelength. After all, he was nowhere near a morning person, and it was no doubt still morning. He just knew it.

"Perseus." The voice was persistent.

Percy almost opened his eyes. Annabeth knew that if she was hungry or demanded coffee, she could just go and scavenge whatever was in his pantry—his mom had thankfully given up on teasing him about their 'sleepovers' and had settled for amused glances and the occasional, painful joke. He cared deeply for Annabeth, but he drew a line at waking up before the third alarm.

Percy felt the bed dip under him, the source of delightful warmth shifting away and leaving a chilled ache in its wake. Maybe, he would get up with her after all—sitting on the fire escape with a steaming cup didn't sound too horrible.

"Awaken."

A scream tore through the air. It ripped through his sleep-addled mind and thrust him into consciousness like falling through a pond laced with ice. Percy shot up, eyes wide, hand automatically reaching for his nightstand where Riptide always rested. Except, instead of a crappy wooden stand that had seen better days, his fingers smashed into a wooden wall, and his shoulder collided with someone's face.

Annabeth's head snapped back, her jaw clicking shut. She tumbled off the edge of the cot, one hand clutching at her face, the other flailing madly to regain her balance.

Percy swore. He scrambled out of the bedding, which only now decided to lovingly embrace and entangle him, and rushed to catch her. His mind screamed at him maddeningly, furiously trying to play catch up with whatever the hell was going on. Their surroundings looked straight out of a movie—old and worn and low budget—but the air smelled genuinely stale and musty, like those old houses Annabeth insisted on visiting that one time in Massachusetts.

Hadn't he just been in his apartment in New York? Sleeping next to Annabeth and thinking about coffee. But then, there was a vague memory of falling across King Richard's Fair, that everyone had been taking way too seriously to be considered healthy.

Which had been the dream?

Annabeth tore away the thin curtains and stuck her head almost entirely out the window. She was trembling and blinking widely, an aftermath of experiencing the same rude awakening, and Percy remembered just why he had lurched to his feet in the first place.

A scream—young and high-pitched and terrified—came from somewhere below, but the growling and roaring eclipsed it short after, shaking the walls.

Percy fell still. He listened, counting the different calls and watching Annabeth as she slowly turned to him and met his gaze. Four distinct sounds, each one uncomfortably familiar, but only one caused the blood fade from Annabeth's face. Though his experiences were less harrowing than hers, Percy recognized it too.

A cyclops.

Percy and Annabeth stared each other in the eyes for only a moment before they surged into action. Percy even remembered to collect his sword, which still stubbornly refused to shrink back down into a pen. Annabeth, as always, miraculously had her dagger in hand without needing to unsheathe it. Each step seemed loud enough to alert the town to their movements, although they were probably the last thing on everyone's minds. More and more screams and yells had added to the cacophony of the monsters' roars.

Just as Annabeth and Percy had reached the main hall, a man—middle-aged and built like a mountain—nearly beheaded them with a meat cleaver. Alfred, the tavern's owner, lunged out from the kitchen, knife held high, eyes wide with panic, but froze before any damage was done. He nodded once and brushed past them, prying away the boards securing the doors. He only hesitated once the doors were open.

Townspeople, villagers, citizenry raced across the town square. Women latched onto children, practically dragging them into the various buildings, some of them hefting farm equipment that doubled as weapons. The men, who passed by, charged with purpose, armed with swords and scythes. A few were dragging already limp, scarlet bodies.

Alfred caught the arm of one boy racing past. "Gill, what is it? Where are they?"

Gill ripped his arm free. Red patches burned in his cheeks, tears threatened to fall, but the boy clenched his fists tightly to beat them back. "Englewood and the river. Dozens of 'em."

"Where's your mam?" Alfred reached for the kid again, glancing around as if he'd simply missed the woman.

Percy stepped around the pair, not waiting to hear Gill's answer. Dozens of them, presumably (hopefully) Saxons, were surrounding Baile-Avon, and they weren't alone. Percy swiped a hand through his hair, his breath catching in his throat. Monsters he could handle, but men were another matter. Celestial bronze couldn't harm mortals, and while he would be able to fight steel weapons without much worry, Annabeth would be completely exposed. No armor, no viable weapon, and men and monsters calling for their blood.

"—until we come for you." Alfred latched the Golden Oak's front doors despite boy's shrill protests and turned to the two foreigners were were not currently trying to kill his people. "This may not be your fight," he said, "but please. Help us."

Alfred paused long enough to incline his head, then snatched up his meat cleaver and dashed off, toward the river or the forest.

A hand gently caught Percy's arm. That was all it took to erase his worries, or at least push them into the background. Annabeth couldn't leave innocents to get hurt, not any more than Percy could, and the danger of it all only served to strengthen their resolve.

The forest laid to the West of Baile-Avon, a few cobblestone, dirt streets away from the town center. They ran past the few shops—a tailor's, a baker's, a legitimate blacksmith—and had the ominous dark woods in sight, when something blocked their path. A man. A giant. He lumbered toward them. His clothes hung ragged off his massive frame, his hair and beard filled gnarled and looking as if he'd picked a fight with a mountain. A tree in its own right was clenched in his meaty paws, his thunderous steps shaking the ground. His one brown eye narrowed as he scowled at his latest prey.

Barely a minute into the foray, and their first adversary turned out to be a monster. At least, Percy's life was predictable.

The cyclops hefted his tree trunk and limped forward with every intention of squashing the nuisances blocking his path. But then he faltered, sniffing the air. His nose twitched. The one eye flicked from Percy to Annabeth, and he grinned—or at least that's what Percy assumed he was doing. He curled back his lips, revealing a row of shattered, stained teeth.

"Hemitheoi."

The cyclops drew back his club and swung it for their heads. Percy rolled forward, the air whooshing above his head, and went straight for the monster's legs. The cyclops stumbled back and let loose a deafening roar, but Percy was already moving on, slashing more unguarded skin. He wanted to distract the monster, piss him off so Annabeth could deliver the final blow without too much trouble.

It would have worked, too.

Except when Annabeth was getting ready to play her part, a man charged at her from the side. A Saxon with his sword poised for a deadly strike. Percy screamed her name, but he was too far away to do any good. And there was a bloody one-eyed monster in his way.

His distraction cost him, and a meaty hand caught him in the face, swatting him away like a fly. Percy hit a wall with a groan, shaking his head to clear it. He watched through the giant's legs as Annabeth dodged and outmaneuvered the blatant strikes. Then she brought a bit of the 21st century to the fight, kicking him where it hurt. Percy knew she could handle herself, but it didn't stop him from stewing on the fact that her dagger was essentially useless and even a disadvantage.

"Thnesxov," garbled the cyclops, and he hefted the massive tree club over his head. Die.

Percy threw himself to the side, thrusting and slicing and rolling. The cyclops might be strong and tall, but he was slow. Percy's attacks did little more than piss him off, though a few well aimed slices slightly crippled his movements. The cyclops roared furiously and again tried to clobber his adversary to death. Predictably. Just as the monster swept the club for Percy's head, he slashed.

Riptide cut cleanly, effortlessly, through the monster's skin and bone. Something thudded at his feet, a steamy spray coated his face, and Percy thrust his sword once more. The agonized shriek ceased. The cyclops slid to the ground, motionless.

Nausea pushed at the back of Percy's throat. He'd killed dozens, if not hundreds, of monsters before, had dispatched those that had a more human appearance, and he'd done all of it without a second thought. But they had always disappeared into nothing, which apparently was the key to making it easier to swallow.

Now, staring down at the mutilated, bloody corpse, he felt revolted. The severed hand, as big as his face and covered in blood and dirt, laid a few feet away. Percy scrubbed the back of his hand against his face. It came back smeared with gold.

"Percy?"

Annabeth laid her hand gently on his shoulder, pulling his attention away from the grotesque sight. She looked unharmed, aside from sporting a split lip. Behind her, the Saxon was crumpled on the ground. His armor rose and fell with his faint breath. Her eyes scanned Percy as well before falling on the cyclops body, which also had failed to disappear.

"Why aren't they returning to Tartarus," she wondered. "I've only ever heard it take four minutes to dissipate, and that was the Crommyonian Sow, which is way bigger than a cyclops."

Percy shrugged helplessly. Even the other Clazmonian Sow had crumbled away before his eyes—luckily too because it had crashed somewhere in downtown Manhattan, and there was no way its corpse could have passed for modern art. Maybe it had to do with the failure of the Mist? His sword, Annabeth's dagger and cap, and the monsters were completely visible to the citizens of Baile-Avon, which implied that something was at work and messing with the veil between mundane mortals and the world of Greek mythology.

Not that right now was the time to debate the oddities of their situation.

Even though they'd vanquished that cyclops in particular, it didn't mean that they were in any less danger. From their position along the edge of town, they saw scant resistance against the invading Saxons. A group of maybe ten fully armed and armored men targeted any person they could find, whether that was men or women, armed or unarmed. Perhaps more distressing was the motley collection of monsters that were accompanying them. Cyclops, hellhounds, dracaenae, and even a harpy advanced on Baile-Avon, drooling and hissing and smiling.

"What do we do?" Percy asked. "Celestial bronze won't work on the Saxons, but I'm betting theirs are gonna work just fine against us."

"Go for the monsters?" Annabeth suggested. "But we can't just sit back and watch."

That was a given, but Percy was keenly aware that his invulnerability, however partial, didn't stretch to Annabeth. Not to mention that Percy had seen more than a few time travel movies and TV shows over the years. It never turned out well for the heroes once they came back from the past. "Okay, but—" he broke off as soon as he realized Annabeth had taken off for a group of women caught between a wall and a hard place, one full of scales and pointy teeth. "—what about not stepping on butterflies?" he yelled after her.

"Too late for that."

Percy glanced down at the dead cyclops and had to agree.

He surveyed the area again. They had to focus on the monsters and hope that Holden and the others could hold their own against the Saxons. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to being doing that well. Even without the added fear of the monsters, they would have struggled to hold their ground because many of them were dueling with farm equipment or swords that hadn't seen a whetstone in at least a decade. No armor, pitiful weapons, they really didn't stand a chance.

A piercingly high scream drew Percy's attention to the far right, although at first, he didn't see the source. Only a man standing in the field. A Saxon. His sword remained in its sheath, but the soldier was stalking toward something in the tall grass.

A man. A mortal.

"Screw it." Percy took off at a dead run and crossed the distance separating them within seconds. He barreled into the man with all his strength and launched him a few feet away. The Saxon's prey, a young girl who was at most ten years old, was on her back, her arms flung over her face. Apologizing silently, Percy pulled her up with as much gentleness and hurry as he could, but her feet refused to carry her weight. He held her closer, urging her to stand on her own. Instead, she latched onto his clothes desperately.

Percy's instincts screamed at him.

He threw both of them back just as gleaming metal sliced the very air where they'd been standing. Pushing the girl behind him, Percy leveled Riptide at the Saxon and felt a sense of grim pleasure at what he found. Getting thrown had dislodged the man's conical helm, and it was the exact Saxon from the day before. The one who had sicced a hellhound on that grieving father and left to a fate of being torn apart.

The Saxon recognized Percy too. He raised his sword challengingly. "I will enjoy killing you," he growled.

The girl whimpered and dug her tiny fingers into his shirt. Percy hesitated. He needed to get her out of the immediate area, as unwilling as she was to let go of him. She wouldn't be safe per se, but at least saf er. If she'd had the sense to run away from both the river and the woods, then maybe she'd have the same self-preservation to find somewhere else to hide.

Without moving his eyes away from the Saxon, Percy untangled the girl's hands and nudged her away. He kept his blade locked in a ready position. Just so because the Saxon didn't wait for his supposed victim to escape. He leapt forward and thrust his sword at Percy's gut.

Percy dodged the blow and shoved the girl back toward the town, and as bad as he felt for the roughness, she'd be alive to be angry about it later. He circled away to get some distance, twirling his sword. His adversary smiled. A row of chipped, yellowed teeth glared at him, a horror on the same level as the cyclops.

Percy couldn't help himself. He grimaced and said, "ugh. Ever heard of a dentist?"

The Saxon growled and lunged, and Percy, once again, avoided the attack. He jumped out of the way, and the man followed. The sword gleamed as it fell in its deadly arc. Percy felt the flush of wind graze his arm as he sidestepped again, keeping his eyes on his opponent's shoulder while his periphery tracked the rest of the arm, wrist, and, by extension, the sword.

The Saxon was well-trained—that much was evident in the way his movements flowed from one attack to the next—but he was getting annoyed and allowing that vexation to impact his movements. His strokes were growing bigger, wider, and more aggressive, the tip biting into the soft ground and showering them in clumps of dirt and marl.

Although he knew it would work, Percy's tactic of avoiding sword play was, likewise, wearing on him. His hand itched to fight with his sword. But no matter how tedious it was to wait for a solution to present itself, it wouldn't do him any good when the blade passed right through the Saxon and his mortal steel.

"Fight me, you fǽge!" the Saxon spat.

He lashed out with fervor, and Percy danced out of the way, only to see the perfect opportunity. He caught the Saxon's arm on the back swing and struck the man, fist closed around Riptide's grip. Once, twice. The man slumped slightly in Percy's hold, stumbling—

Then something ricocheted off Percy's gut. Belatedly, he realized it was a cheap shot; Percy'd seen the suave move in every training montage ever—slipping a knife past a person's defense to triumphantly point out that both parties would be dead—and yet he'd still fallen victim to it.

Even worse, within a blink of an eye, a final blow was coming straight for his head, the metal refracting the early morning light. Percy reacted on instinct. His blade came up and positioned itself to absorb the strike, however pointlessly. He readied himself for the unfortunate headache about to come.

Instead, their blades sang. A jolt rushed down his arm. His breath caught at the sight of Riptide holding a completely mortal, steel weapon at bay.

The Saxon smiled. "Lætemest."

Percy stared dumbly. Had he been wrong about celestial bronze and its limitations this whole time? He'd assumed that because it couldn't touch mortals at all, like skin and bones and clothes included, that the same would be true for their weaponry. It wasn't as if he'd had the opportunity to test that theory (aside from that one time on the subway, but at the time Percy hadn't even contemplated challenging the girl to a duel).

Percy jerked his sword and dislodged them, forcing the Saxon back a few steps. He knew he would have to end this soon, but how was the question. Knocking the man unconscious was the most obvious, but tedious. Getting close without him attempting (and failing) to slice him to pieces would just be annoying and a waste of a good T-shirt.

The Saxon flicked his hand absently, shedding little flecks of red before scowling something nast—Hang on. Red? Percy found his eyes drawn to the oddly increasing trail of red making its way down the man's hand and dripping into the grass. He gazed down at the edge of his own sword. More red.

What?

Percy could hurt—kill—this man. Celestial bronze against a seemingly mortal human.

How?

The fury and humiliation were clear in the Saxon's eyes. Veins pulsing, nose flaring, he chambered his sword and took one menacing step before his body shuddered, and he collapsed. His body thudded mutely against the soft ground, a black shaft lodged at the base of his neck. An arrow.

Frantically, Percy searched around for the new threat, sword raised, and locked eye contact with a young man from behind a crossbow. He stared intensely back, sizing Percy up and deciding whether he was friend or foe, then gave the slightest inclination of the head. Then he tossed aside the bow, drew a brilliant, gleaming sword from its scabbard, and charged.

Four more men appeared out of nowhere, weapons already drawn, wearing the same metallic shirts and flowing red capes as the man with the crossbow, and stormed toward the few skirmishes taking place on this side of the town. They paid no more attention to Percy than the first cursory glance, and instead Saxons fell to their blades within seconds of engaging them. To say the invaders were shocked was an understatement. Suddenly, they were no longer preying on weak, under-prepared villagers but a handful of…knights?

Percy stared after them, mouth open enough to attract flies, for a few seconds too long. He shook himself and backed away from the Saxon's corpse, exhaustively avoiding looking at it. The day he grew comfortable with the sight of gore and death was the day he pitched himself off the nearest cliff.

Percy raced off in the direction of the five knights, and everything that followed after was lost to a sea of an adrenaline haze. He no longer had to worry about engaging with Saxons and their weapons, taking on anyone and anything in his way that posed a danger. Thinking back on it later, Percy would remember flashes of reptilian scales, hoarse cries of fury and pain, the beating of wings and claws against his face. He knew he had passed Annabeth at some point, caught the graceful movement of another bronze blade out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn't sure where that had been. All he knew was she had been in one piece at the time.

It wasn't until he lopped off the head of a snake-lady and came face to face with nothing but a blood-strewn wall that he realized why no one had stepped up to bat. No one was left. His conscious mind told him that the monsters were dead, starting to decompose right next to their human counterparts, but his adrenaline-controlled body trembled for another opponent.

Gradually, cries of distress broke through his trance. Grief, pain, shock, the air was full of it. The entire town stank of iron and ichor, ruddy water with golden veins pooling along the ground. Percy felt sick. He ripped up some dried grass and scrubbed it along Riptide's edge until clumps of dirt and ichor crumbled from the metal. None of it was red, which he hoped meant he hadn't lost his senses completely and butchered any humans alongside the monsters. Percy looked around.

"Annabeth?" he yelled. It was lost among the cries of everyone else searching for a loved one. "Annabeth?!"

Percy wandered toward the far side of Baile-Avon, where the buildings tapered away near the bank of the river, searching as he went. The villagers who had taken refuge during the fight were beginning to trickle out from their hideaways, many of them carrying piles of cloth and jugs of, presumably, water. They moved through the town and attentively checked every person they came across, offering food and basic medical attention. The little boy Gill had escaped from the boarded-up tavern, it seemed, and was decidedly attached to one of the knights, an enormous guy with a sleeveless shirt.

"Annabe—" Percy broke off as soon as he saw her.

She was kneeling in front of an older man, her back to Percy, wrapping a cloth expertly around his arm. The man's face was pinched tightly in that pale, twisted expression people made when they were trying to hide how much pain they were truly in. Blood already soaked through the cotton bandages, staining it faster than Annabeth could wrap.

She was so intent on the task at hand that she didn't even twitch when Percy laid a hand on her shoulder. Her whole frame was noticeably trembling. A few new cuts littered her hands, a bruise at her jaw just beginning to form, but otherwise, Annabeth seemed unharmed.

"You okay?" Percy asked, though his eyes were on the man, who had fisted a hand against his forehead, oblivious to the world around him.

Annabeth blinked then nodded slowly. "He should be fine," she stated. "As long as it doesn't get infected. It's not deep, just long." Finished with her work, she scrubbed her hands in the dirt as best she could to rid them of the blood. "Are you okay?"

Percy shrugged. Physically, he would be unharmed—downright unscathed, immaculate, or whatever you wanted to call it. Visually, he wasn't too sure. There was a stiffness, stickiness, pulling at the skin on his face and arms, which he knew full well was both mortal and immortal blood, though there was very little he could do about it without dunking full body into the river. His shirt, a crappy T-shirt he'd one from a bet against one of the Stoll brothers, was ripped in so many places, it was hardly salvageable. His jacket wasn't faring that much better. Although at least, neither his shirt nor pants looked to be in danger of falling off completely. That was something.

"I've had worse," he answered.

Annabeth hummed, and it was obvious that her attention was elsewhere. Percy wanted to tell her about his discovery about celestial bronze, but now was neither the time, nor the place. Even though the old man seemed to sway with waves of blood loss infused unclarity, the topic of magical metal and mortals might catch his attention.

"Percy! Annabeth!"

Holden appeared from within the confines of Baile-Avon and jogged toward them. Despite an undercurrent of grief and pain, a tightness to his features, he was grinning. He clapped Percy on the shoulder proudly, still vibrating with the energy and fear from the fight. "They came!" he cried. If he hadn't had stated it so happily and so wondrously, Percy would have assumed he was talking about the Saxons. "Niall only left this morning!"

"Who came?" Annabeth asked, but the answer presented itself in the shape of five knights methodically patrolling the last bit of Baile-Avon, checking for any surviving monsters and Saxons. At the head of them was the blond man with the gleaming sword.

He was older than Percy had originally thought, probably five or so years older than himself, and built like a warrior. He carried himself perfectly at ease under the weight of the chainmail and bits of armor, although his face how not at ease he was with the situation. The knight called over his shoulder, staring down at a hellhound's corpse, and a villager crouched down to meet the beast at eye level and poked one of its great paws.

"Who are they?" Annabeth asked, and yet again, no one answered her.

Holden had slipped away without a word and was approaching the group of well-armed knights. Percy was too far away to hear anything that was being said, though he could imagine it was along the lines of 'thanks for coming to our rescue, my liege'—or however you were supposed to address knights and noblemen. Holden gestured broadly to the town and then to the corpses of monsters and men strewn about, whilst the cavalrymen shared a universal expression—dismay tinged with disgust.

"What do we do now?" Percy asked Annabeth, grinding the dirt under his heel. "Like, we could probably stay here, but…"

"But it's not going to help us figure out what's going on," she finished. "Though I'm not sure anywhere else is going to be better."

Percy gnawed on the inside of his cheek absently. Holden was still carrying on a conversation with the knights, although the five of them seemed to be more concerned with the size of the monster at their feet, and the villager, who had previously been prodding at it with the tip of a sword, was now staring directly at Percy and Annabeth. They were obviously a sight to behold: splattered in golden blood as if someone had mistaken them for a canvas, tattered clothes that was more form fitting than anything from before the 1900s, and an lost sort of awkwardness as they just stood there out of the way. Percy would have stared too, if it were him.

But the man was looking at them with more than just curiosity. His blue eyes were burning with confusion and suspicion as he basically stared through the two of them, like he could actually read their minds. Although he was dressed like your average joe—almost like the village idiot in its simplicity—he seemed comfortable around the knights, joining in on the discussion when someone nudged his shoulder.

The blond knight seemed to notice their oddity as well. Holden followed their gaze, realization flitting across his face, and he beckoned Percy and Annabeth over. Once they were within earshot, he said, "Your Majesty, these are the two travelers I mentioned before. Percy and Annabeth. They're the first ones I've seen successfully kill a—a hellhound."

Percy fought the urge to wince. The statement, while meant as a praise or thanks, only served to make the non-knight—was he a squire? —more suspicious. It was practically pouring off him in waves, except no one else seemed to notice it or was bothered by the total unfriendliness.

"A hellhound?" questioned Your Majesty, considering both teenagers in front of him. "You're familiar with these beasts?"

Annabeth gave a curt nod.

"And those other monsters? One-eyed giants, and snake- and bird-women?" asked one of the other knights.

"We've—fought them before. All three of them. Cyclopes, dracaenae and harpies." If it was strange that a girl had both addressed the men and admitted to fighting unimaginable monsters, the knights didn't show it. Maybe sexism and misogynistic prejudices weren't a thing in this part of feudal England.

"Well, I thank you for protecting my people." The overlord/noble/king guy inclined his head, then said something that took Percy completely by surprise, which was impressive given the four years of continuous bombshells dropped on him. "I am Arthur, King of Camelot. I am in your debt."

Annabeth hummed. "You're—" she cleared her throat and tried again. "You're King Arthur." Her gaze shifted to the five men in chainmail. "And the Knights of Camelot." Her voice was notably tighter and squeakier than usual.

One of the knights, with long hair and a devilish smile that nearly made Percy's eyes roll out of their sockets, reached out and kissed Annabeth's hand. Percy scoffed; how chivalrous. "Sir Gwaine, at your service."

Annabeth extracted her hand, suddenly less impressed. The three other knights followed suit, albeit with less flirtation on their part, and that was how Percy was standing before Sir Percival, Sir Elyan, and Sir Mordred of the Round Table. They were nothing as he had expected; the drawings and various depictions over the years held nothing to them in real life. Especially Percival, who literally towered over the rest of them and apparently whose biceps were simply too large to be restrained.

Percy felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He didn't have to search long for the cause: the knight who'd called himself Mordred. Mordred stared at him unblinkingly, unnervingly, the pressure of the gaze almost tangible. It set Percy's teeth on edge, his skin tingling with energy, as if he'd gone and stuck his fingers into a wall socket. Percy met the gaze evenly.

He recognized the name—anyone familiar with the story of King Arthur would nine out of ten times recall the incestual son that ends up murdering half of Camelot (especially since he's a favorite villain in all the movies). But looking at both this Mordred's age and how Arthur was, at the most, thirty, there was no way he was the king's son. Maybe he was some other version of Mordred, or maybe the stories got it wrong altogether (which was not all that shocking given Percy's experience with recorded myths and legends).

But the question was, why did he and this other guy find Percy's and Annabeth's presences so offensive?

"Are these the only Saxons you've seen?" asked Arthur. "The same beasts?"

Holden took a moment to take in the number of monsters and Saxons he'd passed on his way through the town. There had to have been around twenty men, ten or so monsters, all of them dead. It was better not to think about it, which were Annabeth's exact sentiments. As everyone's attention rested on Holden and his summary of the past few weeks, Annabeth tugged on Percy's arm, leading him a few steps away.

She watched their interaction silently, as the young villager pointed up the river and explained about large groups of Saxon nomads passing through before it hit a boiling point. Annabeth turned to Percy, blowing out her cheeks slowly.

He offered her a half-smirk. "Well, this is different."

Annabeth rolled her eyes. "And yet for us, it somehow fits." She paused. "I think we should go with them."

"Spend some more time with Sir Gwaine," Percy teased, holding up his hands in surrender when she quirked her brow in a way that promised trouble. "You think us being here has something to do with Camelot?"

"You don't?"

Percy shrugged helplessly. "I literally have no idea what to do right now. Usually, my plans involve poking the bear until it pokes back. Most often with a row of very pointy teeth."

Annabeth shook her head, biting back a smile. "If anything, we might run into Merlin. Maybe he can help us."

Percy's eyes widened. How could he forget about Merlin! Literally the best part of the Once and Future King had been the old wizard zapping a kid into all kinds of different animals. Then a realization hit him. "You don't think he'll try to turn us into a squirrel or something? 'Cause we get enough of that with Mr. D…"

Annabeth laughed. "So, to Camelot?"

"To Camelot."

When Percy had asked to accompany them to Camelot, it hadn't computed that they would be walking the entire way. According to the knights—the actual Knights of Camelot—the journey would the rest of the day to reach the citadel. Maybe longer since their pace was that much slower, as they were not only giving their horses a rest, but also scouting for any potential Saxon adversaries along the way. The knight, Sir Elyan, had offered to stay behind in Baile-Avon until a patrol set out from Camelot to ensure any surviving Saxons didn't enact revenge.

The hours passed tediously slow and agonizingly quiet, as everyone was listening for anyone hiding in the trees, ready to take travelers unaware. It was especially painful for Annabeth, who was practically simmering with unasked questions. Percy had slipped his hand in hers in an effort to help restrain any inquiries that could potentially reveal their time-traveling, storybook adventure, and she had yet to let go.

While it was boring, Percy actually enjoyed Englewood Forest. It felt so much like the woods at camp—clean and pure, the air so thick and natural that it sat heavily in his lungs. It had warmed up significantly since they set out from Baile-Avon, so much so that Percy shed his jacket and Annabeth resorted to draping her cloak over her arm. Which was probably for the best; her turning invisible randomly would be really hard to explain.

By the time they stopped for dinner and a quick rest, it was early evening, rays of sunlight filtering through the trees more and more as they got closer to the edge. The squire, whose name Percy still didn't know (and it had long since passed the point where it was not awkward to ask), immediately started preparing a stew, peering over at the two demigods as if they wouldn't notice.

Annabeth settled in next to Percy, offering a smile that morphed into a bemused frown. She snagged at a spot in his T-shirt questioningly, almost deepening the hole where the Saxon had managed to stab him with a knife. He could probably fit three fingers in it easily. Percy shrugged and pulled her cape across his stomach.

"Fixed," he proclaimed, and Annabeth tugged it back with a snort.

Arthur dropped down across the fire, having unsaddled his horse and given it some food and drink. "So, Percy, Annabeth, where are you from?"

The other knights settled in around the camp and looked eager for the answer, more eager, that is, than for the stew now being passed around. Gwaine took a swig from his waterskin then commented, "your accents are really strange. Almost hard to understand, but you sound fluent."

Percy was tempted to say America, just to see what kind of reaction he would get, but Annabeth beat him to the punch. "We are fluent," she frowned. Though fluent in what, that was to be determined—old English, Camelotish, Celtic? "And we're from Hellada. It's—"

"To the East," the squire finished, narrowing his eyes over the edge of the pot. When everyone, including Annabeth and Percy stared at him, he added, "where those monsters came from. Gaius found a journal that mentioned one-eyed beings from Hellada."

Percival grimaced. "And you didn't think to tell us this before?"

The squire scoffed helplessly and waved his ladle about, sending bits of scalding stew every which way. "It's not like it would have helped anything."

Arthur snorted, swishing his stew about suspiciously. "It might not have helped you, Merlin, but for those of us going up against them, any knowledge might have been welcome."

Percy, who had thrown caution to the wind and shoved the largest bite of stew he could fit into his mouth, choked. Annabeth clapped him on the back, disguising the fact that she looked just as surprised and was fighting the urge to examine the young and beardless squire properly.

Percy coughed the pain, sure that at least a few carrots had made it into his nostrils. "Sorry," he croaked. "Hot."

Annabeth stabbed her spoon into her bowl repeatedly, trying to seem casual and disinterested before asking, "Merlin. Is that a common name in Camelot?"

Merlin blinked at her. "No?"

"Huh," she shrugged nonchalantly. "Just wondering."

From the way Merlin was now fixated on them, Percy really hoped this wizard didn't decide to turn them into squirrels and cook them in the next stew. Just their luck that the one person who was capable and powerful enough to send them home, or fix whatever this was, looked like they wanted to trample them with a horse. Great.

Percy tried to catch Annabeth's eye, blinking through the tears and remembering how to breathe properly, but she seemed to be avoiding that entirely. She was set on remaining as casual as possible, even if it was to the detriment of the act. Luckily, no one else seemed bothered or confused by the sudden lack of conversation. The other knights spooned bites of stew into their mouths contentedly, the dulled thud of wooden spoons against wooden bowls, the crackle of the fire, and soft nickering of the horses filling the silence.

"So, what brings you to Camelot?" Percival inquired around a sizeable bite.

Percy swallowed purposefully before grumbling, "seeing where life takes us." Maybe he was a little bitter about some immortal playing skipping stone with his life again.

"Traveling," Annabeth amended, nudging Percy's arm pointedly. She nibbled cautiously at the edge of her spoon. The stew wasn't horrible, but it certainly wasn't up to par with the food at camp, and Percy was almost too afraid to ask what the dried meat had once been. Squirrel, his mind chanted. "But when we saw people getting hurt, we couldn't just sit by."

"Do Helladan women usually train to fight?"

Annabeth's icy glare was enough to make Gwaine hold his hands up placatingly. She righted herself and said, "Spartan women do. Same with Amazons, Cretians, Aeaeans."

"I did not mean offense. I have seen many good women fight, our own queen has taken up the sword in the past, but it's not the norm."

Annabeth flushed, the dimming light casting her face darker than it would be normally. She allowed a spoonful of carrots and broth and questionable meat plop back into the bowl. "I didn't mean to snap. But yes, some Helladan women train, some don't. Percy and I have been training for years to fight monsters like these."

Percy felt a flicker of approval as the other men nodded and accepted it as fact; except, he watched as Mordred caught Merlin's eye. It could have been something completely innocent, but even without Merlin's unwarranted suspicion and Mordred's literary fate, Percy sensed there was more going on below the surface.

They finished dinner soon after and set off again. Thankfully, as the darker the woods became, the less keen Percy was to spend the night there. His and Annabeth's blood would be enough normally to attract any monsters nearby. Now, with them overly enthusiastic and ravenous for any human flesh, it was literally taunting Fate. And as the sun set, it took the warmth with it.

Mordred and Merlin walked behind Percy and Annabeth, always keeping them in sight, as if they were about to launch themselves at the king and baptize him as a Julius Caesar. Gradually, the trees fell away to open fields and meadows. Miles of green and yellow grass, stretching over hills and fells. A defined break in the meadows was carved out of dust and stone, marked by centuries of horses and men. The path they were currently on joined in, among dozens of others, all heading in one direction.

There standing out among the dimming sky was a grand citadel, fortified by massive walls of stone and clay. The gatehouse remained open, torches lit in each of the windows lining the rampart. Every once in a while, the flames flickered and vanished, a human shaped figure passing in front of it. Gleams of light refracted off of spears and armor. An entire city laid within those walls, a legendary keep with a fabled queen and mythic round table.

Percy didn't realize he'd stopped walking until a chestnut mare butted him in the back. Lovingly, he was sure. He stroked its forehead absentmindedly, taking in all bits and pieces of Camelot, but the real sight was when he turned to (needlessly) point out the city to Annabeth. Her face was frozen, lost between amazement, wonder, curiosity, childish giddiness. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyes slowly scanning the architectural features of such a castle. When she noticed Percy's attention, Annabeth smiled with a moment of pure bliss.

Percy slipped his arms around her and kissed her temple. "Welcome to Camelot, Wisegirl."

Morgana threw the heavy coverings to her tent out of her way with little patience, thoroughly unsurprised by who she found standing in the center. He had a habit of appearing more often than the others and was significantly less pleasing to deal with. The only consolation was it was this man and not the silent one who followed him around, acting as a second shadow. That is, if they had shadows to begin with.

The man was the paragon of a warrior. Built for battle with his enormous stature, he held himself as if someone was about to attack at any moment. Morgana was glad he had finally decided to wear an appropriate amount of clothing this time around, as opposed to when he first appeared, leaving very little up to the imagination. Presently, he looked like any other Saxon, garbed in tunics and leather jerkins that were far too mortal for his reality. It seemed that today was one of his better days; his form flickered only slightly in the candlelight, a soft white aura surrounding him entirely to give a solid appearance. Vaguely, Morgana wondered how many he had slaughtered in order to obtain it.

"Kratos," she greeted. He didn't react, too entranced by the object that sat in the center of the table.

The object in question was a stone, rough and shattered from having been ripped out from the deep within the Earth. The mundane grey rock, however, was only a part of it, a crystal hiding inside. Streaks of brilliant greens, reds, and blues burned across the white surface as it seeped out of the stony confines. It was small enough to fit within the palm of her closed fist, and yet it was more powerful than anything she'd cast before.

Outside, the camp bustled with activity and noise despite the late hour. Men shouted back and forth in a mix of Albion and the Saxon's guttural take on language. The ringing and clanging of metal on metal was annoyingly present as the soldiers trained and competed with one another, something Morgana would have to address if they kept it up for much longer. Saxons had never been her favorite to deal with, although it helped that their goals were somewhat aligned. The horses and various livestock that accompanied the army chittered endlessly and uneasily, which was to be attributed to the very man in her presence. She knew the animals could sense his power, pulsating frightfully with every breath he took. Still, er was weaker than he could be. At least, so she assumed.

"Where are the others?" she asked as she strode across the dingy room. She poured herself a reasonable amount from her wineskin and settled back into her makeshift thrown.

"It is still too small," Kratos stated, as if he hadn't heard her at all.

Morgana resisted the urge to roll her eyes and swirled her wine disinterestedly. Ever since his arrival, he elected to forget who held the power in this world. He may have been indomitable in Hellada, or whatever Mountain it was he came from, but his era had long since passed. It was Morgana who had summoned him, and he was there at her behest. Without her power and gracious support, he and his siblings would be lost to the ethers, waiting eons for someone to call them forth once again. They would be worth the trouble, however, if the effort put into maintaining their feeble hold on this plane was anything to go by.

Morgana regretted that the man was so tight lipped when it came to where he and the others were tucked away when not corporeal; she wondered if their Otherworld was the same as hers, and if so, whether Morgause was suffering the same torment Kratos spoke of.

"Give it time," she dismissed with a flick of her hand. "We are only just beginning—"

"We don't have time!" He slammed his fist against the table, sending rippling waves of power cascading out from him. The supports to her tent shuddered precariously. His eyes burned white with fire as he snatched up the crystal and brandished it in her direction. "The Red Moon approaches, and this,"—it looked nothing more than a pebble in his hand— "has barely enough strength to summon a Fury's shadow!"

Morgana swallowed back the fear lodged in her throat. His anger may have afforded him strength, but the longer he stayed there and the more he interacted with this world, the weaker he became. She, on the other hand, was a priestess of the Old Religion. This was her realm. She fixed him with a scowl and spat, "you forget yourself, Kratos. Do not speak to me as if I am your servant. As if I am a fool."

Kratos met her gaze evenly and, ever so reluctantly, dipped his head in apology. He set the crystal on smaller side table with more care and control than Morgana thought him capable of. The original alter for the stone laid shattered at his feet.

"I know we are running out of time, but unless you plan to slaughter my entire kingdom, we will continue as we agreed. My men are spreading out along the countryside, and it is only a matter of time before we have enough to satisfy our needs."

Kratos paused, tilting his head and looking at the far corner as if someone else stood there. He did this often: gazing over Morgana's shoulder or off to the side and reacting as one would when carrying on a conversation. Except no one was ever there. No one ever called out from the shadows, and he never vocally responded.

Every once in a while, Morgana swore she saw a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, an echo of someone or something, but even after casting an incantation to reveal hidden entities, nothing ever appeared.

Kratos bowed his head and smiled wolfishly. "You are right, farmakis. My apologies. You understand, me and my siblings are anxious to be whole again. We have been lost for so long."

Morgana choked back the sour bite of jealousy and longing for her sister. The fury and hatred, however, was left unbridled. She smiled. "Fear not, Kratos. We will soon have all we need. Arthur Pendragon's Camelot will fall to ashes, and my kingdom will rise to take its place."

Attick Greek:

ἡμίθεος – hemitheos (hemitheoi pl.) – demigod

θνῄσκων – thnesxov (imp.) – to die

φαρμακίς – farmakis – witch, sorceress

Old English:

fǽge – pr. fy-geh – coward

Lætemest – lah-teh-mest – at last, finally