A few days had slipped by before he even noticed. Without clocks or other modern methods of telling time, Percy found that time was near non-existent in Camelot. It passed both mindbogglingly fast and curiously slow. One moment, a servant would be waking him for the morning meal and then the day would tick away, full of excitement and new discoveries, until nightfall, when everything just stopped. Torches, it seemed, only helped so much.

The first day was a complete dream. It was not only mind-rattling and a bit disconcerting to find themselves in the castle, but within the secure walls and surrounded by the blissfully unaware of what plagued the countryside. For once, it was nice, and certainly entertaining, to live out an adventure game that was geared toward his untimely, gruesome death. It was a dream in that nothing felt like reality. Percy supposed that was what happened when you woke up in a fictional country.

Percy would have thought living in a legitimate, honest-to-God castle would be amazing, but after the second day, he was starting to miss the little things. Not computers or phones and the like—he was still reluctant to use them more than necessary, what with them being a beacon for monsters and everything—but those wonderful modern developments that made life that much easier and had been woefully taken for granted.

Mainly, showers. Percy was certain he smelt worse than a neglected stable, and a few splashes of water wasn't enough to remedy that. It was also entirely possible the thick layer of leather and method of beating the dirt out of laundry weren't helping matters.

Also, plumbing. Gods, he missed in-door plumbing.

Then there were the servants. Everyone (the chambermaids, the tailors, the waiters, the whatever-needs-to-be-done workers) treated him and Annabeth nicely—like inauthentically-sickly sweet kind of nice—and catered to their every need, following some code of conduct that stated any guest was a royal guest. Luckily, his and Annabeth's code of conduct had been easy enough to follow. No killing, no modern references, no legend talk.

It was helped that the only interaction he had with people was in passing. The older woman making his bed had been more inclined to suggest he try to sneak by the kitchens to sample a pastry than question Percy about his whereabouts over the last week. Even the first night's meal with the king had been more for food than conversation, given how exhausting it was to go from an intense battle to walking the day away.

In the days that followed, the Knights of the Round Table became too occupied to deal with their guests, between patrolling and fortifying the citadel, and King Arthur had been holding nonstop military counsels or whatever it was that kings did. So, while Annabeth had predictably and adorably gone straight to committing everything (the castle's design, the differences between reality and fiction, and really any and everything) to memory, Percy chose to wander the halls. It became something of a ritual, when reality had truly set it that they were there for the foreseeable future.

As they weren't confined to their quarters and had no obligations, might as well make their impromptu temporal voyage worth the trip.

On the third day, sometime after breakfast and before lunch, Percy once again set out from his 'chambers' and wandered around aimlessly, naming and predicting every room he passed. He had gotten pretty good at it too, although granted, he wasn't exactly sure if he was really memorizing the layout, or if the odds were just stacked in his favor.

As he walked, Percy drew his hand along the cool stones that sweated with the previous night's chill, tracing the clay indentations and chips that littered their surfaces. Scores gauged deep into the brick, like a history book written into the walls of the castle. He couldn't imagine why some random third floor wing would have the telltale marks of a battle, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

A lustrous suit of armor, standing tall and proud, broke the monotonous stone wall, flashing with the light of the sun and the flicker of a torch. Percy stepped in close the metal and watched the convex shape distort his face into something both elongated and rotund. Unable to resist, he grinned and flicked the hollow breastplate.

Then swore when the entire suit sang with discordance and rattled and echoed and trembled.

Before he could even think of catching it, the entire left half crashed to the floor, and a gauntlet, vambrace, gardbrace, rerebrace, any and every type of brace Percy could imagine danced across the stones to their own cacophonous music. And to top it all off, the helmet decided to join the fray and hopped away, its forked visage mocking him as it rolled.

Percy couldn't help but just stand and watch as the last bit of circling metal collapsed into a vortex and fell still. And finally, there was silence.

Blissful silence.

Percy stood there and waited for one person to come running. There was no way that went unnoticed. Someone had to have heard and thought that someone had fallen victim to a heart attack, that a servant tripped and maimed themselves on the cutlery they'd been carrying, or even that some really poorly skilled ninja had had a run-in with an unmanned suit of armor.

And yet no one came.

He chanced hesitating a moment longer to glance up one end of the hallway, then down the other. Still, no one appeared. Silently slinking over to the first fallen scrap, Percy scooped it up and examined the piece. Perhaps a little scratched but not too worse for wear, he shrugged it off.

"Looks more authentic this way, anyways."

Percy snatched up the next piece, then another and another, until he had a deceivingly heavy collection of medieval armor. Giving the corridor one last look, he emptied his arms into the empty human-shaped container and hovered before the remaining two thirds that had yet to topple. Other than towering to the side, which to be fair could be an optical illusion, it looked perfectly acceptable. Save for one final touch. Percy delicately laid the helmet back in its proper place.

"See?" he muttered to himself. "Good as new."

Tucking his hands securely under his arms, he slipped away, a picture of sheepish innocence. To his credit, the next time he came across another suit, Percy refrained from even touching it and, instead, peered out the octagonal window at its back. A beautiful, speckled roof of every shade of green imaginable stretched far out into the horizon, where a wall of white and tan mountains suddenly rose up to meet the sky. Little flickers of red and yellow still stained the forest's perfection, but they were few and far between. Judging from the height of the tallest trees, it was ages old already. Birds, mere specks in the sky, flew overhead, riding the cool breeze.

From this side of the castle, there was no view of the city itself, but Percy could imagine the clay and wooden roofs that wove carefully around dirt roads and open market squares. There had been the beginning of a farmer's market that first evening they arrived, and more than likely, it would have grown into something any New Yorker would drool over. Annabeth had mentioned wanting to visit the lower town one of these days—before all hell broke loose and she lose her chance to—and Percy found himself considering joining her.

If he ever found her again, that is.

With that, Percy set off down the corridor again as he tried to recall where he was. When he passed a heavy, oak door, he stopped and pressed his ear against the wood. No sound came from inside.

"'Nother bedroom," he predicted as he pushed it open and cheered. It was, in fact, an empty chamber, complete with a canopy bed and dresser. Empty and yet still immaculately cleaned and cared for. He latched the door and kept going.

Percy turned a corner and came across an open archway, one that he had never seen before. He glanced back the way he'd come, a frown pulling at the corner of his lips. He could have sworn he had been following his usual path, but then again, most of the corridors were nearly identical. Maybe he should dismantle every piece of armor he came across…

Percy poked his head through the archway. Immediately, a thick scent of must, mildew, and ink assaulted his senses. Shelves on top of shelves, on top of shelves were piled high with manicured scrolls, books, and tightly bound papers. The room never seemed to end, the rows and stacks weaving in and out of view like a labyrinth. An old man peered over at him from behind a desk, which was similarly laden with volumes of parchment and ink. He appeared thoroughly unamused when Percy gave a sheepish wave.

It was time to add the library to my repertoire, Percy grinned as he wove his way back down the corridor. Honestly, he was surprised that Annabeth hadn't found it first.

As he turned yet another corner, a familiar face, smirk and all, was walking toward him. Apparently Gwaine was today's escort. Even though the knights and the king had been busy with state affairs, usually one red cape was never far away. A few of the knights were, for the most part, inconspicuous, but Percy and Annabeth had quickly put two and two together when it had come to Percival's turn. A sleeveless giant following from a pace behind and occasionally slipping out of sight by way of an armor-filled alcove was a bit, or really, noticeable.

Gut churning with embarrassment, Percy searched the knight's face for any indication that he had witnessed Percy's struggle with the suit of armor. Aside from the usual confidence, his face gave nothing away.

"Percy," Gwaine said, clapping the young man on the back. "How are you faring this fine Spring morn?"

"Just swell," Percy said, only a tad sarcastically, "and you?"

He continued on his backtrack through the halls without waiting for an answer, knowing full well the knight would follow. He tried to ignore the weaseling nudge of discomfort that settled in his stomach each time he saw one of the characters out of the storybooks. It probably had to do with being subjected to suspicion and a cold-shoulder by childhood idols and one of Disney's greatest depictions.

And not at all because Gwaine had been very friendly with his girlfriend, who had to be at least half the man's age. It also didn't help that the man had one of the deepest, most gallant accents of the knights. Percy was not jealous.

Predictably, Gwaine matched Percy's pace, his cape billowing epically behind him. He didn't appear at all put off by the boy's sarcasm and slight mockery of the old-fashioned syntax. If anything, he found it amusing. "I can't complain," Gwaine responded. "How are you finding Camelot? Is it as you imagine?"

"Yeah, it's pretty cool."

Gwaine nodded while eyeing the walls critically. "It can be at night, but it really is quite pleasant when the heat rises in the summer."

"No, I—" Percy broke off and squinted at him, wondering if it was worth correcting him, or if introducing 21st century lingo to legendary knights was a bad idea. Gods know that his younger self would have appreciated a modern touch to the literary classics he had been subjected to in school. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet," he agreed, in the end.

Coming to the end of their corridor, the castle was suddenly teeming with life and excitement. Teams of servants were parading through with arms full of reams of cloth, stacks of wood, bouquets of flowers and sprigs, and the occasional trays of fruit and pastries and meat. One woman was balancing a beautifully cooked chicken, with glazed, crispy skin and green garnish on a silver platter. Even the tiniest whiff of it sent Percy's stomach rumbling.

He may not have had a watch or phone, but his body definitely thought it was lunch time,

Gwaine dodged through the current, his eyes set on an unsuspecting tray of rolls. He pilfered a couple off the top as they drifted past, grinning coyly at the woman who swatted his hand away. He offered one to Percy and immediately started tearing into his own. The roll was crispy and warm, and suddenly Gwaine didn't seem so bad.

"So," Percy garbled around a bite, "what do you do for fun around here?"

Gwaine gestured for the boy to follow as he joined the stream of individuals carrying wood and fabric. It was a juggling act, maneuvering around the people who were so focused on delivering their wares from one place to another that they barely saw anything else. Percy, however, had a lot of practice with this sort of thing, having had his fair share of run-ins with angry New Yorkers.

"Train, drink, sleep," Gwaine said with a smirk, "and if you're lucky, eat and drink some more."

Percy snorted. "Sounds thrilling."

"Nothing is better than a belly full of warm stew and a winning hand of cards, my friend. Except perhaps, if there is a good brawl afterwards." They broke off from the main current of workers and took a side passage that briefly cast them in darkness. Briefly, because seconds later, the white brick gave way to blue sky, and the two of them emerged into the courtyard. The knight paused to consider Percy. "Once this business with the Saxons is at its end, I'll take you to the Rising Sun Tavern. You have yet to live, if you haven't tried Old Joe's dark mead."

Percy couldn't help but grin. The thought of him going to a tavern to drink mead and take part in a brawl was up there with singing tunes with a minstrel as a dragon sailed menacingly overhead. "Noted," he said, looking out over the courtyard.

While it was less restrictive than the walls of the castle, the square was just as full of bustling activity, if not more focused. The piles of wood that many of the servants had been carting around had apparently been for a large construct being built in the center. Carpenters were hard at work, carefully sculpting a flawless stage, large enough for a whole band of minstrels, as well as the royal family. A few women had begun lacing the finished banisters with elaborate chains of flora.

Unless Camelot had a dark sense of humor when it came to executions, Percy doubted they were building gallows.

"What's going on here?"

"Alba Eiler."

Gwaine trotted down the stairs and over to the platform, nodding to a few of the men who grunted something in greeting. How manly, Percy thought drolly. He jostled one of the planks curiously then grimaced with the same bit of sheepishness Percy had felt after the armor fiasco when the far end popped out of place, waving apologetically to the workers. He promptly fixed it and brushed off his hands, only to do the same with another board a foot away.

"Right," Percy drawled, "and that is?"

Gwaine turned away from his fidgeting long enough to give Percy an askance look.

"What?"

"I keep forgetting you're not from Albion." The knight drifted around to the other side of the platform and began flicking through the delicate flowers laid out along the stone with vague curiosity. "Do your people celebrate something in place of Alba Eiler?"

"No? Or, uh, maybe? I don't really know what an 'Alber Eiler' celebration is. Annabeth might, though."

"Is she your betrothed?"

"What? No, dude—I'm, like, sixteen," Percy spluttered, much to the amusement of other in his vicinity. "We're just—" he paused. Did people in the olden days date? "…courting?"

Percy didn't appreciate the knowing glances exchanged at his expense. He'd had enough of that at camp following his and Annabeth's involuntary swim in the lake, and he certainly didn't need age old assumptions making their way back to Annabeth's ears. He'd never live that down.

Gwaine suddenly reached down and plucked a flower free from the arrangement, holding it out to Percy. It was a dainty little thing of purple and yellow, pretty but not in any way special or unique. Grover would have been able to name it and all of its wonderful qualities, but to Percy, it was a flower. For all he knew, it could have even been a particularly pretty weed. "No thanks," he said, confusion lacing his tone. "It's not really my color."

"For your companion," Gwaine explained with a grin. "Ladies love being showered in flowers."

After the knight offered the bud a second time, Percy grudgingly accepted it. He was pretty sure Annabeth was not one to swoon over flowers, and certainly wouldn't have appreciated the sentiment of 'ladies falling for basic bribery,' but according to his mom, it never hurt to be 'romantic' every once in a while.

"Let me guess, they love poetry and chivalry too?"

"And to answer your previous question, Alba Eiler is a festival," Gwaine continued, "celebrating the arrival of Spring and the start of the harvesting season." He meandered along the rest of the preparations that littered the courtyard. Apart from the platform and the beginning of the floral decorations, most of the arrangement seemed to be more for a practical view of what it would look like. Percy took extra care not to trample anything that had taken more than two minutes to make.

"Oh, okay. So, like the equinox." Percy rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recall the cultural lessons required at camp. "Pretty sure we have something like that. Persephone returns and brings back the Spring."

For the first time, he wondered if any of Camelot honored any sort of religion. No one had really mentioned religion or spiritual beliefs since they arrived, and Percy had definitely not been paying attention in his classes when—or if—they mentioned the date Christianity moved to England. Then again, Percy vaguely recalled Percival being involved with the Holy Grail…

Then there was the whole Merlin being an all-powerful magician in the stories, so it didn't seem like they were as 'violent and painful death to all practitioners of magic' as some historical figures were. Percy shrugged mentally. As long as they didn't try stoning them in the near future, he didn't really care.

"So, when does it start?" he asked.

"When night and day stand equal, in a rare balance between nature and the Otherside."

Percy spun around, his hand instinctively falling to Riptide's hilt. Merlin stood a few feet away, his unnervingly piercing eyes regarding him with that same suspicious, guarded light as always. He grinned, but there was an obvious lack of warmth.

"Two days from now."

Not creepy at all, Percy grimaced. To say he wasn't thrilled by who and what Merlin turned out to be was an understatement. The servant had spent the first two days 'running into' him and Annabeth or watching them from a distance. At first, Percy had been amused by the antics and felt the odd desire to just tell Merlin who they were, but Annabeth had nixed the idea. We have no idea how he would react, Seaweed Brain. We might end up in Camelot's version of Bedlam, for all we know. Let's, just, not tempt the Fates yet. So, Percy had resisted the temptation.

Which meant that Merlin's passive aggressive attitude and general creepiness had held strong.

"Merlin," Gwaine greeted happily. "I thought you were held up cleaning Arthur's boots all day. He decide to release you early, or did you just run out of things to clean? I'd be happy to offer you some of my own, if that's the case"

Merlin huffed, momentarily shedding his stand-offish cocoon. "The king has requested Percy dine with him at lunch. As you weren't in your chambers, I was sent to collect you. All he knights are in attendance," he added with a glance toward his friend.

Gwaine rubbed his hands together in excitement. "Now that you mention it, I thought I saw Oonagh's chicken go by earlier." He clapped Percy on the shoulder with a little more enthusiasm than necessary and said, "you haven't lived without tasting this woman's cooking once."

"I thought that was Joe's dark mead."

Gwaine simpered. "See, Merlin, I think Percy is starting to understand life in Camelot."

With Merlin in the lead, they wandered back toward the main entrance to the castle, marking the end to Percy's Third Day Circuit. Apart from some obvious drawbacks (mainly poor Sir Nearly Armless Nick and Beardless Merlin), it had been fairly successful and fruitful. Percy certainly appreciated the warm roll to tide him over until Oonagh's chicken.

"Percy," Gwaine pronounced mindlessly. "Percy—is that short for Percival?"

"Perseus," he corrected.

"Perseus. Is the name common in Hellada?" Merlin tossed over his shoulder with a detectible amount of snark. Gwaine huffed with laughter and jogged ahead to sling an arm around Merlin's shoulder. Merlin, fighting a losing battle with a smile, tried to shirk off the taller man, to no avail.

Remembering the fact that he and Annabeth had assailed Merlin with enough questions to warrant some revenge of he like, Percy grinned, jogging himself to catch up with the others. "Not too common, no. Perseus is the one of the only heroes from G—Hellada die peacefully. My mom was hoping it'd rub off on me."

Gwaine smirked. "Smart woman."

Hit in the gut with a wave of pure, dry melancholy, Percy could only nod in agreement. Was time passing here the same as it was in New York? He had dashed out of their apartment like a madman after his sleeping brain had decided to mute the timer he'd set. Percy didn't even remember if he'd said goodbye or not. How many times had he disappeared on her over the past four years? Six? Seven? No matter the number, his mom would still be watching the door with those same sad blue eyes, waiting for him to stroll in through the front door.

Percy didn't have long to dwell on the matter, however, as Merlin came to a stop before two of the largest doors Percy had ever seen. The great hall. Without much ceremony, the sentinels swept open the doors to reveal a dark table filled with foods of all sorts. Plaited breads, meats, bowls teeming with local and 'exotic' fruit. At the head of the table sat King Arthur, who looked up as soon as he heard the grind of the hinges.

"Ah, Percy, I'm glad Merlin was able to find you. Please, sit." The king gestured to the a few of the seats that were left open. Gwaine nudged Percy's shoulder and laid claim to a plate of his own, leaving Percy to settle in between him and Percival. Merlin appeared at his shoulder a second later with a wine pitcher.

"I apologize that I have been otherwise occupied these past few days. Recent events have left little time extravagant dining. I trust you've been able to entertain yourselves?"

Percy cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh, I've been exploring the castle a lot. It's pretty cool-impressive."

"These halls have withstood a lot over the centuries. I'm glad someone appreciates them," Arthur added, smirking pointedly at Merlin as he made his rounds around the decidedly non-round table.

Merlin snorted. "I doubt you'd appreciate them if you had to scrub the floors."

Percy glanced up and down the table, noting a lack of a certain blonde. All of the other knights were present, even Elyan who had stayed behind in Baile-Avon to ensure there were no further reprisals, as well as a man Percy didn't recognize. He was old, ancient old, with long white hair framing a face frozen in an expression of droll judgment. He was most certainly not a knight—maybe a retired knight, if that was even possible, but even that didn't seem accurate. The old man seemed too intellectual and downright intelligent to be a knight.

As Percy was about to inquire as to Annabeth's whereabouts, the doors opened once again, and in strode a woman of pure elegance. He was never one to put too much on someone's appearance—having met enough gods and goddesses to know that was a very slippery slope—but this woman carried herself with so much confidence and sophistication, Percy was surprised. Especially, when his eyes noted the remarkably low cleavage her dress offered. He may have overcompensated in averting his gaze after that, nearly missing the fact that the woman had not entered alone.

Annabeth, in the same crimson velvety gown from the first night, stumbled in a few paces behind, cursing and grumbling as she hiked up the long skirt. Once she realized everyone's attention had settled on her, she drew herself up and offered self-conscious smile. The woman approached the king with one of the brightest smiles. Arthur responded in kind.

"Annabeth," the woman—the queen? —patted the chair to her left encouragingly. "Come. I promise, Gaius doesn't bite."

Slipping into her proffered seat, Annabeth caught Percy's eyeline and smiled. She narrowed her eyes at him questioningly, much like she did every time they spent time away from one another in the castle. Checking up on him to make sure he hadn't managed to do anything stupid in the past few hours.

Percy gave her his most reassuring, confident grin and crossed his heart. She rolled her eyes.

Without any announcement, banging of a gavel, knives against a chalice, everyone else began to pile the food onto their plates. Percy tried his best not to stare at the sheer amount that the knights on either side managed to fit on the small metal dish. Or wonder how they would manage to eat that much without throwing it up during training. Percy, on the other hand, took a more well-mannered approach and served out a healthy serving of each dish within reach. A little bread, a steaming drumstick, some green leafy thing he couldn't identify, some fruit.

He even tried the wine. A mistake looking back on it, as he had never liked wine in the past, and this was a horrid concoction of watered-down acid. But he tried it—and wouldn't be trying it again anytime soon.

Once everyone had filled their plates, Arthur shifted in his throne, almost guiltily. "I must admit, this meal was not only meant for pleasantries. I wish to speak to you more about monsters."

"Arthur," the queen chided softly. "Can't this wait?"

"I'm sorry, Gwen. It can't. More patrols are returning with word of these beasts. More Saxons are raiding towns, all the while getting closer to the citadel. If they can tell us anything, we need to know sooner rather than later."

"We don't know that much more than you," Annabeth cut in. "Only that I don't think it's as simple as it seems."

"What do you mean?"

She looked to Percy for support, but he hadn't caught up to what she was getting at. While they had thrown out the occasional theory as to what happened and who was behind it all, Percy's suggestions had been less than helpful. His first suggestion of Darth Vader to his last being literally anyone in the Greek world, he did nothing to curtail their list of possible masterminds, which was already centuries long.

"What I mean is that something doesn't feel right." Annabeth chewed at her lip. They had agreed to filter their words for the sake of preserving the timeline, but they had also decided that, for as long as Greek monsters were running rampant in a place they shouldn't be, they wouldn't sit idly by. They had to do something, give them something to go on. "These monsters are from Hellada, but they're not like wolves or bears. Like, they're not exactly feral, but not sophisticated either. And they definitely don't go around joining random armies."

"What is it they do, then?" The old man, Gaius, inquired.

"Survive?" Annabeth shrugged. "Some of them have—duties that they live and die for. Like guarding something precious. But most just live where they live until they die. Cyclopes like their caves. Sirens like their islands."

"And hellhounds?"

"Hell," Percy stated helpfully. "The underworld," he added when the knights mirrored each other's confusion. "Where the dead go after dying…"

"Then why are they here?" Mordred asked. He sat at the farthest end of the table and had to lean forward to be heard. "How often do they venture from the underworld?"

Annabeth shrugged. "They do sometimes. They will go for some people more than others," —with this, her eyes unconsciously found Percy—"but usually someone has to summon them first. Or someone managed to royally piss off the god of the underworld and he decided to send a message."

"Not that we're saying Hades sicced his dogs on you," Percy rushed to say as soon as he saw heads jerk. "Anyone with the right spell can call them up. To summon any of them really"

"Morgana," Arthur hissed under his breath, although it wasn't as quiet as he had probably been hoping. "What does it take to control them? You say they are neither feral, nor civilized, so what motivates them?"

"Hunger?" Annabeth shrugged. "Promise of something in exchange?"

Like the promise to destroy the gods and release from eternal hell, Percy thought grimly. Neither of which should apply for another 900 years, so what was behind the sudden transcontinental journey? Did the gods or supernatural beings in Albion like playing with mortals' fate?

"Cyclopes, harpies, other monsters—they don't exactly get along, conflicting interests and all that," Annabeth continued. "Not unless there's someone more powerful keeping them in check. And a mort—" she caught herself just in time and corrected, "an everyday Saxon wouldn't do the trick."

"Are you saying this is the work of sorcery?" Percy hadn't imagined Gwaine was capable of such venom and disgust, but the inflection of that single word caused Percy's blood to freeze. Sorcery. He might just have to reassess his early thoughts on 'death to all practitioners of magic'.

"I mean, if it's someone from Hellada, it might not be magic," Percy said slowly, looking to Annabeth for confirmation. He had certainly never thought of himself as a magician. Demigods had always been a category of their own. Magic, sorcery, witchcraft—that had always been Hecate's children's thing. Percy let out a low, nervous laugh. "It's not like all sorcery is bad, right?"

Judging by the appalled, nearly infuriated expressions, that was exactly the wrong thing to say. Gwaine stiffened to Percy's right, Percival refused to look anywhere but directly ahead, but mostly, the others turned to the king. Arthur had gone very still. Then he gently placed his wine glass down, worked his jaw back into movement, then gazed evenly at Percy.

"The use of magic in Camelot is strictly forbidden. As is the case in many kingdoms of Albion," Arthur stated in a low, controlled voice.

"Right. Good thing we're not sorcerers then." Percy bit his tongue and tried to smile reassuringly. If Annabeth was in any way mirroring his own expression, he didn't quite succeed. He could read the anxiety and reticence clear in her face. She plucked bits of bread from her plate, rolling it between her fingers and peering at the men surrounding her, appraising their fast-changing moods. Although the stiffness and ostensible grimaces had yet to dissipate, the knights began to relax just so.

Annabeth nibbled at her marble, holding out just a second longer, before breaking the silence. "Sire?" She waited until the king looked her way, gesturing for her to continue. "You said a name a moment ago. Morgana? Do you think she's—summoned them?"

Again, the entire ambience of the room froze, only this time the anger wasn't directed towards their misunderstanding of a situation. Silence was king for so long that Percy thought Arthur would simply refuse to answer.

"Morgana is a high priestess of the Old Religion," the king answered finally. "If this army of beasts require a great commander, she has the power to do so. As she has proven in the past." His tone left no room for questioning, not that Annabeth looked keen to press her luck.

Morgana. From all the times his mom read him The Once and Future King—and it had been the only book in the shop, so they had read it a lot—Percy couldn't recall anyone named Morgana. To be fair, it wasn't the only book on the subject, and certainly had its focus, but nothing?

The only Morgana-esque name he could conjure up was Morgan le Fay, and that was because the vignette dedicated to her had been so messed up that Percy had been shocked the book was meant for children. She was a fairy witch of some sort, and had been related to Arthur and Mordred, Percy knew. She'd slept with one of them, but the part that really stuck out was that her house, instead of being made of delicious bon bons and candies, it had been meat, butter and cheese.

Somehow, Percy couldn't imagine that particular detail being part of this reality.

As soon as Percy reigned in his wandering attention, he was greeted by the same stale silence as before. He and Annabeth had used up their two questions for the day, it seemed, and until Arthur had another burning question he needed answering, he wouldn't be opening up the conversation again.

With nothing else to do to distract himself, Percy picked away at the food growing cold on his plate. He ripped off a piece of chicken and chewed it lethargically. Swallowing, he shifted just enough to gain Gwaine's attention and, unable to help himself, he whispered, "you were right about the chicken."

Annabeth tried not to begrudge the tall man walking beside her. She knew it was par for the course, especially given how lunch had turned out, but having a giant man escort her to the lower town felt a lot like a father walking their teenage daughter to the bus stop at the end of the street. Not that her father had ever done that for her, but the sentiment was the same.

Not to mention the addition of a chaperone had interfered with her secondary goal for the trip. While Annabeth was dying to study the town in depth—seeing as it was an honest-to-gods medieval town, and how could she possibly pass up that opportunity—the woods outside the gates were calling to her.

Not physically or literally, but it had occurred to her that afternoon that whatever was going on here, whatever it was that brought her and Percy to Albion, it wouldn't be found within the walls of Camelot. But thanks to her metallic shadow, that wouldn't be an option any time soon. Of course, after the shit show at lunch, Annabeth had no desire to make herself or Percy look any more suspicious than they already did.

So, when Percival volunteered to show her around the markets—'so she wouldn't get lost'—Annabeth had smiled. Grin and bear it.

Once they stepped foot outside of the bailey, everything changed. As interesting and exciting as the castle itself was, it was still isolating in its own way. The people there had work and only work to look forward to. Unless they were nobility, and Camelot had an odd lack thereof, there was little time for leisure. This included the knights. Between the spring fest preparation and the groundwork for defense against the imposing armies, no one wanted to spare time to interact with a foreign visitor.

Here though, in the middle and lower town, they were going about their usual lives. A few passers-by waved cordially to the knight, who just as enthusiastically greeted them back. Within a few feet from the nearest square, a swarm of kids came at them from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, all cheering and whooping in joy. There were at least a dozen of them, probably somewhere around six to twelve years old, all of them wearing clothes that have seen better days.

Percival knelt down, completely surrounded by the clamoring horde, and slipped off the pack he had brought with him. As soon as he loosened the tie and held it open for them, each of the kids snatched something from inside, cried out with glee, then vanished just as quickly as they'd appeared. The knight simply pushed back to his feet, readjusted his pack, and jogged over to Annabeth as if nothing had happened.

Annabeth felt a small tug at the corner of her lips. "What was that about?"

Percival glanced back toward the alleyways, where one or two heads popped out curiously with devilish grins. "The cooks tend to bake more than they need when it comes to the festivals around here. I don't like it to go to waste."

He took the lead, guiding Annabeth down the main street, and even took the time to point out a few of the shops that might hold interest for her. Although medieval architecture had never been her favorite—that spot in her heart would always be reserved for Classical Greek—she could appreciate the utility of the style. The roofs were a mix of clay and wood, which would help fight against rapidly spreading fires, while the walls looked to be primarily brick and wood, depending on the wealth of the neighborhood.

In the center of the square, a group of women were gathered around a stone well, chattering as balancing buckets against their hips while they waited for their turn. A smithery, its doors thrown wide open to account for the heat, was wracked with the pang and hiss of hammering new wares. Some poor soul stood below a window, playing a jovial tune in the hope that someone would pay him attention. His object of affection never appeared, but it did nothing to deter him.

Everything was simply picturesque.

Then a door banged open and a middle-aged man came stumbling out, reeking of drink and stale food even from some distance. He pitched into a wall with a familiar twitch that was typically followed by retching. A window in a neighboring complex flew open, and an unidentifiable liquid sailed through the air. Trying not to inhale too deeply, Annabeth caught a whiff of a particularly rank stench from what she could only assume was a pigsty.

She swallowed back a gag. Maybe picturesque wasn't the best descriptor, she decided. Accurate, but definitely not ideal.

Percival grimaced beside her. "Yeah, sorry about that," he muttered. "It took me a while to get used to the smell as well. I'm originally from a small village out in the countryside."

Annabeth started. "You're not nobility? I thought…"

"That knights had to be of noble birth?" He gave a small smile as he directed her toward a side alley, away from the indescribable projectiles now spoiling in the sun. "Traditionally that is true, but not since Arthur became king."

"What made you leave home?"

Percival didn't respond at first. "An army invaded Camelot and lay waste to every village it came across. I offered my sword to the king, and he accepted." As they continued down the path, the air grew noticeably more tolerable. Still, the occasional breeze carried along an unpleasantness that was unavoidable in city life. Especially when that city had yet to discover the wonders of underground sewage systems. "What about you? Do they have cities like this in Hellada?"

Annabeth nodded, hiking her gown as she nearly trips on it, again. "Quite a few actually. Hellada is like Albion in a way, broken up into different kingdoms. There's Macedon, Athens, Sparta, Corinth, Olympia…Even a lot of the islands are their own kingdoms."

"What are they like? The cities, I mean."

San Francisco was the first to pop into her head, quickly followed by Manhattan and the towns in Long Island. That would certainly give him a thrill, to hear about buildings that (aptly named) scraped the sky, carriages that drove themselves through burning a manufactured substance. Annabeth shook her head and pictured just how Greece would look in the 5th or 6th Century. "Big. Crowded. Hot. Depends a lot if you are inland or on the coast."

"Which one are you from?" Percival actually sounded curious, as opposed to wheedling her for information.

Annabeth caught herself just as she was about to answer. She and Percy hadn't actually decided on a city yet. Hellada yes, but it hadn't crossed their minds that they would need an in-depth background. Technically, it shouldn't really matter so long as they didn't say they had grown up together…

"Athens," she decided in the end. "It's on the coast, built across seven massive hills. The city's filled with enormous white marble temples, lyceums, arcades. There are friezes or sculptures on every corner, in every square. And it's colorful too. Even though a lot of the city is made of marble, almost everything is painted with these vibrant colors we make out of seashells and plants and fruits. Athens is big on trading, so there is a lot of foreign influence too." Her voice gradually grew more excited as she spoke, recalling all of the friezes and reimagined depictions she'd seen in museums.

Percival hummed thoughtfully, cocking his head as if trying to picture it in his mind, and Annabeth smiled to herself as a fleeting hope crossed her mind. While she had no intention of living in the past for the rest of her life, it wouldn't be all that bad if they got a chance to go and visit Greece for real. On the bright side, they already spoke Greek and depending on what year it turned out to be, it wouldn't be too dangerous—or at least, it wouldn't be more dangerous than it could be.

Plus, if they were really and truly stuck, then maybe someone from their world would be able to set the record straight…

Just then, they emerged from their back-alley track, and an open market erupted before them. The entire square was filled, every nook and cranny packed with merchants and stalls of all sorts. It had been there three days ago, but the size of it had grown threefold at least. Early Spring, late Winter crops were laid out in one corner, right alongside farmers and butchers looking to get rid of a portion of their flock. Even a few stalls offered cooked foods, their aroma drifting over the crowds.

If she hadn't had been in a strange world—and admittedly had had money of her own—Annabeth would have most certainly bought a little bit of everything.

Beside her, Percival laughed softly. She couldn't picture what her expression had been, but it must have been amusing enough. He strode forward, the crowd scurrying out of the way of the giant armed with a sword that made most other weapons look like metallic toothpicks.

For the first few stalls, Annabeth was vaguely aware that her knight was never far behind. As she ventured from the wooden kitchen wares to the blacksmith's cart to the tailor, he kept himself occupied. Without any destination in mind, she wandered down the rows of kiosks, lingering by one wagon-turned-stall that was selling gorgeously woven shawls and reams of cloth. Reds and blues, golds and blacks, the fabrics shone with expert skill and expensive threads. Two dark grey dog laid in the shadows, their sad eyes gazing up at her curiously as if to make sure no one made off with its master's livelihood.

Annabeth stroked one stole that was a deep purple, so saturated and colorful that the maker had to have spent hundreds to on the dye alone. It was as soft as it was beautiful.

"You have a good eye," a woman's voice commented. The owner appeared a second later, stepping out from behind a curtain of her own goods, that were basking in the sunlight and catching the eyes of potential customers. She was older, grey streaks already threading through her dark hair. Her face was sharp and aquiline, her lips almost an unnatural deep red. Unlike her masterful wares, her own clothes were stained and tattered from years of use. Her black eyes settled on the amaranthine shawl, only to fall back on Annabeth appraisingly. "It is one of my best works."

"It's gorgeous," Annabeth agreed. She dropped her hand back down to her side as soon as she realized it was still caressing the fabric.

The woman swept forward, gently lifted the shawl, and threw it over Annabeth's shoulders in one graceful movement. "As are you. Come, see." Despite her protests, the weaver tugged Annabeth along to the side of the wagon and directed her to where a polished metal mirror hung. Standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, the woman fixed a few loose curls, with such a maternal gesture that Annabeth's heart clenched.

"See?" the weaver prompted. "Beautiful."

Annabeth nodded, her voice lost somewhere in her gut. Biting her lip, she slipped off the shawl and tried to hand it back. "I was really just looking."

"Perhaps to show off to a courter."

Annabeth scoffed, still pressing the shawl towards the woman. "Not exactly a selling point in my books."

With a sigh, the weaver accepted the stole and traced the accented embroidery with her fingertips. "You must be careful, child. Someone as—lovely—as yourself must draw all kinds of attention."

"I can handle myself." Even now, Annabeth could feel the familiar weight of her dagger pressing into her thigh, although, needling the back of her mind was the distinct impression that the woman hadn't meant the attention of men. She laughed nervously. "We're certainly doing wonders for the Bechdel test."

The woman's lips twitched in an almost smile, her dark gaze locked on Annabeth, unblinking. Annabeth stared back, unable to look away, a distant clanging in her ears like echoes across a field, muffled by the distance. The peal changed, growing and rising in volume and frequency until it was a symphony of screaming clangor. Almost like voices crying out at once, wailing in the same pained pitch, stirring a distant memory of—

Annabeth flinched, blinking rapidly as her heart suddenly clamored in her chest. She sought around for what had brought her out of the trance, and then it happened again. Howling. The two old dogs that had been lying under the weaver's stall were now howling wildly and snapping at one another, rolling into the cart and rocking it perilously.

"Bran," the weaver hissed. "Sceolan."

Annabeth skirted around the woman and her dogs, blinking as the sun hit her with all its brilliance, but before she could get too far, the woman's bony hand snagged her wrist. "I apologize for my dogs," the woman said fretfully, though her eyes conveyed only intensity. "The blood moon. It sends them into a frenzy. It's always the blood moon."

Annabeth pried free her wrist. "What—"

"Annabeth!"

She turned to find Percival waving to her, obvious relief on his face. He was weaving through the emptors and merchants, having a more difficult time of it than before, but still only a dozen feet away. Running out of time, Annabeth turned back to the woman. "What do you mean? What's always the blood moon? When is it?"

The woman pretended not to hear her and glided back to the front of her temporary shop. Her dogs sulked back to their shady cache under the wagon, as tame as they had been the first time around.

Annoyance flashed through her, and Annabeth charged toward the woman. "Hey, what did you mean?"

"If you have no coin, then you cannot purchase one of my stoles. I am sorry, m'lady, but I must make an honest living," the weaver said apologetically. Her eyes flicked to something over Annabeth's shoulder, and Annabeth knew her time was up.

I'm curious, any guesses as to what is going on?

I had a lot of fun trying to work with Percival's and Gwaine's characters. The flower scene was inspired by Gwaine trying to woo Gwen the first time he saw her. I hope I did him justice

Then Percival, from what I remember, didn't have a whole lot of screen time, so I thought it'd be fun to show him more. Plus, I adore Tom Hopper in Umbrella Academy