Tried my hand at a small romance scene, not sure how it turned out, but hope you enjoy

It had begun to rain.

They were hesitant drops at first, pattering at the glass almost reluctantly, but with every passing moment, they grew heavier and angrier. They pelted the eastern side of the castle as the wind mounted as well. It would be torrential soon if it kept pace, enough to turn the tightly packed dirt of Camelot's streets into rivers of pure mud and mire, just as it had done the day prior. And ereyesterday, and the day before that. The poet may have romanticized Sweet April showers springing May flowers, butt his people would be swimming to the festivities if the skies refused to stay clear for more than half a day at a time.

Arthur studied the cascades of water dancing over the tainted red and blue. It was enchanting in its own right, though he had never been one to watch the clouds stroll by. The only reason he did so now was because it gave him something other than his thoughts to focus on. He refused to consider his current position as 'brooding', and yet, a voice, eerily familiar and full of churlish sarcasm, wheedled the back of his mind with that exact word.

Brooding.

He wasn't brooding. He was merely deliberating heavily on certain matters and was growing increasingly unhappy with the outcome.

Legs splayed out before him, settling deeper into his armchair, Arthur glanced to his left and frowned. Merlin had left him a plate of chicken and fruit for his midday meal—all the while grumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like what could have been his usual snark—but it lacked its appeal. Arthur nudged the plate, hoping contact would spur him into eating it.

Its usual mouthwatering aroma did nothing to entice him free of his mind, even if it was Oonagh's chicken, lathered with what looked to be rosemary and thyme and butter, fresh out of the oven—or as fresh as Merlin was capable of delivering. Arthur felt the prick of hunger, but still the appeal wasn't there.

Instead, he snatched up the goblet of wine Merlin had graciously supplied alongside the chicken.

"Training for the inconceivable," Arthur grunted sarcastically, taking a sip. He hadn't mean it to be taken literally, although he supposed saying it so cavalierly had been taunting fate somewhat. If it weren't such a serious matter, Merlin surely would have enjoyed having a lark over it all.

Then again, he still might do, if he ever took a break from trailing Percy and Annabeth around the castle.

Like a wronged hunting dog, Merlin had had his hackles raised from the moment they'd eyes on the youths. He'd reiterated his fears with Arthur a few times since—once the night of their return, and again yesterday morning for good measure—but, surprisingly, he had refrained from doing so following the disquieting discussion on the Helladans' naivete regarding sorcery.

Arthur had his own suspicions naturally, but between the knights, his overly dedicated and self-sacrificing servant, and his own capabilities, he wasn't too concerned of an attack from inside. He would stay cautious, but as Percy and Annabeth had proven themselves in Baile-Avon and provided information on the invading army, he was more inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, Arthur had given so many others the benefit of the doubt and nearly died numerous times as a result.

But what else was he to do? Arthur had relied so heavily of Gaius's extensive knowledge in the past that it was more than disconcerting to see him at such a loss. Without the Helladans' insight, they would be so much more focused on the beasts themselves, rather than on who brought them here to begin with. Even if the attacks were tainted by a foreign magic, one name was still at the front of everyone's minds. Morgana. Undoubtedly, she stood at the helm.

The question was how she came to find these Hellhounds and Cyclopes.

There had to be something more he could do. Sitting around for the next devastating attacks and calamitous reports to come back had Arthur by the edge of a sword. What a king he was—if it hadn't been for that brave young girl, he wouldn't have even known something was wrong until the Saxon-Helladan parties united into a proper army.

Arthur ran his finger along the rim of his goblet and watched as the dark liquid lapped against the metal walls. Back and forth, frothing and bubbling under his speculation. He frowned. If only it were slightly more potent…

The door to his chamber creaked open. Arthur cocked his head to the side, preferring to let the person announce who they were, rather than exhaust the energy it took to turn around. Their steps had been quiet and measured, and they remained frustratingly silent, as if they were scanning the room first to confirm the king was indeed in his chambers.

Then they sighed and again approached with their muffled steps. With a deep breath, Arthur knew exactly who it was regardless of their silence. There was a faint essence of sweet birch in the air, fused with smoke and ash. A scent he had long since learned followed her wherever she went.

Suddenly, satin covered arms draped over his chest from behind, and Gwen settled her chin on the crown on his head, studying the sight her husband was so enthralled by. He could picture her perfectly, a bemused frown on her face, her long curls falling about both shoulders. Arthur breathed in deeply, willing himself to lull into a semblance of calm. He had no desire to throw her down into the abyss of self-pity and doubt alongside him.

Not considering the possibility she already knew well enough where his thoughts lay.

"You're doing all you can, Arthur," she stated softly, drawing herself up. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

Pursing his lips, Arthur swirled his glass again, seeing if he could paint every side at once before the wine slipped back to the bottom. Maybe he was brooding. He may have disagreed emphatically—that there were many other actions he could be taking—but he didn't want to put them into words.

Gwen began threading her hands through his hair soothingly, coaxing the wayward strands back down with the rest. Arthur knew what she was doing, trying to cajole him into sharing his thoughts with her—or more likely coming around to her point of view—but he had already fallen prey to his wallowing demons. Arthur relaxed into the touch but still refused to speak.

With a heavy sigh, Gwen slid around to the side, plucked the wine free from his hand, and perched herself on the armrest. He moued petulantly but had the decency to look her in the face as she recounted his actions patiently.

"You have your men patrolling the countryside night and day, word has already begun to spread in the West that outlying villages should retreat to the citadel until it is safe, not to mention Gaius and Geoffrey doing all they can to figure out what the Saxons truly want. Even Merlin has had his face in a book whenever he isn't prowling the halls."

Arthur couldn't hold back the snort of amusement, as he absentmindedly drew his fingers along the black embroidery on her sleeve.

"We really must be desperate if Merlin thinks he will be the one to find the answers." It was a testament to just how preoccupied his mind was that his jest lacked its usual sardonic drawl and fell flat.

Gwen fixed him with an impish glare. "You," she captured his hand within her own, "are doing all that you can do—short of burning down the forest and scouring the charred remains, that is. And I can't imagine that your people would be especially pleased with you afterwards." When Arthur failed to react more than a sigh disguised as a laugh, she added teasingly, "so there really is no need for you to be sulking away in your tower."

"Sulking away in my tower?" Arthur parroted incredulously, narrowing his eyes at her. "And who exactly uttered this treason?"

"Merlin," Gwen replied simply. She looked over at the untouched food, now cool and less appetizing, and plucked a grape for herself. "Oonagh will have your hide if you waste her chicken. She's been experimenting with herbs for the fete and was hoping for your besotted praise."

Thrown from his melancholy by only a few words, Arthur found his laugh was of genuine mirth and shook his head in mock disbelief. "Why is it all my servants seem to have forgotten that I am their king?" he carped. "This is all Merlin's fault, you know. Sowing the seeds of disorder and malaise."

Gwen laughed.

Arthur loved the sound. It wasn't fake or falsely molded from having a governess enforce proper manners since birth—and he'd met plenty of ladies and princess who were paragons of that sickeningly polite giggle. No, hers was a real laugh, and one that often turned into an undignified snort when she didn't catch it in time.

"I think Merlin would be the last person you had to worry about sowing seeds of rebellion," Gwen reminded him as she stood up and wandered over to the window. She pushed it open, allowing wind to hurtle through the small gap, unchecked, as it rapidly coursed around the castle walls.

As predicted, it was a torrential deluge now, and sprinkles of spring rain was carried along inside by the wind, the glass shuddering under the force. The temperature in the room plunged immediately, not that Gwen minded at all. She rested her forehead against the glass, a small smile spreading across her face as she breathed in the crisp air. Any thoughts Arthur had about laying a fire vanished at the sight.

"That is," Gwen amended, her eyes still closed, "if you make him clean the stables again. You could hardly blame him."

Arthur hummed, tearing off a bit of chicken and chewing thoughtfully. "I think you were more correct before," he said. "He'd much sooner get his revenge by rubbing stinging nettles in my trousers than by leading the kitchen staff to victory." He tried picturing the servant dressed in a knight's full garb, leading an army of wooden ladles and pitchforks against Camelot. Although Arthur had come to realize Merlin had two entirely unrelated personalities—one who was a meant for comedic relief and full of uncoordinated action and another who was selflessly loyal and brave to a fault—it was still hard to envision. "Can you even imagine Merlin as a general?"

Gwen strode back over and took his hands, tugging Arthur to his feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in close. "Do you really want to keep talking about Merlin?"

She stopped a whisper from his face, and he felt the ghosting brush of her nose against his. There it was again: the scent of birch and floral soaps that tried, in vain, to mask the fact that Gwen had wandered off to the royal smithery again. Arthur had seen her out of the corner of his eye more than once, gone before he could catch more than a flicker of iridescent cloth. Gwen probably hadn't intended to sneak about, but he suspected she was embarrassed to admit that breathing in the black clouds and listening to the sizzling hiss of red-hot blades being dowsed in a barrel of water was as comforting as a lullaby.

Gwen didn't know he knew, and since she had elected not to tell him, he wouldn't take away her one comforting secret.

Gods knew Arthur had his own weird way of feeling closer to his own father, though his tended to involve comparing his reign and choices with that of the Great King Uther Pendragon and often ended with him repining his shortcomings in the light of it.

Prompted by his own musings, Arthur couldn't help but wonder what his father would have done about the current threat. Raise an army undoubtedly. Demand the Saxons meet him on a battlefield to settle matters once and for all. Scour every town and village, every clearing and cave in the forest until the beasts were rotting corpses enriching the soil for the next year's harvest. Uther wouldn't have played this game of waiting and defense.

Gwen cupped the back of his head and redirected his wandering attention back to her. "Arthur," she chided.

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. He tipped his head forward and felt the comforting support of his queen as she brushed her lips against his forehead. He took a moment to breathe in her touch, to savor having her warmth in his arms, and brought her tighter against his chest, tucking his face into the crook of her neck.

The wind whistled through the crack in the window.

It wasn't a pretty sound, shrill and monotonous, and too hollow than anything that could possibly pass as music, but it made Arthur grin. Gently, he started to sway. Rocking side to side with no real rhythm or rhyme, but he felt Gwen smile against the side of his neck.

Arthur drifted forward, backward, then led her in a tight circle. Their dance was clumsy and uncoordinated, not at all reminiscent of the ones he'd been forced to learn for the maddening courting rituals of the nobility, which made it all the more perfect.

Gwen pulled away so she could see him, caressing the side of his face. Arthur leaned into the touch, covering her hand with his, and pressed his lips to her palm. He rested his hand at the small of her back and nudged her closer. The delicate satin and embellishments on her dress protested the movement.

Gwen rested against him for a moment before pulling away again.

"Arthur." Her voice was suddenly solemn and sincere. "You're not your father."

Arthur knew he wasn't quite able to hold back the pain of disappointment in his eyes, and she shook her head with a sad smile.

"You're not your father. Just as he wasn't his father, or his father's father. You can't compare yourself to him because your countries, whilst bearing the same name, will never be the same. His Camelot and Your Camelot are of different eras, and you rule how it demands to be ruled. You fight for your people with as much fervor as a wildfire and watch over them with respect and honor. They love you for it. I love you for it."

Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away from her even if he tried. Without anything he could possibly say, he hoped his love and appreciation shone through instead.

He kissed her, gently, lovingly. It wasn't only her scent that was infused with the essence of a smithery.

Gwen rested her head against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut, and Arthur placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head, content to stand there, all insecurities cast into oblivion for the moment. He didn't understand how she knew just what to say to break that endless cycle. She'd certainly had enough practice over the years…

And how she knew where to find him was a curiosity as well. He had taken measures to ensure that none would know exactly where he'd disappeared to—especially considering the fact he was last seen on the other side of the castle. Given the current circumstances, it was practically impossible to have a moment without one of his advisors advising his next move and maddening him to the point of no return. The only person to have had contact with Arthur had been Merlin.

Which led him to a new line of thought entirely.

"Did Merlin actually use the words 'sulking away in my tower'?"

Gwen pulled away from him enough to level him with the most incredulous glare Arthur had ever seen. Scoffing and exasperated, she strode back to the window and latched it shut with more force than was necessary. Water had begun to trail along the stile and pool below on the stones. "I swear, sometimes it's as if you two are the ones married."

With a look of horror, Arthur sputtered, "as if—to Merlin. Guinevere—" A knocking at the door cuts through his next words, and Gwen smiled victoriously, eyebrows raised, a smirk pulling at her lips. Like she was daring him to continue.

Arthur grimaced. "This isn't over," he promised, adjusting his tunic to look at least somewhat presentable. In the future, he would have to take even greater measures to stay hidden—or hide somewhere less predictable—or ensure Merlin's silence by threatening him with stabling duties. While appealing, it probably wouldn't hold much promise.

"Enter," Arthur called, and Leon strode inside.

He bowed his head to each monarch in turn. "Sire, my Queen."

The knight was dressed as he always was—a chainmail shirt, his red cape cast over his shoulders, his sword at his side—nothing to indicate his reason for being there. Even his face was as austere and pensive as it always was. Only rarely did he ever break character and fall prey to his humor, which was generally thanks to Merlin's jesting antics.

"What is it, Leon?"

"Sir Roderick just came to me with news." Sir Leon measured his words carefully, doing nothing to put Arthur's nerves at ease. "He says, he witnessed a large party of Saxons on the move, somewhere between Eldroth and Five Turnings."

"Eldroth?" Gwen demanded, coming to stand next to the king. "But that's only a few hours' ride from here. And nowhere near Englewood Forest."

Arthur frowned. The village of Eldroth was much further to the South than they had seen the Saxons thus far. South-East, if they were to look at a map and compare the past instances of villages under attack. Those had all been within sight of Englewood Forest, if not laid up against it entirely. They had assumed that the foreign army had taken refuge there and used it to cross the land unseen.

But it seemed they have outgrown the West. Spreading fast and unrestrained, despite Camelot's knights striving to impede their movements. And, it seemed, without a clear pattern aside from the fact they were close to enclosing in on Camelot's walls. Why they started in the West was curious. The Saxons not so much, but from what Arthur understood, Hellada laid to the East. If the beasts were in fact from there, why did no one notice them until they were wreaking destruction to western Camelot? Did they sail around the coast of Albion to land in Eire and travel across from there?

Perhaps he should ask Percy and Annabeth to shed light on the matter.

"What was Sir Roderick doing near Eldroth to begin with?" Gwen asked. "I though the patrols had been based around the White Mountains and the River Avon."

Leon shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks suddenly aflame. "They are, milady. He was—visiting a—friend." To Arthur's amusement, the knight's gaze was anywhere but the queen. "She lives out in the countryside. Roderick was returning here when he heard what could only have been dozens of men. He concealed himself in a hollow and saw thirty strong crossing the moor, with a winged woman at the lead."

"A harpy." It didn't take long for Arthur to consider his options. If his enemies were no longer confined to the forest, then he would not be either. He nodded to Leon, turning away to locate his own chainmail, greaves and vambraces. "Get the men ready."

Leon paused. "All of them, Sire?"

Arthur's hand hovered over the wardrobe's handle as he considered the odds. Thirty men and a harpy, possibly more Helladan beasts. Baile-Avon had had slightly different numbers, but they had succeeded, nonetheless. Of course, Percy's and Annabeth's help had been invaluable as well.

"No," he decided, flicking open the cabinet. "Any more than just a few men will apprise them of our presence. I am done guessing their intentions. I want to know what they are doing this far South and just how much farther they plan to go. If it's simply for another raid, we can deal with them as we did those in Baile-Avon."

As Leon bowed his leave to both his king and queen, but Arthur called him back before he could leave, "and find Percy. It would be to our advantage if we come across more of his Helladan varmints."

Yanking the wardrobe open, Arthur rummaged through the sets of chain-linked kaftans that, after years of repetitive use, were in varying states of repair, and threw on the one lying at the forefront. Frustratingly, his fingers seemed to struggle with the finer motions as he slipped the belt around his waist but failed multiple times to threat the prong through the hole in his rush.

Gentle hands cast his own aside and guided the leather and metal into its proper place, and Arthur found Gwen had managed to appear in front of him without his even realizing. She adjusted the armor's fit needlessly, chewing on her lip as she always did to keep the worries at bay.

Arthur tucked a curl behind her ear, and she leaned into the touch. "Hey," he said, coaxing her to return his look. "It will be fine."

"I know," she responded easily but shifted on her feet as she searched for the words. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. That's what Merlin is for."

Gwen humored him with a smile. She stepped away, only to return with his sword balanced in her hands, guiding it into its scabbard. Its weight sat perfectly, comforting, familiar, fostering a sense of power and courage.

"Come back to me whole and unbroken, Arthur."

"I promise." Arthur tipped her chin and kissed her fleetingly.

Gwen sighed and closed her eyes, her face turned towards the windows and the country beyond the glass. "We should dispatch more envoys," she began. "If they are spreading this far East, we should encourage everyone to withdraw to behind the citadel walls. Give asylum to anyone asking."

Arthur nodded. He didn't expand on the details of such a venture would entail. Not only had Camelot done so in the past, but Gwen was more than competent when it came to state matters. The counsel knew better than to contest her authority in his absence—not to mention after five years of their reign, they had long since grown accustomed to the fact the Queen often equaled the King's power.

Without another word, he left.

Annabeth nearly crowed in triumph when she found the library on her first try. Having given up on Percy's questionable directions after the first few minutes—because 'follow the corridors until you find a somewhat lopsided suit of armor' was not what she considered helpful—she had resorted to asking a chambermaid. As it turned out, there had been a suit of armor unlike the rest along the way.

Annabeth couldn't hold back the gasp when she stepped inside. The angle of the hall and consecutive arches cast the illusion of the library continuing on for miles. Shelves, built into the walls or part of durable stacks, were stuffed full of magnificently large tomes, and loosely rolled scrolls. It was all so reminiscent of the archives on Olympus before it had been ransacked that it hurt. Percy was right: she could become so lost in here that she'd die of starvation.

Annabeth itched to pull at least a few of them from their dusty resting spots, spider webs be damned. But she caught herself. She was here for a reason, and it wasn't to satisfy her curiosity.

The weaver.

The woman had said something about it always being the Blood Moon, as the moon had been decidedly yellowish white, it was safe to say she hadn't been referencing a continuous celestial event. Which meant that 'it's always the Blood Moon' translated to 'it's always because of the Blood Moon.' But what was because of the Blood Moon—and what exactly was a Blood Moon—was the question.

That, and who was the woman?

Annabeth had had enough interactions with gods, goddesses, and immortals to recognize one—even if it was after the fact. The weaver hadn't explicitly or inexplicitly threatened her, disregarding the horrific soundtrack implanted into her mind, so it seemed she might actually be one of the good ones. Or, Annabeth amended, one of the ones that decided to help when it catered to their own personal goals. Still convenient, if a little dubious and annoying.

Moving down the first few stacks, drawing her hand down the spines of a few protruding volumes, Annabeth scanned the titles. Most of them were nonsense, written in some old Albion language that Annabeth had no hopes of translating, while others seemed dedicated to lineages of some of Camelot's oldest families. Neither of which would help her in her endeavors.

Cathach.

Leabhar Ard Mhacha.

Lebor Laignech.

Codex Cenannensis (Annabeth was brought up short by that particular title. If it were any other time, she would have dragged it free, just for the experience of holding the pages between her fingers. But she forced herself to keep moving).

Llyfr Coch Hergest.

Llyfr Taliesin.

Annabeth didn't recognize any of the other titles, though she wondered if any of them would outline the fundamentals of Celtic Mythology. It had never been one of her favorites; the names alone were enough to give her a dyslexic migraine, and it had simply never been relevant.

Until now, that is.

Now she was kicking herself for having basically no knowledge beyond that of banshees and leprechauns and a fairy queen who had an army or ghost hounds that like to prowl the moors at twilight. At any rate, Annabeth recalled that 'Celtic' was a bit of a misnomer. There were six so-called Celtic nations, and while there was some overlap, each one had their own gods and cultures that had evolved over the centuries. As for Albion, the name was thought to have come from the Greek word for white.

Even if magic was 'evil' in real-life Albion, Annabeth hoped there would still be extensive records in the library. Know thy enemy, and all that.

The further she wandered in, the more her footsteps echoed against the stones. She cringed at first and adjusted her walk to an overexaggerated heel-to-toe movement.

"Hello?" Annabeth called, peering through the opened shelves. "Anyone home?"

Silence was her answer. She supposed that was not in and of itself surprising. Literacy outside the aristocracy wouldn't be commonplace for hundreds of years, and knights would have very few reasons, if any, to read about past kings and queens.

Annabeth walked even further in, passing a table covered—to the point it looked close to collapse—with scrolls, tomes, volumes, loose stacks of parchment, anything and everything that could be used to hold information. Nearly everything was splayed open for easy viewing. In a small clearing in the middle of it all was a quill, its tip still shining with wet ink, an inkwell lying open next to it. Someone had been there recently.

Annabeth was about to move on and try her luck at random selection when something caught her eye. She paused. Was that…?

Annabeth leaned over the desk and scanned each of the pages until, again, a flash of black stood out from the rest. The object of her attention was a simple book, small and weather-beaten, the open pages displaying hastily scratched scribblings, but the letters were unmistakable. Annabeth snatched up the book and scanned the words to make sure she wasn't imagining it.

Τὸν δ' ὀλιγοδρανέων προσέφης Πατρόκλεις ἱππεῦ

But you, powerless Patroklos the charioteer, answered

She flipped the page, then the next and to the end of the chapter. It had been a few years since she had read the original, but Annabeth recognized the scene—how could she not? Apollo, having entered the field of battle veiled in mist, struck Patroklos from behind, dislodging Achilles's armor and leaving him vulnerable to the chaos surrounding him. Stunned, the Myrmidon would stand there and fall victim to numerous strikes until Hektor dealt the final blow. Then he mocked the dying man, but it was Patroklos who had the final word.

"Even now already death and powerful destiny are standing beside you,'" Annabeth read aloud, shivers coursing down her back.

She loved the Iliad.

Of all the things to happen so far, finding a written copy of the Iliad was high on the list of the unbelievable. She supposed it was physically possible for it to exist—the oldest full manuscript of the Iliad was the Venetus A from the 10th century ACE—so, in theory, it could have traveled its way to Albion, which seemed to be somewhere between the 10th and 14th centuries. The coincidence though—an exceedingly rare artifact from Greece, detailing their gods' involvement in mortal affairs, making its way to an, until recently, legendary kingdom that was being overrun by the same monsters? Either her gods, the immortals present in Albion, or a combination of the two had to be responsible.

And had been for a long time. But her and Percy's very existence in Medieval England proved that time was fluid, malleable.

And why bother with the epic? Maybe it was a warning? A warning that the immortals' support was split between the people of Albion, just as it had been in the Trojan War? Or maybe it was just a product placement to say that they needed to be there, or it gave clout to her and Percy's Helladan backstory—as if the Cyclopes and harpies didn't do that enough.

"I see you have found our archives," a voice remarked dryly.

Heart in her throat, Annabeth spun, one hand clutching the book to her chest, the other reaching for her knife. Only to realize that it was burred below what felt like mounds of curtains. Probably a good thing too, as since her arrival in Albion, celestial bronze had taken on the ability to do harm to mortals, and she couldn't imagine Arthur would be pleased if she skewered his royal physician.

The old man in question stood a few paces away, staring her down with his unnerving gaze, judging and conspiring.

"Gaius," Annabeth laughed nervously, and brushed out the pages in case she had crimped or otherwise damaged the delicate parchment.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, not sounding at all contrite.

"You didn't. Just caught me by surprise, is all. I get—lost in my own little word when I'm reading."

Gaius stepped closer and requested the book with a gesture of his hand, and Annabeth complied. He held the manuscript an armlength away as he scanned the open page. Then he flipped to the front, maintaining their place in the sixteenth chapter with his finger, and ran his hand down the front. Compared to the hurried scribbling that compiled the rest of the epic, the cover had been carefully crafted with Greek meanders inked along each of the sides, as if the author had grown bored one afternoon.

Ἰλιάς

The Song of Ilion

"Someone traded this to me many years ago," Gaius said absently, now gently fanning through some of the inner books. "A young man—a wanderer and poet. Regrettably, we parted ways before he was able to narrate its contents." He pressed the novel into Annabeth's hands, a hopeful, unspoken request if she had ever heard one.

Annabeth licked her lips. There really was no harm in sharing…right?

"It's a poem. An epic recounting a war between the nations of Hellada and Troy." Annabeth flipped to the first page and immediately read the epochal first line she had heard countless times before. No matter the number of translations, the English never quite captured the unnamable element of the original—the rhythm, the flow, the literal meaning. Still, for some reason Peter Green's interpretation, the most recently published translation, felt, tasted, sounded, right. Annabeth, knowing full well the rhapsodic history of the epic, would read it out loud whenever revisiting the text, and Green's just…worked.

Annabeth flushed as soon as she realized just how long she had been staring at the first page. Gaius wasn't pushing her or otherwise impressing a sense of judgment—if anything he seemed amused by how much she cherished the book—but his presence didn't go unnoticed. She cleared her throat.

"'Wrath, goddess, sing of Achilles Peleus's son's calamitous wrath, which hit the Achaeans with countless ills," she began, looking at the words despite knowing them by heart, "— many the valiant souls it saw off down to Hades, souls of heroes, their selves left as carrion for dogs and all birds of prey, and the plan of Zeus was fulfilled from the first moment those two men parted in fury, Atreus's son, king of men, and the godlike Achilles.'"

When Annabeth looked up, she saw something, something that looked suspiciously like recognition, flash across Gaius's face. But he had said he knew the bare minimum about Hellada, so he what would he recognize in a 2015 translation of a Greek epic? Maybe it was one of the names?

The old physician gained control of his expression quickly and it morphed into one of interest as he hummed and walked around the table. He groaned slightly as he lowered himself into the throne-like chair, watching her all the while. "It sounds as if the author knew war well," he said calculatingly.

Annabeth shrugged. "As well as any wandering poet," she said, then added under her breath, "though I doubt he actually saw any of it."

Gaius either didn't hear her or decided not to pursue the matter further. It was probably a bit of both if his preoccupied gaze was anything to go by. Distractedly, he picked up the forgotten quill and righted it in its proper place. "This man, Achilles," he started, straightening away more of the clutter, "he sounds like a truly formidable foe."

"That he certainly was." It tends to when your skin is stronger than any armor in existence and you have the self-control of a starved wolf dropped in a sheepfold.

Gaius leant forward, resting his forearms on the table. "He sounds if he was the villain of the story."

Annabeth bristled. "No. He—" she cut herself off. Who was the villain of the Iliad? To Menelaus, it was Paris without a doubt. To Helen, it was Menelaus; to Iphigenia, her own father. To the Trojans, maybe? No one was really the villain, but then again, no one was innocent either, aside from a few characters who were caught in the crossfire of the whole debacle. If anything, the gods were to blame. "He wasn't a villain, exactly. He was—just a warrior. In a war."

"I merely assumed that one's whose wrath was the cause of such death and destruction that he must have had ill intentions."

"I mean it all perspective, isn't it?" Annabeth's personal opinions aside—because if she thought too much about the unforgivable horrors that assailed nearly every woman ever mentioned in antiquities, she wouldn't be able to exist in its present—she'd had enough of the biased opinion on anything magical (anything different). She'd bit her tongue at dinner, but now it was being applied to her history. "Achilles was fatally flawed, but to the Greeks he was a hero. To the Trojans, he was a 'formidable foe' that could very well have brought about their destruction single-handedly. Just because one side says something, it doesn't make it automatically true. Take Camelot's ban on sorcery; just because one person used magic to 'do evil', doesn't mean every sorcerer will."

Gaius looked surprised, but not in a way that screamed anger or disapproval, though the man was proving to be difficult to accurately read. He nodded once in agreement. "A sentiment that is dangerous within these walls. Although, since Arthur took the throne, it has become less so. As great a king Uther was, there are many druids, who had lived in Camelot peacefully for years, would not be in such agreement."

"Why did he ban magic?"

"Grief," Gaius stated simply. "Although, sentiments of a similar nature had been rising within Camelot for years leading up to the Queen's death, but ultimately, the King blamed magic and the Old Religion for his ravaged heart." For a moment, Annabeth glimpsed the pain and guilt that have accompanied him all those years. It shone in his eyes, in the tightening of his face. Then he breathed in and focused his gaze on the book still clutched tightly in her hands. "If Achilles was not the villain of your war, what was the cause? What role did he play?"

"It's really difficult to explain…" Annabeth hedged. Having basically grown up with the intricacies of being a demigod and having gods and immortals literally mess with her life since birth, she had learned to simply accept the facts for what they were. Explaining that Achilles was told he could either die young as a hero or live an unremarkable life didn't really encapsulate the realities of his fate. "I guess it started with a couple prophecies. And a lot of human error. And a lot that wasn't."

Gaius nodded for her to try, and again, Annabeth got the impression he knew something more than he was saying.

"Okay, um." She took a deep breath and followed the breadcrumb trail of how a few simple choices led to a ten-year siege. Unfortunately, that trail splintered in a few places, but luckily, there was always at least one thing in common. The gods.

"One thing you learn as a Helladan is that the gods exist to interfere," she said, feeling the bitterness slip past her guard. "Out of lust, jealousy, amusement, love—whatever the reason, it's physically impossible for them to sit idly by and let us just live our lives. The Trojan War? It basically all started because these three goddesses demanded a mortal shepherd choose who was the most beautiful. Then turns out this shepherd, who chose love over wisdom and power, was actually a Trojan prince, abandoned as a baby because of a catastrophic prophecy. Which was one of literally thousands." Annabeth was slightly aware that she had descended into the realm of ranting, but it hadn't even crossed her mind to stop. Looking back, she might regret her choice. But then again, she might not. "Achilles's fate wasn't much better. His mom tried to save him, but clearly that didn't work, 'cause you can't outrun the Fates. Even in the middle of a war, with everything in his favor—except maybe one tiny little thing—the gods tugged on their marionettes. Then add on top of it all, there was his own hubris and need for kleos."

Only when Annabeth was forced to stop and take a breath did she realize that Gaius was staring at her as if she'd just vomited on his shoes. "Was he more than… that is, what gave him such advantages in war?"

"You mean, was he a sorcerer?" Even though the old man didn't nod, she knew that's what he was getting at. And now, she was feeling the beginning pangs of regret. "No..."

"It hardly seems possible that an ordinary man could wreak such destruction against two armies. It takes a lot to said to rival the gods themselves. Even some of the most powerful practitioners of the Old Religion could rarely claim such a feat."

To lie, or not to lie.

Annabeth chewed on her lip. It was entirely possible she and Percy would have to get Merlin on their side, and if he was a magician like all the stories suggested, wouldn't he be fine with the fact that they had exceptional parentage? Then again, just because Merlin might have magic, it didn't mean Gaius had anything to do with it. He might be just as bigoted and anti-magic as Arthur.

"What I said before, about the gods liking to interfere in mortal affairs? It was more than just starting wars and making people judge a beauty contest. Sometimes, they had children. With mortals."

Gaius could have been a statue for all he reacted. He simply sat there, eyebrow raised, gears in his head turning behind his eyes. Fortunately, there were no hints of suspicion or accusation or disbelief. Just deliberation.

"They aren't inherently good or bad," Annabeth rushed to explain. "They don't even use magic like your sorcerers. They might have—advantages or abilities like Achilles, but they were their own person, with their own will and many, many flaws, but they were just them. Immortal meddling aside."

At last, after a drawn-out eternity, Gaius hummed. "I must say, in all my years in this world, that is something I have yet to come across. Fate, however, is a concept familiar enough."

As Gaius made no move to elaborate, they fell into silence. Not quite comfortable, but not altogether unwanted. Annabeth wasn't sure what to make of the old physician. As close as he was to Merlin, he hadn't come across quite as hostile as the sorcerer-turned-manservant. Now that she had spilled her guts about Greece being more accepting of the magical, supernatural side of things, he didn't look like he was about to go running—or, rather, walking with serious intent—to Arthur. That was something at least.

"Why are you here?"

Annabeth blinked. "What? We—um…"

"Most people come to the library looking for something," explained Gaius with a spark of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, uh." They had wandered so far into the topic of the Iliad and demigods and fate that, for a second, she couldn't remember why she'd come in the first place. "I wanted to look up what a Blood Moon is—just someone in town said—and I'd never heard of it before…"

Apparently, an inquisitive brow was the trademark of Gaius's character. He certainly did it enough, and over the past few days, it had been leveled at Annabeth and Percy more times than she could count. "A Blood Moon, as you may well have guessed, is when the moon all but vanishes from the sky, and the light still visible is cast in a crimson shadow."

Annabeth resisted the urge to react outwardly, all the while cringing and grimacing inside. An eclipse. Of course, it was an eclipse. Everyone knew that magic revolved around celestial events. Full moon, crescent moon, new moon, comets, shooting stars, a fricken planetary alignment warning Scorpios off of shellfish for a week, whatever was happening in the heavens would inevitably affect what was happening down on earth. Annabeth had just gotten too hung up on the wording.

"What's so special about it?" Please don't say werewolves, she prayed.

Gaius hummed. "Practitioners of the Old Religion found it enhanced certain incantations, while others could only be performed on such an occasion. They believed that the veils between our world and the next were at its thinnest during these two nights a year. However, since the banishment of all things to do with sorcery and Druidism, the only reason someone would acknowledge the Blood Moon is because of what it just happens to coincide with."

Twice a year, believed to enhance spells, soon enough to have an effect on the weaver's ostensibly magic dogs—with all the preparations going into the fete two days from now, it was a wonder Annabeth hadn't put it together sooner.

Still, she needed to be sure. "Let me guess: it coincides with your Alban Eiler Festival?"

"Indeed."

Of course, it did.

Now if only Gaius had a list of all the spells that required the Blood Moon, then she'd be all set, they could put a stop to the big bad, and be home by tomorrow night. Right. Annabeth almost snorted. As if it would be that easy. It was never that easy. And after this conversation, she was starting to think that maybe they won't have any records of the Old Religion here.

"Annie?"

Annabeth turned toward where the voice seemed to be coming from. The call was muffled and distorted by the distance, but there was only one person in this century who called her that. And only one who would decide playing a trans castle game of Marco Polo was an efficient way to locate her.

"Annabeth?"

Much clearer now, he seemed to know exactly where to find her and just felt like alerting everyone to his movements. Then came Percy's hurried steps, preceding his face by only a few seconds as he jogged through the library entrance, grinning goofily and glancing over his shoulder. "See I told you, a lopsided knight guarding the entrance. 'Tis but a flesh—'" He stopped short as soon as he saw Annabeth was not, in fact, alone with her nose buried in a book. Percy dropped his sad impression of a British accent and waved. "—wound. Gaius. Hi."

Percy cleared his throat, his hand landing on Riptide's hilt, which had never left his side since their arrival. Unlike Annabeth's cloak, which was pooled on her nightstand, as she still had no idea why whoever brought them here had decided her invisibility cap needed a Harry Potter makeover.

"Arthur—summoned us," he said, still fiddling with his sword. "Something about a small army and a harpy?"

Annabeth nodded and went to go running off toward the courtyard, but she stopped almost as soon as she started. She looked down at her legs, swathed in expensive linen that was just waiting to bring her to the ground after a single sudden movement. "Right," she muttered. "Um, small problem."

As soon as the thought of hacking away a good portion of the dress sailed across her mind, Percy grinned knowingly. He slipped something off his back and tugged free a bundle of leather and cotton, holding it out to her. "Figured you'd want something a little more battle ready."

Annabeth could have kissed him. She beamed at him, wrinkling her nose when the full aroma of historically accurate, unadulterated leather hit her full force, regretting having learned how they tanned leather before toxic modern chemicals. Still, nauseating ingredients aside, it would be infinitely better than running around in satiny linen and falling on her face in front of a blood-hungry Saxon or a flesh-hungry harpy.

Again, Annabeth was about to leave, when Percy happened to glance down and notice something else was clutched in her hands. "What's that?" he asked.

Annabeth followed his gaze then trailed back to Gaius, who was watching the exchange from his seat at the table. She shook her head and walked back over, setting the Iliad carefully down with the rest of the old scrolls and ancient manuscripts. "Nothing."

For some reason, it almost hurt to leave it behind, but it wasn't like she could take this as a souvenir when they finally go back home. Assuming they ever got back home.

Gaius's scene was a challenge. Hopefully it wasn't choppy, but I did end up rewriting a few sections, which might have changed the flow a bit. Hopefully for the better...
My conversation skills have dived off a cliff as a result of the last year and half...
Also, hopefully some of the pieces start to slide into place (assuming my thoughts aren't jumbled and weirdly complex in a confusing way)