Hello!

First off- The child in me is absolutely dying with excitement that PJO is getting a disney series

Second off- I am very sorry. I realize this hiatus was a little longer than what I promised, so I am sorry about that

Between work, school, and just not liking what I wrote/not having the energy to write, I got none of my stories done-which is disappointing, but that's how it is

I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe and finds this next chapter enjoyable. I had to post something, even if it isn't perfect, so hopefully this will get me out of my rut and get you guys more chapters more consistently

(PS: it's been so long that I kinda forget what I wrote, so if there are conversations that are essentially copies of earlier scenes, please let me know. I've already caught a few of them, and I literally rewrote this chapter so many times and reused certain interactions)-long story short, this is severely un-beta-ed

I have decided to honor the PJ&O series by adding alternative chapter titles because let's be honest, RR's titles were the best

This chapter is dedicated to Mother_of_Robots and Soylunayeli

Alternate title: Percy Jinxes Everyone

Percy woke with the sun.

Not by choice or with anything remotely resembling consent, but because the traitorous, heartless curtains were conspiring against him. He distinctly remembered Annabeth pulling them shut last night, hurling them in utter, blessed total darkness, and yet, somehow, here they were. Either blatantly not closed or simply failing at their one and only job of keeping the day at bay. Sliding aside and beckoning the warm, piercing rays of a perfect, beautiful, optimistic Spring. Which even seemed to have victoriously beaten back the moist chill that seemed to be a stipulation of the legendary castle's construction.

Percy blinked lethargically, intolerantly, at the bright light.

He hoped Apollo was enjoying himself. Then as a cloud, however small and pitiful it had been, shifted, and a new glaring dagger of sunshine caught Percy's eye, like a dozen pinpoint needles stabbing his pupil brutally, he hoped some falling star would come out of nowhere and obliterate the heartless god for a century or two.

Though Percy had to admit that he preferred it this way. That Apollo, or whatever Celtic god made the sun go round in this dimension, chose today to make an appearance. Or more specifically, not yesterday. It was fitting that today was, at least at first glance, a splendid March day—one that was almost so promising, Percy could pretend to forget—and that yesterday had been the bleak, cold overcast of rain. He could almost hear his English teacher monologuing about the pathetic correlation the author had intended for the weather.

But honestly, Percy didn't think he could picture Langecliffe any other way. The sun shining over the vast, empty fields, the scent of scorched daisies and evergreens and pines carried by the wind, songbirds whistling some melancholy tune as their less than endearing, carnivorous counterparts shrieked in dissonance.

Undoubtedly lamenting how long they had to wait for the men in shiny armor to leave so they could peck away the remaining—

Queasiness sent Percy reeling. He shot up, swallowing thickly, and drove both palms deep into his eyes until he saw the flecks of colored lights. Dark, dancing, hypnotic reds and blues and greys. It did nothing to stop the actual thoughts of disgust and self-doubt, but the building pressure erased the worst of it, even as his eyes began to pulse in warning. He knew if he took away his hands, the image would just re-materialize an instant later. Like a horrific, rotting pink elephant.

"Get it together, Percy," he breathed.

He pressed only that much harder till white flashed behind his eyes.

Enough—Percy'd pictured it, recalled it, obsessed over whether they could have done anything to save them, allowed himself enough time last night. Today was a new day. A new day, and there were plenty of other issues to deal with, than bad memories. It was in the past.

Would it help to dwell on it? No.

Would telling himself to forget about it help? Probably not, but it didn't stop him from trying.

He just needed to get it together. If he couldn't do it for himself, then at the very least, for Annabeth. The last thing she needed would be to see him freaking out again. It was bad enough at the village, when he'd all but froze. Just—finding that necklace and seeing and smelling the destruction of an entire town. Langecliffe couldn't be further from New York City, but the way the ash coated his tongue and the weighted silence of everything had thrown him back, and then it had all become so distant. Detached. Easier.

Not exactly a healthy response either.

Though when had he ever been a perfect picture of a healthy reaction and sound judgement?

Percy released his eyes and waited until the de-colored, outline of a room regained its details in full. Then he sucked in a breath, grabbed a fistful of his pantlegs and ordered his heart to slow down to a manageable rate. Through clenched teeth, he gradually let the air out of his lungs, till there was nothing left.

There was nothing anyone could do for Langecliffe, but Percy could make damn-well sure this didn't happen again. Screw the timeline or whatever butterfly law and order the universe might or might not have. Like Annabeth said the second day. It was too late to worry about that now; might as well change what they could for the better.

There was only one problem—well, a few problems that were currently dogging their heels like a rabid hellhound, but the main, most glaringly obvious and immediate was in the shape of a not-so-ancient magician who had more suspicion than sense. Honestly, all Percy and Annabeth had done since coming to Camelot had been help fight Saxons and monsters, possibly saving his precious king and his own ungrateful ass in the process, so really, it was unfair and a little obnoxious that Percy was still under intense scrutiny.

Except for yesterday…which seemed…wrong…

Merlin had basically ignored Percy and Annabeth the entire way home (back/to Camelot/to another nightmarish dream—Percy honestly didn't know what to call it). He'd ridden next to Arthur, who had insisted on sharing his horse with the boy from Langeciffe, and then, after everyone had essentially collapsed off their horses, Merlin vanished. As if he hadn't witnessed a sword literally ricochet off Percy's face. He'd just walked away.

Percy stilled.

He looked at the door. Sprawled across the bed, hanging nearly off the side as he was, he could clearly see the iron deadbolt hooked on its latch. The door, oak probably, was solid and thick, and yet Percy bet the knights could have found a way into the room had they really wanted to. Percival was large enough to act as a battering ram, Elyan was apparently a blacksmith's son, and really, how solid was a little bit of metal nailed to the wall?

But the room was as untouched as the night before, the lock secured from when Annabeth had slid it closed.

So, plotting or confused?

Honestly, Percy couldn't tell which he preferred. Merlin so far hadn't been as endearing as the starry, blue-capped wizard the animation made him out to be, but if he was truly a magician, then it was better to have him as an ally than a passive-aggressive enemy. Meaning the best course of action, regardless of Merlin's current mindset, would be to take care of the problem off before it turns and bites off their heads…

Before he got any further in his internal monologue, the duvet moaned. Then the silken mound rippled, the tiniest whisp of golden hair slipping out the sides. Percy smiled smally. He reached over, grasped what he hoped was only blanket, and tugged it away from her face, smiling more broadly when the moan morphed into a growl. Two squinting grey eyes peered out over the folded edge.

"Why," Annabeth grumbled, tugging the covers out of Percy's hands, and rolling onto her side.

Percy was tempted to lie back down, but the feeling of a dozen fraying sailor's knots in his gut hadn't exactly subsided. It seemed gravity made it more tolerable, but past experience of having ingested more-than-questionable food told him that returning to a horizontal position would tip the balance for the worst. Instead, he braced himself on one arm, leaning precariously against the canopy post, and gazed down at her with amusement.

The bedding, that had practically cocooned in a potentially murderous embrace, was now arranged in a perfectly chaotic bird's nest. Pillows, sheets, the scratchy ornate topper that was barely larger than those fat scarves New Yorkers were so in love with—all of them were piled on top of the other, encircling him and Annabeth, packed into lavish hills and dunes. Not exactly comfortable, especially since none of the pillows were even being used as pillows. Percy was pretty certain there were more than a few imprinted crevices all over his left side.

The half-shelled cocoon shifted again, and surrendering to full-consciousness, Annabeth flicked away the last bit of bedding from her face. She stared blankly at the crimson canopy above their heads and let out a long, tired breath. "How long have you been awake?"

"Couple minutes." He reached out and brushed away the thin whisps of wayward hair falling into her face. "How'd you sleep?"

"Okay, I guess. Weird dream."

"Like normal weird or weird, weird?"

"What does that even mean?" Her face scrunched in confusion, Annabeth dragged herself up, taking the duvet with her, and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. "Like our weird. It felt really familiar, but I can't…I know there was a chariot. And a storm. And…Zeus?"

Percy huffed. "So, a nightmare, then?"

Annabeth gave him a small smile, but it fell away almost as soon as it appeared. "Could've been worse," she said quietly.

Percy nodded mutely, dragging his hands through his hair. Each of his fingers came away with a questionable slickness, and he grimaced. Apparently, the wash bucket that appeared at his door every evening wasn't doing the trick a modern shower and chemical soap would do. Not that it was at the top of his list of worries, but he certainly hoped the perfumes and 'flower essences' were masking enough of the musk that was undoubtedly stalking after him like a noxious fog.

"I guess we have some stuff we should figure out," Percy said, rubbing the tips of his fingers against one another.

Annabeth bit her lip and nodded.

"Like what we do now that we not only have to deal with a paranoid wizard but an evil, psychopathic witch too. Any brilliant ideas where to start?"

Annabeth began to comb through her hair as she thought, threading her fingers through the tangled ends then making her way up methodically. She scowled when she reached what was probably a colossal, unsalvageable mass at the base of her skull—Percy was secretly glad he wasn't the only one struggling to adjust to Medieval hygiene standards. It seemed she hadn't even bothered to change into one of the many gowns the room had been supplied with, despite the smell of ash and horse clinging to the clothes she'd worn riding.

Not that Percy could judge—he'd barely bothered to strip off the heavy leather vest and extra little bits of 'armor' Arthur had insisted on before collapsing on his bed.

"I guess…" Annabeth puffed out her cheeks, as if the next words left a bitter foretaste. "…in hindsight—it would have been wiser to try talking with Merlin before it got to this point."

"I consider it a personal victory they haven't come at us with pitchforks yet, and maintain that it could still be worse. And in our defense, the great wizard hasn't exactly made an effort to play nice with us either."

"No," Annabeth relented with a nod, "but do you know how many horrible, gruesome deaths could have been avoided in Greek history if people had just talked in the first place? I've read all of them multiple times and studied them in depth, and I still fell for it."

Percy—quite proudly drawing on the history lessons at camp that were 'mandatory'—had the urge to point out that those deaths were often preceded by a gang of vengeful immortals competing at a world-shattering game of tug-of-fate, leaving a wake of tormented, damned souls in their wake. Then, in his own very vivid and personal experience, there was a hefty number of them now-a-days more than happy to keep up with the tradition, and even more sitting on the sidelines with a bag of popcorn.

Or was that just his pessimism shining through?

In the end, Percy found it 'wiser' to keep those particular thoughts to himself. After all, it hadn't been just Annabeth's decision to keep their mouths shut. "Seems to work out fine in the movies."

Annabeth rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because our lives are hallmark movies."

"Aren't they though?"

"Then maybe," she redirected pointedly, "we should go off-script."

Percy leant back against the bedpost. "Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning…" Annabeth trailed away, seemingly preferring to consider her words more carefully. "Meaning, do you think whoever orchestrated us—this—wanted us to meet Merlin…and work with him?"

Percy's stomach chose to answer for him, and he curled in on himself to try and muffle the sound. "As opposed to…?"

Annabeth shrugged. "A coincidence."

Percy could probably count on one hand the number of coincidences that happened in his life—and whether he actually believed that was the case was another matter entirely; between annoyingly meddlesome gods, peeved immortals, and the persistent fates, it left little room for anything as outlandish as coincidence. He still wasn't entirely convinced about the 'good luck' of meeting Grover when he did—although that was one experience he wouldn't trade for anything.

The fact that Merlin and King Arthur just happened to appear at Baile-Avon, at the exact moment they were needed, when an army of Greek monsters decided they were famished, Percy was understandably a little skeptical. Especially considering he and Annabeth had been directed to that very town in the first place. So, if the meeting at Baile-Avon was a coincidence, they just had to figure out whether it was a Grover- or Aunty Em-type.

"Would it change anything if it was?" he asked finally.

"No." Annabeth snagged one of the uncomfortable, decorative pillows and laid it across her lap, plucking at one of the tassels hanging off the corners. "Maybe." Another tassel took the brunt of her frustration. "I don't know. I just don't want to screw something up irreversibly. Like killing Arthur off. Or derailing Camelot entirely and sending them into the Dark Ages before they could do anything close to what they did in the books. Just because some god came up with this brilliant plan for a team-up. "

Despite himself, Percy felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "Wait, were you going to suggest that, if they, whoever 'they' are, had wanted us to work with Merlin, that we do the exact opposite out of spite?" His face broke into a full smile when Annabeth didn't confirm or deny. "That's sounds like something I would do. Am I rubbing off on you? —Does this mean you admit I can have good ideas?"

Annabeth glared at him flatly, though the effect was somewhat dampened by the fact she was still draped in the thick duvet, while her hair looked like the plumage of a mad cockatoo. "I never said you couldn't have good ideas."

Percy held up his hands relentingly. "Okay, true, just heavily implied it. Except, the way you say Percy sometimes, you may well have just come out and said it."

Annabeth tossed her pillow at him. He caught it easily and set it to the side, sobering considerably as he scanned her face.

"Are you seriously worried? Cause in the very wise words of someone I know, it's a little late for that."

Annabeth knit her eyebrows, taking a moment to consider it. She shook her head. Her hand slipped out from under her duvet cape and clasped onto Percy's, her fingers threading between his. "As far as I can tell, we only have two options, anyways: talk with Merlin and set the record straight, or leave and look like we have something to hide."

Percy nodded, twisting their grip so his thumb was on top. "I will say, though, taking on a witch and an army of Saxons and monsters by ourselves isn't exactly my top choice."

"Mine either," Annabeth agreed. "Especially, since Morgana has made it plenty clear she wants us alive. It could be nothing, but I'd rather not figure that out the hard way." Without even looking, she matched his competitive movements. Her face twitched in amusement, no matter how hard she was fighting to stay serious. "If we do tell Merlin everything, and he freaks out, then we'd end up leaving anyways. Post haste, and possibly with an angry mob of pitchforks and torches on our heels, but what else is new?"

"Plus, we're not sorcerers," Percy added. "So the whole 'magic being illegal' thing doesn't really apply to us."

"Right, we're just half-magical beings, so it really comes down to technicalities and semantics. And if Merlin really is a wizard, then he's breaking the law too, and it won't matter…" Annabeth trailed away, her eyes drifting down to Percy's stomach, when his hunger, once again, made itself known. "You gonna be okay, or should we just call it?"

Percy grimaced sheepishly. "Chiron warned me about the exhaustion, but he never said anything about the Curse making me constantly famished."

"I'm pretty sure your mom would say that was the case before you took the plunge."

"My point still stands. I'm never not hungry." Percy shrugged. "And I don't mean to sound whiny and ungrateful, but if we have to sit through another 'more-stew' or whatever they called that nasty porridge stuff, I might just have to see if beheading a hydra will spawn a donut shop—medieval style."

Annabeth snorted. "You realize if we get attacked, I have every right to blame you, right?"

"I thought I was desperate for some real food after those first few weeks at camp, but this is a whole new level."

"The food at camp isn't that bad," Annabeth retorted as she extracted herself from the downy covers, sliding off the bed, and walking over to the wardrobe.

"Oh, I never said it was bad." Percy kicked his legs over the side of the bed, only slightly struggling to disentangle himself from the clutches of the pillows. "Just healthy."

"The horror," she mock-whispered, looking into cabinet's depths.

Like Percy's own 'chambers', it had been packed full of extra sheets and blankets, although they seemed to have taken extra care to supply Annabeth with frocks and fancy evening gowns, as well. Assuming she knew, and was physically able to, put them on herself—an array of presumably expensive golds, and greens, and reds were hanging in the wardrobe at her disposal.

How considerate.

Percy watched her with dry amusement as she flicked through the provided choices, blatantly unamused by the lack of pants and shirts. Sliding all the dresses to the left side of the shelves, she began flicking through them again. He imagined her scowl setting deeper.

"What are you doing?"

Annabeth turned around empty-handed. "I was going to change into something new—well, newer—but—" she threw a dismissive hand at the wardrobe, and its colorful contents, behind her. "Here's to hoping I don't smell too bad cause I'm not wearing a dress to a sword fight." As if actually concerned by the thought, she pulled her shirt away and stuck her nose into the fabric, sniffing cautiously.

"That's what the perfume is for." Percy indicated the bureau on the other side of the room, on top of which rested a vanity mirror and a spattering of opaque jars. It was probably filled with Eau de Nightshade given the rather unfortunate beauty practices in the past, but when in Rome. "And I thought we were going to try talking to Merlin first and not, you know—stabbing him."

"You're hilarious," Annabeth drawled.

Percy grinned.

"I just figured we had to find Merlin in order to talk to him. That and maybe finding sustenance along the way might be nice so that when something inevitably goes wrong and we're fighting for our lives, we don't have to listen to your stomach growling the whole time."

Percy couldn't argue with that logic. Although that meant, even if he wasn't about to run back to his room to change, he had to find his shoes.

Which meant that, even if he wasn't about to run back to his room to change, he had to find his shoes.

Very vaguely, he remembered kicking them off last night—possibly also stumbling over them with all the grace of a drunken caribou. Glancing around now, it seemed he may have kicked them further than he'd thought. He dropped to his knees, feeling around under the impractically large canopy bed, and nudged what felt like the mesh fabric of a 21st Century shoe. His finger managed to snag just the tip of the loop, and he successfully extracted the one, lone shoe.

"You know," Annabeth drawled from somewhere above him. He could tell from her voice that she was smiling. "Like in true Hallmark fashion."

Percy sat back on his haunches just in time to see Annabeth standing above him, his second shoe dangling from her finger, a strained yet triumphant smile spreading across her face.

It didn't exactly work out how they expected in the end.

The first half of their plan—commandeering food along the way to the physician's quarters—went off without a hitch. That is discounting the cook with a very aggressive stance to people entering her kitchen uninvited. As odd and surprising as that interaction was, as it would happen, it wasn't even the strangest part of their morning.

No, that was reserved for what they found as soon as they ventured through the halls: nothing. It would have been silent, if not for their footsteps. Their voices, so low that they were hissing more than whispering, still echoed off the castle's stone walls, and Percy's own breath grated against his ears. Worse than silence in his opinion.

A part of him had already known that the attack on Langecliffe would have a strong effect on Camelot—how could it not?—but he hadn't expected the entire castle to hide itself away like a turtle retreating into its shell. Judging from Annabeth's wide eyes and careful steps, neither had she. It seemed, it didn't matter the threat was far outside the walls; no one knew how the people of Langecliffe died. For all they knew, Morgana had merely waved her hand and dozens of people laid down and died, and Camelot was next.

It left the castle in a depressing state. Colorful buntings and woven garlands were tossed into the corners into massive piles; a handful of tinsel-like decorations were spun lazily around the railings of the main stairwell; and one particular alcove was so stuffed full of braziers, statues, twine figurines, and everything else that might go into a Celtic Equinox celebration (Percy didn't even want to know what that one cross-looking torture device was actually for) that it looked like Philoctetes's hidey-hole from Hercules. It was as if the place knew it should be getting ready for the upcoming holiday but it couldn't be bothered to actually do the work.

The four servants they did pass scurried away, heads bowed, eyes to the ground. And the six sentries stuck in between the alcoves? They moved less than the empty suits of amor.

Needless to say, it made the journey down to the kitchen quick and easy, although ten times more unnerving. It didn't help either that Annabeth vanished halfway there, slipping off down the hallway with an off-handed, hurried 'meet me in the courtyard' and zero explanation as to why and where she was going, leaving Percy to face the cook alone.

Which was how he found himself seven minutes later (two minutes longer than it should have taken, but apparently his mental map needed more work), jogging out of the main hall, rubbing his head gingerly, and not at all bitter that the cook had clubbed him. In the back of the head. With a wooden spoon. To be fair, it hadn't actually hurt, but it was the premise that bothered him more than anything. It was rude and uncalled for, not to mention unsanitary as that very spoon found its way back into the cauldron of what was presumably lunch.

The only consolation to the whole embarrassing endeavor was that he had discovered a treasure trove of sweet rolls and assembled a sizable doggy bag before the lady caught him.

Thinking back on it, Percy could see why she might have been a little upset.

He jumped the last few, slightly eroded steps and glanced around. The courtyard was a party compared to the castle—a whole dozen guards were stationed along the raised interior walls and at the entrance to the portcullis. The two sirs, Thing One and Thing Two, who were unfortunate enough to be placed underneath the pointed blades of the slated gate, watched him attentively, obviously hoping for something (anything) to shatter through the monotony of guard duty. The others, patrolling with their crossbows held loosely in their hands, their red capes billowing epically in the wind, ignored him completely.

Typical.

However, there ended the excitement. There were a few curious horses occupying the stable off to the side, their jaws sliding back and forth mechanically, a dozen rather indifferent pigeons perched along the cornices, and the structure that the carpenters had hammering away at the day before stood exactly where it had been. More specifically, a certain blonde, who'd promised to meet him in the courtyard, was notably absent.

Without anything else to do, Percy wandered over the wooden platform. From what he could tell, they'd made a fair bit of progress on it, though he still wasn't entirely sure what it was for. It could have been a stage to showcase traveling minstrels and jesters, if it weren't for the massive, slightly off-kilter statue that was now looming over the courtyard. It had two posts for legs, a triangle body in the shape of an eye, a third arm reaching up to the sky…each one of them woven together out of branches and probably some actual, albeit thinner, tree trunks, bound together by ropes and bits of ivy. If Percy didn't know any better, he would have said it came straight out of a video game. Not exactly something he would have expected for a festival celebrating the equinox, but who was he to judge.

The temptation to poke it—even just the edge of one of the woven strands of the legs—was sudden and overwhelming. For no reason at all, except because he was bored, he had the decency to wait for Annabeth before starting in on his edible spoils, and there was no real reason not to. Except for the last time he poked an ancient artifact. The memory of metal clattering on stop and the pitiful sight of a lopsided suit of armor was enough to keep his hands firmly by his sides, and Percy leaned up against the platform, instead studying the intricacies of the knotted statue. He stared and realized within a few seconds that, try as he might, he really didn't care for modern art, regardless of the century.

"Boo," a voice stated quietly.

Percy, to his credit, didn't visibly jump. He simply turned around slowly, able to identify that voice just about anywhere, anytime. "You're going to have to try a lot harder to catch me by surprise," he said, one brow cocked in faux-bravado. "I'm unflappable."

Annabeth, hand on her hip, matched his expression. "Challenge accepted."

Grinning, Percy eyed her critically, trying to figure out just was more important than food. It seemed she hadn't run away to find a change of clothes—at least, as far as he could tell, seeing as everything here was 'well-loved' and the same sepia color scheme; her dagger had already been handing menacingly at her side, secured in a scabbard Queen Gwen had given her on their third day here; her invisibility cloak was still understandably absent, having been left behind every other time they set off for the day. So, what had been more important than their food-finding mission?

Annabeth shifted restlessly under his scrutiny, and she brought her arm out from behind her back. In her hand, clutched tightly, was a book. Percy eased it from her grip, took one look at the title, then looked back at Annabeth.

"I have a theory," she said hurriedly.

"And I have food." He handed back the book. "What's this theory of yours?"

Annabeth gnawed at her lip and glanced fleetingly around the courtyard, although there hadn't been time for anything to have changed. The guards patrolling the parapet and maintaining the portcullis were still more focused on the threats outside the walls than anything happening inside, even if 'anything' meant two teenage guests of the king conspiring under their very noses. And with there being no attendants or servants, the only sentient being that posed a threat to overhearing their potentially 'treasonous' conversations were the horses currently tugging at the stock of hay.

Satisfied they were alone, Annabeth asked, "what do you about the Iliad?"

"That it's the prime example of why fighting a war in sandals was a bad idea."

"True," —Annabeth rolled her eyes— "but that's not what I was—what do you know about the gods and the war?"

"Golden Apple, badly worded prophecies, and I'm pretty sure one or two of them had something to do with a giant wooden horse, but that could have just been them taking credit for ingenuity again." Percy ticked off each statement on a finger, coincidentally waving the napkin of breads and fruit as he did so. He wasn't lying when he said he was starving all the time.

"Percy, the gods didn't only support the Greeks. Both Helladan tribes and Trojans worshipped the Olympio—prayed, sacrificed, held festivals in their honor, so it makes sense that the gods would have loyalty to the both of them. Of course, that meant they still played favorites, and some pretended to be neutral, but most of them had direct roles in the war. Athena blessed Odysseus and tried to guide and protect Achilles, Apollo stabbed Patrokus, giving Hektor the opening for a killing blow, and Ares literally switched sides mid-war and led the Trojans into battle."

"Okay…" As much as Percy enjoyed impromptu history lessons, he didn't quite understand how this related to finding a Greek epic in an English library. It was admittedly adorable, however, seeing Annabeth get exasperated over his lack of knowledge in certain areas.

"I think this," –she brandished the book pointedly— "was put here as a warning. That the gods play both sides."

Percy blinked. "Morgana's winged friend."

"Assuming she is actually Greek, and a deity, I think—I might know who she is. It doesn't explain why a Celtic witch would all of a sudden have her support, but it would explain why we of all people are here." Annabeth ran her hand down the book's cover, which had more than a few gouge marks, that looked suspiciously like they'd been made from a knife's point. "Takes a Greek to fight a Greek."

Percy could see where she was coming from, but he couldn't help but feel a little peeved by the possibility that the puppet master would rather leave bread crumbs, rather than explain the situation outright. The Olympians never did anything straightforward, so he supposed it was too much to hope for that the Celts were any different. It's not as if it would have simplified everything, curtailed unnecessary pain and suffering, and greatly reduced the amount of stress and effort of dealing with the problem on their own.

No. Immortals would rather be mysterious and pull on their strings from a distance.

"I know it's a bit of a stretch," Annabeth continued, "and Gaius did say he got it years ago, but precognition is common enough that someone could have been preparing for this for years. Right?"

"I guess so." Percy shrugged. "But…why did you need to go get the book?"

Annabeth flushed. "I guess I didn't technically need to. I just figured it might help—when we talk to Merlin. Have some evidence, so he doesn't think we're just making it up."

Percy paused, as a somewhat problematic thought popped into his head. "You don't happen to know where the Physician's Chambers are, do you?"

"I was hoping you knew…"

Percy had no idea. While he had inadvertently memorized the layout of a fair portion of the castle, there had been no reason to search out Merlin's place of sleep. A very awkward interaction with a servant—who for whatever reason found brass furnishings a delightful topic of conversation—told him that, unless he were to successfully navigate the servants' passages, the 'non-peasantry' had to get there through the main courtyard. Where to go from there, was anyone's guess.

Or rather—Percy looked over to the two guards—where to go from there was common knowledge.

Apparently, his and Annabeth's conversation had carried on long enough and been muted enough that they'd given up on the thought of entertainment and were resigned to their mindless duties, and they were currently doing their best imitations of a statue. Percy jogged over the two men, noting with amusement that they immediately fixed their stances and stared blankly ahead. Chivalrously (or was it knightly?).

"Hey, do you guys mind pointing us in the direction of the physician's quarters. Chambers. Place of living and work?"

The knights turned their 'professionally' distant gaze onto Percy.

"Or better yet," Annabeth amended, coming up behind him, "have you seen Merlin today? We were hoping to talk with him."

Redshirt One hesitated, before, very reluctantly, using the tip of his pike to point to the road leading down to the lower town. His partner made every effort to keep his face neutral, thought he was failing miserably.

"He set out early this morning."

"Do you know where we can find him?"

Redshirt Two's face twitched, and Percy got the distinct feeling he was missing out on the joke. It was the same feeling he would get in middle school, when the rest of the class smirked knowingly and giddily, waiting for the teacher to realize that Percy had messed up, yet again. Only this time, he was the silent kid in the corner, ignoring everyone else. It didn't feel much better.

Redshirt One cleared his throat. "Your best bet is to try the Rising Sun Tavern, milady."

Percy snorted. Then he realized the nameless knight wasn't kidding. "Seriously? Are they even open this early?"

This time, both knights merely shrugged.

Percy turned to Annabeth helplessly. While he hadn't expected it to be as easy as a calm exchange of ideas, he had kind of (naively) hoped that the hardest part would be convincing Merlin about the existence of demigods—not finding the guy in the first place. Judging by Annabeth's flat expression, she was less enthused about chasing down and dealing with a drunken wizard. She plastered on a sickly sweet smile, however, and thanked the two men, before grabbing a hold of Percy's wrist and dragging him past the inner gates.

They made it past the first block of houses before Annabeth couldn't hold it anymore.

"A tavern? A tavern," she exclaimed incredulously, checking herself when a pair of women fetching water glanced over their shoulders, and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Her fingers blanched from the death-grip she had on the book.

Percy threw his hands up. "Don't look at me. That's the last thing I'd do, no matter what was going on."

Whatever Annabeth was going to say in response died in her throat. "Sorry," she murmured and dragged the back of her hand across her eye. "I wasn't, didn't, mean to yell at you. It's just—I'm not having a conversation about gods, and monsters, and time travel in a tavern. At 9:00. In the morning."

Percy glanced over his shoulder at the looming, uninviting sight of the castle, then down the main road threading through the city, equally withdrawn and cheerless. He was less enthused by the idea, but even if they did decide to abandon this ship, there was no avoiding the conversation. Might as well rip off the band-aid.

"I'm all for throwing him into a trough to sober him up, if you are," he suggested.

Annabeth shrugged. "Alright."

They set off again, with only a vague idea of where the Rising Sun Tavern was located. While Camelot was no New York City, it wasn't exactly small either. Between the open markets, the dozens of trade shops interspersed with houses and complexes suspiciously reminiscent of apartment buildings, and an actual (and oddly placed) tournament ring, there were plenty of places for this one beloved place to be hiding. With the people of the lower town more willing to brave the dangers of the day (possibly because they had no other choice if they wanted to afford their next meal), the streets were soon teeming with crowds.

As they wove their way around, Percy offered Annabeth first dibs of whatever he had pillaged from the kitchen stores: a pair of dough balls filled with something with the same texture as cottage cheese, a handful of hard biscuits with almonds, and a few grape vines. Percy decided, very chivalrously, that had Annabeth wanted both cottage cheese balls, she could. Strangely enough, she didn't take him up on the offer.

"Do you think it's meant to be lumpy," he asked, studying the contents intently, "or do you think I just put a curdled cheese ball in my m—"

Coming around the corner, Percy didn't see them before it was too late. His face met theirs with a resounding crack. The cheese puff fell to the ground, as did the rest of his breakfast, and Percy lashed out in hopes of catching the poor man before he went down too.

"Sorry—sorry," Percy rambled, steadying him by the arms, though the guy was more concerned with clutching his nose than anything. "Are you ok—" Cutting himself off, he honestly didn't know whether to thank or curse the gods at times.

It probably depended on whether they felt like making themselves useful for once or having a laugh, but he was generally more inclined towards the latter.

Merlin seemed to think the same thing when he dropped his hands and recognized the person before him. A range of emotions flashed across face, starting with shock, flitting through concern, and coming to a final end with confusion. As if he didn't quite believe the coincidence either.

"What are you doing here?"

He followed this up with not-so-subtly searching behind Percy and Annabeth, then back over his own shoulder, for their usual knightly escorts.

Percy couldn't hide his own shock. Not because they'd just walked into the man they'd been looking for without even trying—that was nothing compared to the rest of the craziness he'd dealt with over the years—but because Merlin was remarkably sober for someone who'd spent the morning in a tavern.

His eyes, while watering from having taken the brunt of Percy's hard head, weren't glassy and bloodshot. He wasn't wobbling on his feet, and he was as pale and pasty as he always was. None of that flushed redness Gabe always had after one of his poker nights. Even Connor and Travis had started glowing after a few sips of Fireball that one time they had managed to sneak it past the cleaning Harpies. (A mistake they were stupid enough to try again, after getting caught).

So, either Merlin was a superior being when it came to alcohol, or he hadn't been drinking at all.

Percy took a breath. He couldn't smell anything either.

Annabeth cleared her throat. "Looking for you actually. One of the guards said you'd be at the tavern, so…" her words faded as she took in Merlin's expression. A scowl of pure annoyance, though for once it didn't seem directed at them.

"I wasn't at the tavern," Merlin muttered. "I was gathering herbs for Gaius."

"Right." Percy also couldn't help but notice that his hands were empty. "An understandable mistake."

Merlin's scowl, if at all possible, fell flatter and less amused. "Is there something I can assist you with?" He straightened himself up and began to edge around them, putting himself between them and the castle. "Because I have many other duties to attend to—"

"We need to talk," Annabeth blurted out.

Merlin froze mid-step.

"About what happened in Langecliffe." A few curious heads turned in their direction, and Annabeth lowered her voice. "We know you saw…it."

Percy looked at her askance. It?

She shrugged unapologetically.

"It's not what you think."

Merlin whipped around. More than a few curious heads turned in their direction, and Percy swore he saw at least two older women (stereotypically) lean towards one another and whisper conspiratorially. In a few swift steps, he crossed the minimal space between them and placed his hand on Percy's shoulder, reaching to do the same to Annabeth, but withdrawing his hand at the last moment. Instead, he pressed Percy forward, hoping Annabeth would follow.

Merlin ushered them towards a break between two buildings. Too tight and narrow to be called an alley, but it was far enough away from everyone else that someone would have to stand right next to them to be heard. Even so, Merlin checked over his shoulder before speaking. They were still alone.

"I know what I saw."

"But I can almost guarantee it's not what you think," Annabeth insisted.

"I saw the blade strike you." Merlin's eyes traced the side of Percy's face, where the Saxon's sword would have impaled him. The way he said it—it was almost envious. "You had no armor, and yet it struck you and left no mark."

"Pretty much," Percy said, rather lamely. They really should have figured out a script before getting to this point.

For a moment, Merlin didn't say anything. His face was completely neutral as he regarded Percy, and then Annabeth, looking both impossibly old and so young at the same time. Even the gods and immortalized mortals Percy had come across over the past four years hadn't quite had that affect. Sure, Aphrodite could appear as youthful and perfect as she wanted, but she was still always going to have lived for millennia. Percy wondered if it was because Merlin was only at the beginning of his years.

"You have magic," Merlin stated finally.

"We don't," Annabeth said.

Merlin's brow furrowed. "But…?"

"It's a long story, but we're different. We—" Annabeth faltered.

At first, it didn't register with Percy why. Merlin hadn't moved to interrupt, and all things considered, their patchwork conversation was going fairly well. But then he heard the first slow, distant peal of an enormous brass bell. It rang twice before a second joined it. Then a third. Then an entire chorus of deafening, resounding din of dozens of bells. There were so many of them, their deep sound echoing through the air, that Percy had no idea where they were coming from. But it was easy enough to guess that it wasn't to celebrate the clock striking twelve.

An anxiety that Merlin confirmed a second later.

"Warning bells." The words were little more than a whisper, but Merlin swung back around with a frenzied, pleading look in his eyes.

"This wasn't us," Percy swore immediately.

Merlin had gone very still. Too still. Any possible headway they may have been making was slipping away like melting ice. On the one hand, Percy really couldn't blame Merlin all that much. He had seen the literary red fish and followed it down the rabbit hole of a whole host of wrong conclusions, but there had to have been a reason for it. A reason for why Merlin wrapped himself in suspicion and reservation.

A lie by omission is still a lie.

But right now, there wasn't time to talk it through, and hopefully, Merlin will have gotten it through his thick skull that Percy could have—would have—died fighting the Saxons if it hadn't been for the Curse.

There was shouting in the streets now, and Percy felt the crushing pressure of anxiety tied with adrenaline settling in his gut. His sword sat heavy in its scabbard. A regiment of knights tore their way past, heading for the outer walls of the city. Whatever was going on, it was happening out there.

"Merlin, listen to me," Annabeth almost shouted his name. She hedged toward him, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly as she experienced the same pull to fight. "Merlin, I swear on the River Styx that Percy and I aren't here to hurt Arthur, or you, or Camelot. And whatever is out there, it's not us."

Merlin jolted, as if he'd been shocked with electricity. "On the River Styx," he repeated in a whisper.

Percy couldn't tell if he was making an oath of his own, or if he even understood what the words meant.

"Look, I get that you don't trust us," Percy said impatiently. The bells were only getting louder. "But we can help. Let us help."

If the words didn't get through to him, the roar that cut through the utter discordance of a city gripped in terror did. His mouth pressed into a thin line, Merlin gave a jerky nod, turned on his heels, and ran toward the front gates.

"You just had to jynx it," Annabeth grumbled under her breath.

Percy could only grimace in apology.

The comment had been a joke, but really, he couldn't be surprised at the turn of events. The very first and arguably one of the most important rule he'd been taught about life as a demigod was that names had power. What kind of power depended entirely on the circumstances—for instance, toying around with Mr. D's full name might just result in a temporary transformation into a dolphin depending on how you said it—so it was well within the realms of possibility to joke about a monster and then come across said monster tearing into the city walls only a half hour later.

The hydra was larger than he remembered. Whether it was a testament to just how long this one had been alive, the pesticide-free farmers it had been eating, or some sorcerer-steroids affecting its growth, the monster was easily fifteen feet tall and fifteen tons to match. And that wasn't even counting the tail, which whipped back and forth agitatedly as knights on horses tried to approach from the back. It didn't even have to strain to reach the castle's parapet, and its many jaws lined with dozens of vicious, poison-laced teeth snapped at the soldiers stationed there. They fought valiantly, with their pikes and spears and crossbows, but it was more of a nuisance than anything. Like toothpicks against a tank.

Having only really met the inner circle of knights, Percy didn't realize just how big an army Camelot actually had.

A fair number of infantrymen were facing off the hydra from the ground, and they weren't doing much better, although it seemed more out of uncertainty of how to approach the multi-headed beast. They must have started in a tight formation, swarming the hydra on all sides, but as soon as just one of the nine heads swung around and hissed, the horses lost their nerves. They scattered and bucked and shrieked.

It was chaos.

A few riders were fortunate enough to stay in the saddle; those that weren't so lucky scurried frantically over the ground just as three heads let loose a shower of acid.

One of the red capes separated himself from the herd, raising his sword, and calling for the others to fall into line. Six knights responded immediately and flanked him on both sides. Percy didn't need to see their faces to know who they were.

Neither did Merlin.

He took in the scene within seconds and then bolted. Heading straight for the monster—empty handed, without any form of protection, completely unprepared. If Percy and Annabeth had any doubt about his magical abilities before this, they were all but gone now.

Percy took off after him.

He heard Annabeth, undoubtedly with her own knife in hand, running alongside him. They hugged the rampart, but as soon as they made it fifteen feet away the monstrous snake, two of the monster's heads whipped around madly, hissing in unison. Percy skidded to a stop, snatched Annabeth around the waist, and threw them both bodily into the citadel's walls, seconds before acid pelted the ground where they'd been. Annabeth buried her face into the crook of his neck, holding her breath. The cross-guard of her knife dug deep into his back.

A sickly green haze drifted up from the ground, and Percy clenched his eyes shut, getting ready to slash blindly—

Then arrows pinged off the hydra's scales. There was a chorus of men shouting and yelling, and a refrain of snarling responded.

Percy opened his eyes.

Arthur and his knights had drawn the hydra's attention and were rallying for another charge. Ducking and weaving, rolling and slashing, the Knights of the Round Table breached the hydra's defenses. Gwaine deflected the lunge of one of the middle heads, as Percival struggled to keep a hold on the tail. Leon and Elyan, pressed up against the crumbling stone rampart, slashed desperately, yet expertly at the clawed feet reaching for them. Merlin had snatched up a sword, presumably from a fallen comrade, and was fighting at Arthur's side.

Still, the swords did little more infuriate the snake.

Annabeth's hand caught Percy's wrist. "Percy," she moaned, her eyes locked on the battle.

Percy followed her gaze, dread building in his stomach before he even knew why specifically. Sure, the scene playing out wasn't ideal, but between his four years of active monster fighting and the knights having spent their whole lives in a magical Medieval world, he was feeling fairly optimistic. That is, until Arthur's sword happened to perfectly catch the sunlight, the brilliant flare drawing his attention to it, as it arced down towards the base of one of the hydra's nine skulls.

"No, don't!" Annabeth shrieked.

But it was too late.

The head fell to the ground with solid thud, and Percy had a horrible sense of déjà vu.

The remaining eight shrieked. It was a horrible whistling howl of pure agony and fury, and it only grew as Mordred and Leon hacked at another of the necks, the decollated trunks swinging aimlessly. Black ichor poured, like a river of ink, out of the open stubs, and for a moment, the hydra faltered. Two headless trunks collapsed to the ground.

The men cheered.

"Ma ton dia," Annabeth groaned and broke away from Percy's grip. The two of them surged forward, but again, it was too late.

In the seconds that had passed between decapitating two of the nine snakes, Percival had lopped off yet another one with a single swing. Percy would have been impressed by his sheer strength, if it wasn't about to result in a complete disaster. The knight was smiling grimly, halfway through retorting something to Gwaine, when the three headless limbs began to shake violently.

Then they split.

Where there were nine angry heads before, there were now twelve very pissed off, acid-spewing ones in their place. Without a moment's hesitation, the hydra attacked, and the knights—well, they did what they were trained to do. Kill the beast, or die trying. Slashing, and hacking, and piercing the serpentine monster's skin, aiming for a blow that would otherwise be deadly.

With a tired sigh, Percy joined the fray.

He rolled under one corded neck and sliced into one of the hydra's stunted arms, trying his best to draw the thing's attention away from the knights. He had no idea how they were supposed to kill it—the last time, it had taken a cannon. His ADHD wondered when cannons were invented, while the rational part of his brain argued that, as out of time as Camelot was (technologically and historically speaking), they wouldn't find one of those gathering dust in the armory.

Then again, neither would have Herakles. So, what did he use? Greek fire? Magic? A catapult with a boulder doused in gasoline? Luckily, there was someone he could always count on to know the answer.

"Annabeth?" Percy yelled. The fumes this close to the monster were noxious, and he choked on her name. He jumped back as the twelfth head snapped at his face, and he felt the puff of air a hairsbreadth from his nose. "Annie!"

Where was she?

Percy only had a few meager seconds to search before something long and sharp snagged on his left sleeve, and he turned and drove Riptide's point up through the soft tissue stretching between the hydra's mandible. The head shuddered, green and black sludge slipping down the blade. Seconds later, another claw, another jaw, and another scaly limb swung at him out of nowhere, and Percy dove to the right. Then the left.

Rolling to the ground, he came face to face with putrid yellow eyes, oily scales, and a forked tongue falling limply to the side. Another pruned head. Percy scowled, forced himself to his knees, then to his feet, screaming to no one in particular: "Will you stop—" he bashed away a row of impending teeth— "cutting off," —another whack— "heads!"

He swung just in time to lop off a clawed arm, poised to rip into Mordred's armor. He prayed to the gods that the heads were the only limbs Hydras were able to regrow.

If this was going to go on for much longer, Percy was seriously considering some alternative solutions. The forerunners were currently hacking the hydra literally in half (which was less likely to succeed seeing as the monster was the size of a boulder, but he could hope) and resorting to less than mortal means.

Camelot was built over series of underground caverns; Percy had felt them the moment they arrived, and even though it wasn't filled with salt water and they would never even meet the ocean, it didn't seem to matter. It was almost as if he were wading through it right now, the way its strength thrummed in the back of his mind, as if alive. All it would take was a single word, a single command, and Percy knew, without a doubt, it would answer his call.

While that would be convenient and more than helpful, it would also, most certainly, out him and Annabeth as powered individuals. At the very least, it would tip Arthur off that there might be someone capable of magic within the castle walls, and that was something even Percy knew would not be ideal.

It was tempting though, as he hacked at the shoulder gap between Head #8 and #16. Luckily, though, the answer was made for him, when a voice screamed:

"Percy, move!"

It was Annabeth, and he reacted without hesitation.

He threw himself back, rolling with the momentum. Hands grabbed at his arms and pulled him to his feet, but Percy was too shocked to realize who. Because pouring over the sides of parapet, sludging through the embrasures, and being tossed over in a bucket brigade was a black, viscus substance.

It coated everything it touched, dyeing the walls, the grass, the dirt. And the hydra.

What was that stuff? It had the same consistency of molasses but the color of asphalt, and, rather unfortunately, all Percy could smell was the sourness of ichor and blood.

The monster trembled uncertainly, literally torn between snapping at the syrup, still freely cascading down the rampart, and wanting to chase after the knights, all of whom had retreated a fair distance away. The majority of the heads chose the knights, and it took a lumbering, slithering step towards them. Percy adjusted his grip on Riptide—

And archers let loose a volley of flaming arrows.

The first few planted themselves along the hydra's long, tank-like body. A few quills along the spine that did nothing more than make the thing roar, but then with sudden whoosh, the flames caught. A tsunami of heat blasted Percy back a few steps, singing the front tips of his hair, but he just stood and stared. The hydra shrieked and wailed, writhing as the flames moved to devour its entire body, even where the black substance hadn't even been. Every inch, every glistening scale that comprised the basilisk's armor was burning a brilliant, radiant purple.

Purple.

Not even the light magenta or lilac that came with burning certain chemicals—Percy had actually paid attention during that lab because, well, the assignment was to literally set things on fire (need he say more?)—but this fire was a deep, rich purple that was so saturated that the flame was nearing black, the closer it came to the hydra's skin. The kind of black-purple flame that should have been reserved for dying stars or some other cosmic event. Not in the middle of a medieval, still-somewhat undeveloped society.

Percy glanced at the others, seeing the same amazement and disbelief in their faces as well. Except for Mordred. He was staring off to the side, nowhere near the monster, that was currently collapsing under the weight of the flames. Percy followed his gaze, and he shouldn't have been surprised to see Annabeth, covered in her own layer of ichor, standing in front of Camelot's front gates. He should have been even less so to find Merlin at her side.

Annabeth locked eyes with Percy. Then slowly and deliberately, she nodded once at the magician.

Percy gestured with his sword, questioningly. He may have only fought a hydra once before, but he was a quick study. It took more than decapitation to kill it; so, would dousing it in magic fire be enough?

Annabeth shrugged.

Between the heat and the flailing limbs, no one could get close enough to even attempt to wound the hydra further. No maiming blows, no mercy strike. Just standing and waiting for the flames, or the hydra, to die.

After what seemed like an eternity, the hydra began to wheeze, swaying more tumultuously and unsteadily than before. It rocked against the stone wall. It stumbled over its own discarded heads. It hissed, a pathetic, wheezing roar. Then with one heavy thud, it collapsed under its weight, and almost immediately after, the fire ate itself away.

No one moved.

Percy watched intently for any sign of a sign of a twitch, but the charred corpse remained just that. The only sound to come next was a sharp twang, as someone tossed tossed their sword, point down, into the earth.

"What," Arthur demanded, "in the name of past kings was that?"

"Hydra," Percy answered. An itch crawled down the side of his face, and he wiped away what had to be rivers of ichor and sweat. He examined the rest of himself curiously; the monster blood had already eaten through the sleeve of the leather jacket, corroding the thick fabric and the cotton underneath. The skin, unsurprisingly, was perfectly unharmed. "Cut off a head, and two more take its place," he added, rather unnecessarily.

"Is it really dead this time?" Percival asked.

"It should be," Annabeth confirmed. "You have to burn the necks to stop them from growing back, so burning the whole creature should do the trick." Especially when said fire was enhanced by magic, went without saying.

"What a wonderful place your Hellada must be." Gwaine snagged free a clump of dirt and rubbed it along the flat of his sword's blade. "Just how many other kinds of beasts are there?"

"Dozens. If not hundreds. Though, it depends how technical you want to get about it."

Percy smirked grimly, knowing exactly what she was referring to. Bad things tended to happen when a god took notice of you, and the most popular outcome just happened to be a horrific transformation that left you a homicidal sociopath, if not also hungering for human flesh. Coincidentally, he and Annabeth had come up against more than half of them, and they weren't even legal adults yet.

Percy turned around to give Annabeth a knowing smirk and found her gnawing at her lip. If she thought she needed a change of clothes earlier, she was in desperation now. There wasn't a single part of her that didn't prove she had done just as much ducking and diving that Percy had. From her hair—ripped free of its Flemish braid (or whatever the variation of fancy braids Annabeth could do on herself)—was plastered against her neck by a mix of ichor and sweat and dirt. The same acidic blood had eaten away at her clothes like embers. It made Percy smile—a snapshot of the chaotic existence of a stubborn half-blood.

Annabeth sensed him watching and returned the stare. Her eyes were bright with adrenaline, and despite everything, she smiled.

Then, all too soon, she turned back to the task at hand. Namely, the thousand pound snake that Gwaine had taken to kicking with the tip of his boot, and one of whose many oozing heads Percival was now studying with all the intensity of a Classics scholar. Elyan and Leon had joined Merlin in checking on the other knights, bandaging those they could. Luckily—impossibly luckily—many of the men had been protected from the worst of the acid, although a blacksmith might have to cut them free of the chainmail. But, from all the movement Percy could see, many of them were still kicking.

The nausea eased just a little, even if the sour smell of burning dirt, ichor, and copper threatened to make him sick.

Annabeth wandered over the smoldering corpse that was oozing a vile, noxious liquid onto the thoroughly trodden ground. "Don't suppose you guys have a ton of boulders lying around?"

Percy didn't have the chance to see Gwaine's and Percival's reactions to that particular comment. Someone came up behind him, and instinctively, he knew it was Merlin. The wizard was considerably calmer as he observed the scene, showing no signs of fatigue after having dowsed the hydra in a torrent of purple fire; though Percy supposed when one is an immortal, legendary wizard, a little was nothing more than a parlor trick.

"I've never heard of a River Styx," Merlin said evenly. "Is it in Hellada?"

Percy remembered his very first day at camp, when Chiron had tried explain to him what Mt. Olympus and the Heart of the West was. It had made no sense to him at the time—and to be honest, he still didn't entirely get it—but apparently wherever the apex of Western Civilization went, the gods weren't far behind. Or maybe it was the other way around. Percy didn't particularly care. Whatever the order, the Styx might have first flowed through Greece, but come 2012, it would be flooding the sub-basement of an LA Recording Studio.

"Depends," Percy shrugged nonchalantly. "What year is it exactly?"

I will admit, I had a lot of fun writing the hydra scene

I'm also trying to figure out how many more chapters are left. I'm thinking 4-5, but depends on how long they get (this one got a bit longer than I was anticipating)

Cause I also realized this story is lacking good Merlin and Arthur interactions, so we need to remedy that. (next chapter will be Merlin pov, and will explain more about his reactions and actions to this chapter)

(PS2: does anyone remember in the books what color monster blood is/if it's ever mentioned? I remember gods having golden blood, but cannot for the life of me remember if monsters bleed in the books-hence why the hydra has black ichor (also cause I liked the image of a river of ink...)