At Camp Half-Blood, everyone bows to the gods. Everyone except him.
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Son of Man (Percy Jackson OC)
- Thread starter Mairon
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Chapter 1
New
Mairon
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2021
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- Likes received
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Disclaimer: I don't own the Percy Jackson universe.
Chapter One
The dinner horn sounded and he found himself walking towards the mess hall, just like Mr. D said he should.
His feet moved on autopilot. Left foot. Right foot. Repeat. Don't think about it.
Demigods.
This whole mess started because one of his parents, most probably his dad, should have known better than to mess around with mortals. Now Philip was here. Now his grandmother was—
He was paying for it, as had his grandmother, just a couple hours ago. What he thought would be a regular Monday, last one before the holidays, turned out to be a nightmare instead. To think he dreaded his report card results.
His steps took him away from the Big House, an austere mansion that somehow blended the classical Greek style with the American haunted house look.
The strange, frightening, impossible being that was playing cards in that house unsteadied him, pushed him to accept the impossible. What he would give to get back home, and to worry about school. He would have taken a hundred remedial lessons if it meant sitting at her kitchen table one more time.
Despite all of that, his stomach rumbled, so empty at the moment it was bordering on painful. He placed his hand over it, hoping to steady his hunger.
With slow steps he passed by two rows of large cabins.
Each seemed to be different, either in style, size or both. He knew each represented one major god from the ancient Greek pantheon. Pagan pantheon.
Connecting those larger-than-life cabins was a wide cobbled courtyard. In its center stood a large, openly burning flame, a young girl patiently tending to it.
He wondered how they paid for it all.
Lines of other kids, just like him, had started exiting those same cabins, ready for dinner. Some were appearing out of the woods and green fields. All of them went towards the mess hall.
He looked at the windows of the big three cabins, their windows dark and dull. No one was coming out of the largest three buildings that enclosed the large courtyard. For some reason he felt those three houses stood with a certain gravitas, sticking out even in this place.
Finally, after crossing the fields or the neatly packed dirt road they all reached their destination. Behind the marble columns that stood on the edge he glimpsed people going to their meals. Each one knew where they sat. In the center, much like in the courtyard below, stood a source of light and fire. A bronze brazier that was bigger than a bathtub.
"To the gods," he could hear the seated campers chant.
He clutched the rosary in his pocket, his hands trembling as the ocean chill settled over him. How many times had he watched her fingers move over them?
What happened to their apartment? The monster had torn through the living room. What would the landlord say when he saw it? Would he ever be able to come back?
As he passed he noticed some of the campers looking, and he could hear excited whispers from all sides. There were a hundred of them at most, some of them very young. Just little kids that looked out of place in the large hall.
The air was filled with the smell of venison, and potatoes and something sweet. His stomach growled again. How could he be hungry?
Some of the people weren't human, he noticed. A few figures with goat legs trotted around taking plates from flowery women that moved quickly and seemed to float. He already knew what they were, satyrs and nymphs. They were still a strange sight.
He stopped, took a breath and looked over. There. The table with most people, squeezed like sardines. His table for the moment, dedicated to the god Hermes, Mr. D had said.
He sat at the end.
He hadn't even sat down properly when he heard someone behind him say, "Hey there, you're Philip, right? Welcome to camp!"
Turning around he saw an older boy in an orange shirt. He could see he was in good shape.
"Hey, I am. Thanks," he said.
"No prob. I'm Luke," his face was friendly. "I'm going to be your camp counselor for now."
They shook hands, "For now?" He noticed a long scar running down the guy's face, next to his right eye.
Luke sat next to him. "Either until you're claimed or it turns out you're one of Hermes's brood," he said.
"I'm not sure what you mean, to be honest," Philip said with furrowed brows.
"I miss Chiron at moments like these," Luke murmured. "My dad is the god of travelers so that means he extends his hospitality to all campers." He continued, "So you are welcome to stay with us until you get determined."
Seeing his look he added, "Until you learn who your godly parent is, I mean."
Right. His godly parent. One of the Greek gods was literally his parent. The thought still felt impossible.
"How do you find out?" he said.
"When it happens, it's some kind of sign that tells your heritage." Luke picked at something on the table. "A glowing symbol above your head, usually."
"So it doesn't happen that often?"
Luke sighed, "Don't worry about it, it'll happen."
"Anyway, having a tough first day?" he continued. "Most campers do, and the majority of us didn't even believe the gods were real before we got here."
Philip hesitated, "It's not that I—" but he was cut off when people started getting up, plates in hands.
He didn't even take any food yet, and his glass stood empty next to his plate.
"Get ready." Luke passed him a couple of potatoes and a large beef cut before doing the same for himself.
"What are we doing?" Philip asked after his plate was full.
"We're giving the gods their due." Luke got up, lowering his voice. "Burnt offerings, I hear they like the smell." He led him to the brazier.
Philip stood behind him, watching people throw their food into the fire. One by one they approached, murmured a name, and watched their offerings consumed.
"Ares."
"Demeter."
"Hermes," Luke said and his food disappeared in a flash.
He was next.
The heat from the brazier was intense this close. Philip could feel sweat starting on his forehead. His heart was beating faster.
He could feel the weight of his grandma's rosary in his pocket.
They wanted him to make a sacrifice. To pagan gods.
His face probably betrayed something, because Luke's smile turned strained.
"Just think of a god you want to honor," Luke said. "It can be anyone, like my dad."
He could feel the heat of the fire on his face.
This was wrong. There was only one God, whatever they wanted him to believe. This worship they demanded was a sin. It broke the First of God's Ten Commandments, "You shall have no other gods before me."
"Come on, new kid." Luke said, "The food's getting cold."
"I can't," Philip said looking down at his feet.
"What's the holdup," a burly girl shouted and then belched. Her cabinmates snickered around her.
"Come on," someone cheered.
"Jesus," he blurted, his whole plate slipping, dumping everything into the fire.
Silence.
A satyr brayed.
"What did he say," someone whispered.
Luke was looking at him open mouthed, his eyes wide in surprise. "That wasn't exactly who I meant," he said.
He could feel his cheeks heating up.
"What was that, Paul?" Mr. D was looking at him from table 12. As was everyone else.
He was sweating, he noticed. The empty plate didn't feel any lighter in his hands.
"I'm sorry, Mr. D," he started, looking at the creature in front of him.
His eyes were violet, he noticed. He looked. Somehow his thoughts led him to dark fields filled with cries of ecstasy and woe. Hungry fires that burned just as they warmed. He didn't want to see. God, please.
He blinked.
"Let's not make a scene," the tubby god said, his lips on a can of Diet Coke. "I'm sure it was just an accident, right?" he turned to a satyr beside him who started nodding furiously.
He was breathing fast, looking at the blackened potatoes and sizzling meat in the fire. Waiting for what came next.
"Now, let's make a proper offering and get on with the evening," the god said. "I'm tired."
He was shaking. He looked at Luke, who started shuffling his own food on his plate.
"No," Philip said. "Stop."
Fork raised in one hand and the plate in the other, Luke looked him in the eyes, slowly moving his head, left to right, as if warning him.
"Are you going to test me, child?" Mr. D said quietly.
Everyone waited to see what would happen. A blond girl covered her face with her hands, head down, as if saying what an idiot. On the other side, the belching girl leaned in, head eagerly moving from him to Mr. D.
"With all due respect," he said, not looking the god in the face again.
"Sir."
"With all due respect, sir," Philip repeated. Took a breath. "I already made an offering."
Luke's face was beaded with sweat, "Sir, he just got here--"
"I don't care when Peter here arrived," the god said to Luke, then turned to Philip, "Make an offering to any of the Greek gods so that we can finally eat."
"I-I'm sorry,sir, but I can't."
"Why?," Mr. D scoffed. "You think that Nazarene carpenter is any better than us here?" He continued, "I'm older than his entire religion. I was getting drunk at symposiums when Abraham was still tending sheep."
Something in Philip rebelled at this treatment, and before he could stop himself he said, "I won't worship false gods."
Everyone stilled.
Luke took a step back with an apologetic expression. He could hear nothing except the soft crackling of the fire.
"False gods," Mr. D mused, and after a moment turned to address the rest of the camp, "You hear everyone, your parents are false gods."
Slowly, testing the waters, some campers began to boo, quietly at first and then with more energy. Soon they were shouting, but the belching girls' table was the loudest. They were thumping their fists on the table, like they were preparing for battle.
Mr. D looked at him, "Those false gods are making sure you can survive in this camp. They're the ones providing everything here free of charge." His cherubic face sneered.
"How'd you like to leave their protection and face the monsters at the gates, hmm?" He continued. "Become a martyr?"
Philip could feel tears threatening to start spilling. He was barely standing keeping his head up. This day was getting worse by the moment. Why did he come here?
"I have faith," he almost choked. "In the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit."
Mr. D looked ready to explode, but deflated after a moment. "I need a drink," he said, pinching his nose. There was thunder in the air.
Turning, he barked, "Calm down," at the rousing campers.
Everyone did.
Then, in a somewhat softer voice Mr. D said, "I know you just lost your grandmother, and I'm going to give you a pass this time."
He continued, "But you better start giving some respect around here because we gods have long memories and don't forgive easily."
Philip nodded, closed his mouth, then opened it again. "I'll remember that," he said, "sir," he added.
"Now get to eating," he waved his hand in dismissal and turned to the satyr next to him. The god finally sat down, soft drink in hand, and didn't look at him again.
Head bowed he returned to his table. Every step felt too loud against the stone floor. He could feel eyes on him from every direction—some curious, some hostile, some pitying. His hands were shaking. He tried to stop them but couldn't.
When he finally reached the Hermes table, he realized he'd been holding his breath. He felt strangely exposed, like they just read out his diary in front of everyone.
The silence after Mr. D's order had been slowly lifting, and now he could hear more murmuring. This was definitely not a typical night.
He finally sat down, his legs felt like jelly. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his plate. Luke's portion was still there.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"Hell of a first day," Luke said finally. He was sitting across from him, studying Philip's face.
"That was really stupid," he said after a while, but his voice was gentle. "Mouthing off to a god like that. You're lucky he didn't turn you into a dolphin."
"A dolphin?" He finally managed to say.
"He's known for that," Luke said.
He opened his mouth but that same rude girl interrupted, standing and shouting from her table, "You're dead, newbie." Her cabin mates laughed.
"That's Ares for you," Luke said after a while. "Her name's Clarisse, daughter of the war god." He looked Philip over, "Be ready for a fight. Hope you can take her on."
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and felt for the rosary in his pocket. His grandma was with God now, he just knew. Even if it wasn't her fault, he felt abandoned. Like Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. But after a moment he opened his eyes.
He looked up at Luke, "Thank you for sticking up for me," he said. "Others are probably afraid to get close now." He could feel them watching him, and Luke as well, to see what he would do.
"Nah, man," Luke said. "We all have our quirks." He continued, "And what you just did, standing up to Mr. D," he said. "That took guts."
Philip laughed for the first time that day. "I'm not usually like that."
Luke smirked, "I'm not convinced." He added, "Do you know where to go? You're in our cabin. Hope you love sleeping on the floor."
"I'll sleep in that lava lake after the day I had," Philip said.
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Luke said. "Come on, let me show you."
---
Edit: Slowed down the pacing a bit in certain places.
Chapter One
The dinner horn sounded and he found himself walking towards the mess hall, just like Mr. D said he should.
His feet moved on autopilot. Left foot. Right foot. Repeat. Don't think about it.
Demigods.
This whole mess started because one of his parents, most probably his dad, should have known better than to mess around with mortals. Now Philip was here. Now his grandmother was—
He was paying for it, as had his grandmother, just a couple hours ago. What he thought would be a regular Monday, last one before the holidays, turned out to be a nightmare instead. To think he dreaded his report card results.
His steps took him away from the Big House, an austere mansion that somehow blended the classical Greek style with the American haunted house look.
The strange, frightening, impossible being that was playing cards in that house unsteadied him, pushed him to accept the impossible. What he would give to get back home, and to worry about school. He would have taken a hundred remedial lessons if it meant sitting at her kitchen table one more time.
Despite all of that, his stomach rumbled, so empty at the moment it was bordering on painful. He placed his hand over it, hoping to steady his hunger.
With slow steps he passed by two rows of large cabins.
Each seemed to be different, either in style, size or both. He knew each represented one major god from the ancient Greek pantheon. Pagan pantheon.
Connecting those larger-than-life cabins was a wide cobbled courtyard. In its center stood a large, openly burning flame, a young girl patiently tending to it.
He wondered how they paid for it all.
Lines of other kids, just like him, had started exiting those same cabins, ready for dinner. Some were appearing out of the woods and green fields. All of them went towards the mess hall.
He looked at the windows of the big three cabins, their windows dark and dull. No one was coming out of the largest three buildings that enclosed the large courtyard. For some reason he felt those three houses stood with a certain gravitas, sticking out even in this place.
Finally, after crossing the fields or the neatly packed dirt road they all reached their destination. Behind the marble columns that stood on the edge he glimpsed people going to their meals. Each one knew where they sat. In the center, much like in the courtyard below, stood a source of light and fire. A bronze brazier that was bigger than a bathtub.
"To the gods," he could hear the seated campers chant.
He clutched the rosary in his pocket, his hands trembling as the ocean chill settled over him. How many times had he watched her fingers move over them?
What happened to their apartment? The monster had torn through the living room. What would the landlord say when he saw it? Would he ever be able to come back?
As he passed he noticed some of the campers looking, and he could hear excited whispers from all sides. There were a hundred of them at most, some of them very young. Just little kids that looked out of place in the large hall.
The air was filled with the smell of venison, and potatoes and something sweet. His stomach growled again. How could he be hungry?
Some of the people weren't human, he noticed. A few figures with goat legs trotted around taking plates from flowery women that moved quickly and seemed to float. He already knew what they were, satyrs and nymphs. They were still a strange sight.
He stopped, took a breath and looked over. There. The table with most people, squeezed like sardines. His table for the moment, dedicated to the god Hermes, Mr. D had said.
He sat at the end.
He hadn't even sat down properly when he heard someone behind him say, "Hey there, you're Philip, right? Welcome to camp!"
Turning around he saw an older boy in an orange shirt. He could see he was in good shape.
"Hey, I am. Thanks," he said.
"No prob. I'm Luke," his face was friendly. "I'm going to be your camp counselor for now."
They shook hands, "For now?" He noticed a long scar running down the guy's face, next to his right eye.
Luke sat next to him. "Either until you're claimed or it turns out you're one of Hermes's brood," he said.
"I'm not sure what you mean, to be honest," Philip said with furrowed brows.
"I miss Chiron at moments like these," Luke murmured. "My dad is the god of travelers so that means he extends his hospitality to all campers." He continued, "So you are welcome to stay with us until you get determined."
Seeing his look he added, "Until you learn who your godly parent is, I mean."
Right. His godly parent. One of the Greek gods was literally his parent. The thought still felt impossible.
"How do you find out?" he said.
"When it happens, it's some kind of sign that tells your heritage." Luke picked at something on the table. "A glowing symbol above your head, usually."
"So it doesn't happen that often?"
Luke sighed, "Don't worry about it, it'll happen."
"Anyway, having a tough first day?" he continued. "Most campers do, and the majority of us didn't even believe the gods were real before we got here."
Philip hesitated, "It's not that I—" but he was cut off when people started getting up, plates in hands.
He didn't even take any food yet, and his glass stood empty next to his plate.
"Get ready." Luke passed him a couple of potatoes and a large beef cut before doing the same for himself.
"What are we doing?" Philip asked after his plate was full.
"We're giving the gods their due." Luke got up, lowering his voice. "Burnt offerings, I hear they like the smell." He led him to the brazier.
Philip stood behind him, watching people throw their food into the fire. One by one they approached, murmured a name, and watched their offerings consumed.
"Ares."
"Demeter."
"Hermes," Luke said and his food disappeared in a flash.
He was next.
The heat from the brazier was intense this close. Philip could feel sweat starting on his forehead. His heart was beating faster.
He could feel the weight of his grandma's rosary in his pocket.
They wanted him to make a sacrifice. To pagan gods.
His face probably betrayed something, because Luke's smile turned strained.
"Just think of a god you want to honor," Luke said. "It can be anyone, like my dad."
He could feel the heat of the fire on his face.
This was wrong. There was only one God, whatever they wanted him to believe. This worship they demanded was a sin. It broke the First of God's Ten Commandments, "You shall have no other gods before me."
"Come on, new kid." Luke said, "The food's getting cold."
"I can't," Philip said looking down at his feet.
"What's the holdup," a burly girl shouted and then belched. Her cabinmates snickered around her.
"Come on," someone cheered.
"Jesus," he blurted, his whole plate slipping, dumping everything into the fire.
Silence.
A satyr brayed.
"What did he say," someone whispered.
Luke was looking at him open mouthed, his eyes wide in surprise. "That wasn't exactly who I meant," he said.
He could feel his cheeks heating up.
"What was that, Paul?" Mr. D was looking at him from table 12. As was everyone else.
He was sweating, he noticed. The empty plate didn't feel any lighter in his hands.
"I'm sorry, Mr. D," he started, looking at the creature in front of him.
His eyes were violet, he noticed. He looked. Somehow his thoughts led him to dark fields filled with cries of ecstasy and woe. Hungry fires that burned just as they warmed. He didn't want to see. God, please.
He blinked.
"Let's not make a scene," the tubby god said, his lips on a can of Diet Coke. "I'm sure it was just an accident, right?" he turned to a satyr beside him who started nodding furiously.
He was breathing fast, looking at the blackened potatoes and sizzling meat in the fire. Waiting for what came next.
"Now, let's make a proper offering and get on with the evening," the god said. "I'm tired."
He was shaking. He looked at Luke, who started shuffling his own food on his plate.
"No," Philip said. "Stop."
Fork raised in one hand and the plate in the other, Luke looked him in the eyes, slowly moving his head, left to right, as if warning him.
"Are you going to test me, child?" Mr. D said quietly.
Everyone waited to see what would happen. A blond girl covered her face with her hands, head down, as if saying what an idiot. On the other side, the belching girl leaned in, head eagerly moving from him to Mr. D.
"With all due respect," he said, not looking the god in the face again.
"Sir."
"With all due respect, sir," Philip repeated. Took a breath. "I already made an offering."
Luke's face was beaded with sweat, "Sir, he just got here--"
"I don't care when Peter here arrived," the god said to Luke, then turned to Philip, "Make an offering to any of the Greek gods so that we can finally eat."
"I-I'm sorry,sir, but I can't."
"Why?," Mr. D scoffed. "You think that Nazarene carpenter is any better than us here?" He continued, "I'm older than his entire religion. I was getting drunk at symposiums when Abraham was still tending sheep."
Something in Philip rebelled at this treatment, and before he could stop himself he said, "I won't worship false gods."
Everyone stilled.
Luke took a step back with an apologetic expression. He could hear nothing except the soft crackling of the fire.
"False gods," Mr. D mused, and after a moment turned to address the rest of the camp, "You hear everyone, your parents are false gods."
Slowly, testing the waters, some campers began to boo, quietly at first and then with more energy. Soon they were shouting, but the belching girls' table was the loudest. They were thumping their fists on the table, like they were preparing for battle.
Mr. D looked at him, "Those false gods are making sure you can survive in this camp. They're the ones providing everything here free of charge." His cherubic face sneered.
"How'd you like to leave their protection and face the monsters at the gates, hmm?" He continued. "Become a martyr?"
Philip could feel tears threatening to start spilling. He was barely standing keeping his head up. This day was getting worse by the moment. Why did he come here?
"I have faith," he almost choked. "In the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit."
Mr. D looked ready to explode, but deflated after a moment. "I need a drink," he said, pinching his nose. There was thunder in the air.
Turning, he barked, "Calm down," at the rousing campers.
Everyone did.
Then, in a somewhat softer voice Mr. D said, "I know you just lost your grandmother, and I'm going to give you a pass this time."
He continued, "But you better start giving some respect around here because we gods have long memories and don't forgive easily."
Philip nodded, closed his mouth, then opened it again. "I'll remember that," he said, "sir," he added.
"Now get to eating," he waved his hand in dismissal and turned to the satyr next to him. The god finally sat down, soft drink in hand, and didn't look at him again.
Head bowed he returned to his table. Every step felt too loud against the stone floor. He could feel eyes on him from every direction—some curious, some hostile, some pitying. His hands were shaking. He tried to stop them but couldn't.
When he finally reached the Hermes table, he realized he'd been holding his breath. He felt strangely exposed, like they just read out his diary in front of everyone.
The silence after Mr. D's order had been slowly lifting, and now he could hear more murmuring. This was definitely not a typical night.
He finally sat down, his legs felt like jelly. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his plate. Luke's portion was still there.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"Hell of a first day," Luke said finally. He was sitting across from him, studying Philip's face.
"That was really stupid," he said after a while, but his voice was gentle. "Mouthing off to a god like that. You're lucky he didn't turn you into a dolphin."
"A dolphin?" He finally managed to say.
"He's known for that," Luke said.
He opened his mouth but that same rude girl interrupted, standing and shouting from her table, "You're dead, newbie." Her cabin mates laughed.
"That's Ares for you," Luke said after a while. "Her name's Clarisse, daughter of the war god." He looked Philip over, "Be ready for a fight. Hope you can take her on."
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and felt for the rosary in his pocket. His grandma was with God now, he just knew. Even if it wasn't her fault, he felt abandoned. Like Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. But after a moment he opened his eyes.
He looked up at Luke, "Thank you for sticking up for me," he said. "Others are probably afraid to get close now." He could feel them watching him, and Luke as well, to see what he would do.
"Nah, man," Luke said. "We all have our quirks." He continued, "And what you just did, standing up to Mr. D," he said. "That took guts."
Philip laughed for the first time that day. "I'm not usually like that."
Luke smirked, "I'm not convinced." He added, "Do you know where to go? You're in our cabin. Hope you love sleeping on the floor."
"I'll sleep in that lava lake after the day I had," Philip said.
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Luke said. "Come on, let me show you."
---
Edit: Slowed down the pacing a bit in certain places.
Last edited:
trashtaker
The (un)lucky Patreon Saint of borrowed fortune
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Can't wait for him to ask St.Michael for protection.
Considering that the author did respect the Abrahamic faith there.
Considering that the author did respect the Abrahamic faith there.
Chapter 2
New
Mairon
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2021
- Messages
- 16
- Likes received
- 91
Disclaimer: I don't own the Percy Jackson universe.
Chapter Two
He woke up, disappointment settling over him.
Last night was real.
It wasn't a dream. He closed his eyes again, shifting in his sleeping bag, taking a deep breath.
His head was throbbing, pressure radiating from his upper neck, and his eyes felt like they had shards of glass in them.
He rubbed at them until tears brought him some relief and rose from his sleeping spot.
It felt like he barely even fell asleep after Luke brought him to the cabin.
He fell asleep immediately, not caring about the bad spot by the door, or that anyone coming in or out had to step over him.
At that moment, he just wanted to sleep, he didn't care where.
Cabin 11 barely offered him that comfort.
He stretched his arms, scanning the room.
The cabin was full.
Sleeping bags on every open space, campers moving between them.
Full of kids who were in the dark just like him. Who didn't know their godly parent. Some laughed. Some argued. The noise pressed in on him from all sides.
He reached for his backpack, and felt his shoulders ease when he spotted it sitting by the wall, untouched.
Most of the campers, both younger and older, were doing the same.
Some were sullen and suspicious, eyes wide, like he would suddenly leap and attack.
Others were grinning, as if they were waiting for an opportunity to relieve him of his backpack. Some ignored him completely, which somehow stung more.
He sniffed, face wrinkling. Someone needed to open a window, and let in some fresh air.
***
It took a while before he snatched a free shower.
The wait was worth it.
The hot water pouring over his head cleared his mind.
Steam filled the stall, thick and warm. He hummed, letting the heat work into his neck, easing the throbbing. For a moment, he could breathe.
After about three minutes, the pipes rebelled. He could hear banging and mild vibrations as the warm water turned colder.
It was time to get out.
Carefully, he stepped out of the shower, one hand on the shower partition.
He pulled on a white T-shirt and brown shorts, a donation from their church back home. The shorts were too big, hanging past his knees. He put his grandma's rosary in his pocket.
Finally, as he was rubbing his hair with a towel, a thud.
The bathroom door burst open.
A harsh voice said, "Who do we have here?"
Blocking the entrance was that same girl from last night. The one Luke warned him about. Clarisse.
Behind her, a boy and a girl flanked the entrance, both grinning.
The room was suspiciously empty. There was a line of toilets on one side and a line of shower stalls on the other. No one in there except for them.
He forced a smile and said, "This is the boys' bathroom, you know?"
The broad-shouldered girl sneered, "Perfect place for your initiation, right?"
Her friends were all laughing. She turned to them and growled, "Get him."
Before he knew it, they were on him.
His towel dropped on the floor as the guy threw a punch at him. Philip backed away, dodging to the left to avoid a punch to his face.
At the same time, the girl threw herself at him and tried to push him down. "We'll pulverize you," she screamed.
Trying to avoid her leap, he slipped on the wet floor. Arms flailing, he stumbled forward and fell directly on the girl.
She screamed under him, flushed red, trying to push him off.
He leaped to his feet, and before he even blinked, the boy came crashing into him. Face screwed up in fury, he pushed Philip back into the shower stall.
Philip crashed into the wall, the shower head digging in his back. Pain shot down his spine, sharp between his shoulder blades. A hot flash went through his whole body.
Knowing he had to act fast, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pushed. His bare feet were sliding on the wet tile.
They fell into a tangle of limbs, both punching and kicking at each other in front of the shower stall.
Suddenly, Philip felt a strong grip on his neck and was flung away.
Shoulder hitting the floor tile, he grunted, and scrambled to get up. He ended up on his knees.
Clarisse was measuring him. "Not bad, newbie," she said after a moment. "You went toe-to-toe with Alex here."
Alex was on the floor, sweaty and red in the face, back leaning on the shower stall. He was breathing just as fast.
She nodded, "You have my respect." She crossed her arms. "But you still insulted all of our parents last night." She stepped closer, looming over him.
Philip knelt there, arms braced on the floor. His left cheek throbbed, hot and swelling. He exhaled and got to his feet. His ribs ached where Alex had landed a punch.
The room was spinning around Clarisse's face.
He looked directly into her proud, burning eyes.
He inhaled.
"I'm sorry," he said. Clarisse huffed. "I didn't want to insult anyone."
"Then why did you say the gods are false?" Alex said, still on the floor.
"There's no easy way to say this," he said. "Because the Greek gods are false. For me. All of them. Zeu-" there was thunder in the distance.
They all stilled.
"What I mean to say, there is only one God for me."
Clarisse's jaw tightened. "My dad is the god of war. He's won battles for thousands of years. You're saying he's nothing?"
"I'm not saying he's nothing," Philip said carefully. "I'm saying he's not THE God. The one who created everything."
Clarisse stared at him. "But he IS a god. Like Mr. D. He deserves your respect."
"I'm not denying that. I just—" He searched for words. "I can't worship him. My faith won't let me."
Clarisse eyed him as her fists clenched and unclenched. Finally, she stepped back. "Fine. You can believe whatever you want." Her eyes burned into him. "But keep your mouth shut about it. Next time you insult my dad in public, I won't stop the fight. Got it?"
Philip nodded.
She jerked her head at Alex and the girl. "Let's go. He's not worth it."
They filed out, Alex shooting Philip a glare as he passed.
As soon as they were out the door, he breathed out in relief. His hands were shaking, shoulders sagged.
***
Still standing in the exact spot, he turned around to collect his things. In the fight, the backpack was flung away.
His rosary was still in his pocket. "Thank God," he said.
He was zipping the backpack when the doors creaked again.
He grimaced. What now? Hadn't he had enough?
Instead of the angry linebacker he was expecting, a blonde girl peered into the bathroom.
She was probably around his age. The first thing he noticed was her eyes, startling and intimidating, gray.
"Wow," she said. "I was expecting to find a body here." Her lips quirked while she stepped inside. "Even so, they did a number on you." She examined him.
"Yeah, to say the least." He winced as he shouldered his backpack.
She studied his face as he came closer. "That's going to bruise," she said.
"Probably, yeah," he said.
"From what I've seen, the other guy will too." She smiled broadly. "I'm Annabeth, by the way. Annabeth Chase. Daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom and battle," she said. Her spine straightened.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "I'm Philip Moore."
"'Lover of horses' in Ancient Greek, right?" she asked, looking at him closely.
"Yeah, named after the Saint," he said. He paused, and tilted his head. "Not really sure about that second part yet."
She rolled her eyes. "There are lots of campers that are like that," she said. "Anyway, let's try and get that fixed." She pointed at his cheek. "I'll take you to the infirmary in the Big House."
He followed her out into the morning sun. After the dim bathroom, the light made him squint.
The whole place was livelier in the daylight, more real. Turning, he spotted a lake filled with canoes. He could hear the rowers laughing.
Annabeth was looking in the same direction. "That's the lake where people usually relax and go canoeing," she said as they walked. "I really wished Chiron was here," she said. "He'd be better at explaining all of this."
"Chiron?" he said as they turned away from the lake and onto the dirt road leading to the Big House.
"Our activities director and head trainer." Annabeth glanced sideways at him. "He's been teaching heroes since Ancient Greece—literally." She sighed. "He's away on some assignment."
"He's also a centaur," she said. "Half horse and half man."
"You'd probably like him." She snorted.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Lover of horses, remember," she said. "Geez." She kicked at a pebble.
They walked up to the front porch of the Big House.
***
They passed the wide front porch with its deck chairs and view of the valley. Green vines grew on the facade. It made the place look homier.
Annabeth led him inside and up a creaking staircase. The wood floors were polished. She opened one of the doors and ushered him inside.
His nose wrinkled at the sharp smell of disinfectant.
A boy with sun-bleached hair was making up the bed, replacing the sheets. He waved at them when they entered. There were no patients.
"Apollo kid," Annabeth said to Philip. "They're the best healers at camp."
He pointed at Philip's swollen cheek. "I have just the fix for this." He pulled a wooden box from a cabinet and handed Annabeth a square wrapped in cloth.
"Ambrosia," Annabeth said, unwrapping it. "Food of the gods." The square reminded him of shortbread, golden and crumbly. "It'll help with the healing."
Philip eyed it.
He pressed his thumb against it gently, testing its texture. He smelled freshly mowed grass and chamomile tea.
He could eat it and rid himself of a few days of aching and pain. But something in his gut told him this was no simple choice.
"Do you have anything else?" he asked. "Regular stuff?"
Annabeth frowned. "You're being ridiculous. It's medicine."
"I'm sorry," Philip said. "I can't."
She raised her eyebrows. "You'd rather walk around with a bruise for a week?"
"Yeah," he said. "I would."
"But why?"
"It's sorcery," he cleared his throat. "God's pretty clear about that."
Annabeth's jaw tightened. "That's not sorcery, it's just how things work here. You're going to see a lot worse if you stick around."
Philip said nothing.
She huffed and turned to the Apollo kid. "Fine. Get him the mortal stuff."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching him with that sharp gray gaze.
The Apollo kid sighed and went to a small freezer in the corner. He pulled out an ice pack and handed it to Philip.
"Twenty minutes on, twenty off," he said. "It'll help with the swelling, but you'll still look rough for a week." He waved as he left the room.
Philip waved back and pressed the ice pack to his cheek. The cold bit into his skin, but the relief was immediate. "Thank you," he said.
The silence stretched. Philip held the ice pack to his face, feeling Annabeth's eyes on him.
"So," she said finally. "You really believe all that. The whole... one God thing."
He nodded.
"And your family raised you that way?"
"My grandma," Philip said.
"Where is she now?"
"She died the night I got to camp." He kept his voice steady.
"I'm sorry," Annabeth said.
After a moment, she spoke again. "My dad's a professor at West Point. I haven't seen him in years." She said it matter-of-factly.
"I'm sorry."
"That's the thing about being a demigod," Annabeth said after a moment. "We don't usually get normal families. One parent is a god - they can't stick around. And the mortal parent..." She shrugged. "Sometimes they can't handle it."
"At least you knew your grandma cared."
"Yeah, she did," he said.
Annabeth pushed off the wall. "Come on," she said. "I'll show you the rest of camp."
Chapter Two
He woke up, disappointment settling over him.
Last night was real.
It wasn't a dream. He closed his eyes again, shifting in his sleeping bag, taking a deep breath.
His head was throbbing, pressure radiating from his upper neck, and his eyes felt like they had shards of glass in them.
He rubbed at them until tears brought him some relief and rose from his sleeping spot.
It felt like he barely even fell asleep after Luke brought him to the cabin.
He fell asleep immediately, not caring about the bad spot by the door, or that anyone coming in or out had to step over him.
At that moment, he just wanted to sleep, he didn't care where.
Cabin 11 barely offered him that comfort.
He stretched his arms, scanning the room.
The cabin was full.
Sleeping bags on every open space, campers moving between them.
Full of kids who were in the dark just like him. Who didn't know their godly parent. Some laughed. Some argued. The noise pressed in on him from all sides.
He reached for his backpack, and felt his shoulders ease when he spotted it sitting by the wall, untouched.
Most of the campers, both younger and older, were doing the same.
Some were sullen and suspicious, eyes wide, like he would suddenly leap and attack.
Others were grinning, as if they were waiting for an opportunity to relieve him of his backpack. Some ignored him completely, which somehow stung more.
He sniffed, face wrinkling. Someone needed to open a window, and let in some fresh air.
***
It took a while before he snatched a free shower.
The wait was worth it.
The hot water pouring over his head cleared his mind.
Steam filled the stall, thick and warm. He hummed, letting the heat work into his neck, easing the throbbing. For a moment, he could breathe.
After about three minutes, the pipes rebelled. He could hear banging and mild vibrations as the warm water turned colder.
It was time to get out.
Carefully, he stepped out of the shower, one hand on the shower partition.
He pulled on a white T-shirt and brown shorts, a donation from their church back home. The shorts were too big, hanging past his knees. He put his grandma's rosary in his pocket.
Finally, as he was rubbing his hair with a towel, a thud.
The bathroom door burst open.
A harsh voice said, "Who do we have here?"
Blocking the entrance was that same girl from last night. The one Luke warned him about. Clarisse.
Behind her, a boy and a girl flanked the entrance, both grinning.
The room was suspiciously empty. There was a line of toilets on one side and a line of shower stalls on the other. No one in there except for them.
He forced a smile and said, "This is the boys' bathroom, you know?"
The broad-shouldered girl sneered, "Perfect place for your initiation, right?"
Her friends were all laughing. She turned to them and growled, "Get him."
Before he knew it, they were on him.
His towel dropped on the floor as the guy threw a punch at him. Philip backed away, dodging to the left to avoid a punch to his face.
At the same time, the girl threw herself at him and tried to push him down. "We'll pulverize you," she screamed.
Trying to avoid her leap, he slipped on the wet floor. Arms flailing, he stumbled forward and fell directly on the girl.
She screamed under him, flushed red, trying to push him off.
He leaped to his feet, and before he even blinked, the boy came crashing into him. Face screwed up in fury, he pushed Philip back into the shower stall.
Philip crashed into the wall, the shower head digging in his back. Pain shot down his spine, sharp between his shoulder blades. A hot flash went through his whole body.
Knowing he had to act fast, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pushed. His bare feet were sliding on the wet tile.
They fell into a tangle of limbs, both punching and kicking at each other in front of the shower stall.
Suddenly, Philip felt a strong grip on his neck and was flung away.
Shoulder hitting the floor tile, he grunted, and scrambled to get up. He ended up on his knees.
Clarisse was measuring him. "Not bad, newbie," she said after a moment. "You went toe-to-toe with Alex here."
Alex was on the floor, sweaty and red in the face, back leaning on the shower stall. He was breathing just as fast.
She nodded, "You have my respect." She crossed her arms. "But you still insulted all of our parents last night." She stepped closer, looming over him.
Philip knelt there, arms braced on the floor. His left cheek throbbed, hot and swelling. He exhaled and got to his feet. His ribs ached where Alex had landed a punch.
The room was spinning around Clarisse's face.
He looked directly into her proud, burning eyes.
He inhaled.
"I'm sorry," he said. Clarisse huffed. "I didn't want to insult anyone."
"Then why did you say the gods are false?" Alex said, still on the floor.
"There's no easy way to say this," he said. "Because the Greek gods are false. For me. All of them. Zeu-" there was thunder in the distance.
They all stilled.
"What I mean to say, there is only one God for me."
Clarisse's jaw tightened. "My dad is the god of war. He's won battles for thousands of years. You're saying he's nothing?"
"I'm not saying he's nothing," Philip said carefully. "I'm saying he's not THE God. The one who created everything."
Clarisse stared at him. "But he IS a god. Like Mr. D. He deserves your respect."
"I'm not denying that. I just—" He searched for words. "I can't worship him. My faith won't let me."
Clarisse eyed him as her fists clenched and unclenched. Finally, she stepped back. "Fine. You can believe whatever you want." Her eyes burned into him. "But keep your mouth shut about it. Next time you insult my dad in public, I won't stop the fight. Got it?"
Philip nodded.
She jerked her head at Alex and the girl. "Let's go. He's not worth it."
They filed out, Alex shooting Philip a glare as he passed.
As soon as they were out the door, he breathed out in relief. His hands were shaking, shoulders sagged.
***
Still standing in the exact spot, he turned around to collect his things. In the fight, the backpack was flung away.
His rosary was still in his pocket. "Thank God," he said.
He was zipping the backpack when the doors creaked again.
He grimaced. What now? Hadn't he had enough?
Instead of the angry linebacker he was expecting, a blonde girl peered into the bathroom.
She was probably around his age. The first thing he noticed was her eyes, startling and intimidating, gray.
"Wow," she said. "I was expecting to find a body here." Her lips quirked while she stepped inside. "Even so, they did a number on you." She examined him.
"Yeah, to say the least." He winced as he shouldered his backpack.
She studied his face as he came closer. "That's going to bruise," she said.
"Probably, yeah," he said.
"From what I've seen, the other guy will too." She smiled broadly. "I'm Annabeth, by the way. Annabeth Chase. Daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom and battle," she said. Her spine straightened.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "I'm Philip Moore."
"'Lover of horses' in Ancient Greek, right?" she asked, looking at him closely.
"Yeah, named after the Saint," he said. He paused, and tilted his head. "Not really sure about that second part yet."
She rolled her eyes. "There are lots of campers that are like that," she said. "Anyway, let's try and get that fixed." She pointed at his cheek. "I'll take you to the infirmary in the Big House."
He followed her out into the morning sun. After the dim bathroom, the light made him squint.
The whole place was livelier in the daylight, more real. Turning, he spotted a lake filled with canoes. He could hear the rowers laughing.
Annabeth was looking in the same direction. "That's the lake where people usually relax and go canoeing," she said as they walked. "I really wished Chiron was here," she said. "He'd be better at explaining all of this."
"Chiron?" he said as they turned away from the lake and onto the dirt road leading to the Big House.
"Our activities director and head trainer." Annabeth glanced sideways at him. "He's been teaching heroes since Ancient Greece—literally." She sighed. "He's away on some assignment."
"He's also a centaur," she said. "Half horse and half man."
"You'd probably like him." She snorted.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Lover of horses, remember," she said. "Geez." She kicked at a pebble.
They walked up to the front porch of the Big House.
***
They passed the wide front porch with its deck chairs and view of the valley. Green vines grew on the facade. It made the place look homier.
Annabeth led him inside and up a creaking staircase. The wood floors were polished. She opened one of the doors and ushered him inside.
His nose wrinkled at the sharp smell of disinfectant.
A boy with sun-bleached hair was making up the bed, replacing the sheets. He waved at them when they entered. There were no patients.
"Apollo kid," Annabeth said to Philip. "They're the best healers at camp."
He pointed at Philip's swollen cheek. "I have just the fix for this." He pulled a wooden box from a cabinet and handed Annabeth a square wrapped in cloth.
"Ambrosia," Annabeth said, unwrapping it. "Food of the gods." The square reminded him of shortbread, golden and crumbly. "It'll help with the healing."
Philip eyed it.
He pressed his thumb against it gently, testing its texture. He smelled freshly mowed grass and chamomile tea.
He could eat it and rid himself of a few days of aching and pain. But something in his gut told him this was no simple choice.
"Do you have anything else?" he asked. "Regular stuff?"
Annabeth frowned. "You're being ridiculous. It's medicine."
"I'm sorry," Philip said. "I can't."
She raised her eyebrows. "You'd rather walk around with a bruise for a week?"
"Yeah," he said. "I would."
"But why?"
"It's sorcery," he cleared his throat. "God's pretty clear about that."
Annabeth's jaw tightened. "That's not sorcery, it's just how things work here. You're going to see a lot worse if you stick around."
Philip said nothing.
She huffed and turned to the Apollo kid. "Fine. Get him the mortal stuff."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching him with that sharp gray gaze.
The Apollo kid sighed and went to a small freezer in the corner. He pulled out an ice pack and handed it to Philip.
"Twenty minutes on, twenty off," he said. "It'll help with the swelling, but you'll still look rough for a week." He waved as he left the room.
Philip waved back and pressed the ice pack to his cheek. The cold bit into his skin, but the relief was immediate. "Thank you," he said.
The silence stretched. Philip held the ice pack to his face, feeling Annabeth's eyes on him.
"So," she said finally. "You really believe all that. The whole... one God thing."
He nodded.
"And your family raised you that way?"
"My grandma," Philip said.
"Where is she now?"
"She died the night I got to camp." He kept his voice steady.
"I'm sorry," Annabeth said.
After a moment, she spoke again. "My dad's a professor at West Point. I haven't seen him in years." She said it matter-of-factly.
"I'm sorry."
"That's the thing about being a demigod," Annabeth said after a moment. "We don't usually get normal families. One parent is a god - they can't stick around. And the mortal parent..." She shrugged. "Sometimes they can't handle it."
"At least you knew your grandma cared."
"Yeah, she did," he said.
Annabeth pushed off the wall. "Come on," she said. "I'll show you the rest of camp."
Mairon
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2021
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Thanks for reading. That will probably happen
Hell yeah! Thanks for reading.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter 3
New
Mairon
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2021
- Messages
- 16
- Likes received
- 91
Disclaimer: I don't own the Percy Jackson universe.
CHAPTER 3
They left the infirmary together, Annabeth leading him down the road on a loop through camp. It was a sunny, hot day.
His face was numb from the icepack covering it, and his chilled fingers had lost the feeling in them. He'd been lucky in that fight. Had Clarisse gotten involved he'd have taken a much harder beating.
Even if fighting back felt wrong, what else could he have done? Let them carry out their revenge?
You needed to be firm when dealing with bullies like her. Had he folded over he would have been less than zero in her eyes.
He'd known kids like Clarisse before. Neighborhood kids who thought being strong meant ganging up on anyone sticking out. Once you showed them you gave as well as you took, they tended to back off. Like dogs. Waiting for a new chance to bite. What passed for insult in their eyes was repaid with aggression.
Looking at the camp, the theatrics of it all - everyone here seemed to worship martial might. Being remembered as a hero, a fighter.
All to please these distant beings who called themselves gods. They weren't like his God, they were gods of the world. Human-like, or a poor imitation.
He sighed and followed Annabeth, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
They were circling back towards the cabins now, walking on the edges of a fairly large forest.
Afternoon light streamed through the thick canopy, and strawberry fields spread even further back.
"-because of that, I'd recommend against going in there," she said, back turned to the forest.
"I'm sorry, what?" Philip said as he removed the ice pack from his cheek, it was getting warmer.
"Are you listening?" She rolled her eyes, "Pay attention." Taking a breath she continued. "If you don't want to deal with monsters I'd recommend against going in there." She waved her hand at the outline of the forest.
Monsters, the same ones that— He had to stop. He couldn't think about that. Not yet.
"In there?" he said instead, eyebrows going up. Birds chirped among the branches. The underbrush was neat and maintained, just enough so you could run between trees. "How do they even get in? I thought the whole camp was supposed to be safe."
The only reason he went along with his satyr guide, called Ash, was the promise of a safe haven.
Annabeth shrugged. "It is," she said. "Most of the time."
"What does that mean?"
"There are ways to get them in, you know," she said, her tone light.
"Why would anyone do that?" he said.
It was beyond dangerous, playing around with creatures like those. It only took a moment and they could end a life.
"Mostly for training." She said, "Sometimes as a prank too."
His eyebrows shot up, "A prank?" They were moving away from the forest now, the camp's fighting arena behind them.
"Don't judge," she said laughing. "And don't act so high and mighty," she bumped his shoulder, "I know you already have a potential target," she smirked.
He playfully pushed her away and continued walking. "It's not like that," he said. "I just don't understand her."
Annabeth snickered, "I have known Clarisse for years," she said. "There's not much to understand there."
He frowned, tilting his head. "What do you mean?"
She swept her curly blonde bangs back, "Come on." "She's pretty simple at her core. Might makes right and all that."
"She's a brute," she continued. Her self satisfied smirk faded into a frown, "Desperate for attention."
"She was angry I insulted her dad, I think," he said after a pause, rubbing his chin. "I would probably feel the same if I was in her place." He looked at Annabeth, "I guess I owe you an apology too."
She blinked, then smiled. "It's ok, I get where you're coming from. Now come on, we'll be late for lunch."
"I'm not coming," he said. "I need to find Ash."
Seeing her eyebrows quirk up, he explained. "My satyr guide."
"Well then," she said finally. "I bet he's somewhere there," she pointed toward the distant figures working among the rows of strawberries.
He turned to look, and sure enough, most of the people working the fields had distinct goat legs.
He turned to thank her, but Annabeth was already moving toward the pavilion.
He waved half-heartedly and went on to find his friend.
***
The strawberry fields spread out ahead, rows of green plants spotted with red and green berries. The heat was bearable now that the sun was lower in the sky.
Near the far edge, by the tree line, he spotted his satyr, shoulders hunched, kneeling on the ground with hands deep in the foliage.
He made his way over, carefully stepping around the green bushes. The air smelled sweet, like fruit warming in the afternoon sun. Ash didn't notice him.
"Hey," Philip said when he was close enough.
The satyr jumped, bleating loudly, eyes going wide, "Philip." His voice lowered slightly, "What are you doing here?"
Philip exhaled, looking at his friend. "I wanted to see how you were doing," he said, reaching out with his hand.
"Thanks," the satyr grunted, pushing himself up. His hand was rough and dry with dirt.
Philip nodded, but before he could speak, Ash blurted out: "It was all my fault. I couldn't protect either of you. That was my job, and I—" He stopped, swallowed hard.
"Are you okay?" He finally said, voice soft. "I heard what happened with Mr. D last night." His grey furry legs kept scraping against the dry ground.
Was he okay? His grandma was dead. Just this morning he had to drive off an attack. Like a wild animal dragged into a ranch, expecting to behave.
"Not really."
A breeze rustled through the strawberry plants. In one night his whole world was destroyed, and his life remade. Nothing was going to be the same anymore, he knew it.
His fingers found the rosary beads in his pocket, worn smooth from his grandmother's hands.
He looked at his friend, the one who had been tailing him for the better part of the year. The one who'd saved him from the cyclops.
"It wasn't your fault," he said at last, his throat tightening.
Ash, pale faced and with bags under his eyes, looked up at him, something like hope flickering behind his eyes.
His eyes shone with tears. "You really mean that?"
"Staying behind was her choice." Philip said, pushing past how his voice trembled. "That's not on you."
Tears were streaming freely down the satyr's face, and Philip felt like he was on the verge of crying himself.
He wiped his eyes.
"I wish I said goodbye," he admitted with eyes closed, feeling the ocean's breeze on his face. His fists were clutching his shirt.
He felt Ash's warm hands gently pulling on his hands. "I think your grandma knew you really well," he said. "Before we left she gave me this."
He opened his eyes. Ash was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand, torn out from one of his school notebooks.
His name was written over the grid squares in his grandmother's handwriting.
His hand shook as he took the note and unfolded the thin piece of paper, the paper crumbled and uneven.
He had to steady himself, before he sat on the ground, legs crossed and leaning in to read.
The note was short, barely legible, but he didn't mind.
'Philip,
The monsters are real. Go to St. Catherine's convent in upstate New York, ask for sister Margaret. Ask about your mother.
I wanted to go with you, now there is no time.
Psalm 139:14-16.
Love you'
He read it again and again.
He would need to go to St. Catherine's, find out the truth. His mother died when he was born. She died in the very same convent, he'd always known that much.
He read the letter once again, looking for anything he might have missed.
His eyes settled on Psalm 139:14-16. He knew most of it by heart.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made," he said, meeting Ash's eyes. "My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place," he recited from memory.
Tears finally slid freely down his cheeks.
In fact, those words were suspiciously well suited to his current situation.
He laughed. Ash was looking at him, head tilted in concern.
He chewed his lip, trying to remember the rest. "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
His grandma knew he was different from the start, this letter confirmed it. This was her way of telling him she accepted him. Telling him God did not abandon him to fend on his own.
"Those words," Ash said, eyebrows drawn together, "What do they mean?"
Philip opened his mouth, then closed it again. How did he explain this?
"It's from the Bible," he said finally. "It means God made each of us on purpose. That we're not mistakes."
He looked down at the letter. "My grandma must have suspected something all along, because she taught me those same lines." He paused, folding the paper carefully." In short, it says that God knew what He was making."
He looked up at Ash. "Even demigods," he realized.
They sat in silence for a while, the breeze rustling through the strawberry plants around them.
The sun was sinking lower, turning the sky orange.
Philip folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket next to the rosary.
"Ash," he said after a while, "How'd you feel if we went on the road again?"
Ash opened his mouth, when the dinner conch sounded.
They both looked toward the pavilion. The distant sound of campers moving, voices rising in excitement.
"We should go," Ash said, he offered Philip a hand. Philip took it, letting Ash pull him up.
His legs were stiff from sitting on the ground, and his back ached.
They walked back in silence, the fields behind them now shadowed in the fading light.
The air was cooler now, and he could hear crickets from the bushes.
Philip's hand kept going to his pocket, feeling the thin and fragile note through the fabric. His grandmother's last words.
Ask about your mother.
"You didn't answer my question," Philip said as they reached the edge of the fields. "About going on the road again."
Ash was quiet for a long moment. His hooves clicked against the dirt path. "You really want to leave? After just getting here?"
"Not right away," Philip said. The pavilion was ahead now, golden light spilling from it, the sound of campers laughing and talking. "But eventually. I need to find that convent."
"And if there are monsters?" Ash's voice was tight. "If something happens again?"
Philip thought about his grandmother. About how helpless he'd been against the cyclops.
"Then I'll need to be ready," he said. "That's why I'm staying here first. To learn and to train." He glanced at Ash. "But I'm not staying forever."
Ash nodded slowly. "Okay. When you're ready, then. I'll go with you."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." Ash met his eyes. "But I'm going anyway. I couldn't protect her, but maybe I can protect you."
He wanted to argue, to say he didn't owe him anything. But the words wouldn't come.
They reached the pavilion steps. Inside, campers were already gathering at their tables, the smell of food drifting out into the evening air.
"Philip," Ash said, stopping him. "That thing you said. About God making you on purpose. About not being a mistake."
"Yeah?"
"Do you think..." Ash hesitated. "Do you think that's true for me too? Even though I'm not human?"
Philip faced his friend. At the satyr who'd been protecting him for at least half a year without him even knowing. Who'd kept his grandmother's letter safe through everything.
"Yeah," Philip said. "I do."
Ash smiled, something fragile in it.
They walked into the pavilion together.
CHAPTER 3
They left the infirmary together, Annabeth leading him down the road on a loop through camp. It was a sunny, hot day.
His face was numb from the icepack covering it, and his chilled fingers had lost the feeling in them. He'd been lucky in that fight. Had Clarisse gotten involved he'd have taken a much harder beating.
Even if fighting back felt wrong, what else could he have done? Let them carry out their revenge?
You needed to be firm when dealing with bullies like her. Had he folded over he would have been less than zero in her eyes.
He'd known kids like Clarisse before. Neighborhood kids who thought being strong meant ganging up on anyone sticking out. Once you showed them you gave as well as you took, they tended to back off. Like dogs. Waiting for a new chance to bite. What passed for insult in their eyes was repaid with aggression.
Looking at the camp, the theatrics of it all - everyone here seemed to worship martial might. Being remembered as a hero, a fighter.
All to please these distant beings who called themselves gods. They weren't like his God, they were gods of the world. Human-like, or a poor imitation.
He sighed and followed Annabeth, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
They were circling back towards the cabins now, walking on the edges of a fairly large forest.
Afternoon light streamed through the thick canopy, and strawberry fields spread even further back.
"-because of that, I'd recommend against going in there," she said, back turned to the forest.
"I'm sorry, what?" Philip said as he removed the ice pack from his cheek, it was getting warmer.
"Are you listening?" She rolled her eyes, "Pay attention." Taking a breath she continued. "If you don't want to deal with monsters I'd recommend against going in there." She waved her hand at the outline of the forest.
Monsters, the same ones that— He had to stop. He couldn't think about that. Not yet.
"In there?" he said instead, eyebrows going up. Birds chirped among the branches. The underbrush was neat and maintained, just enough so you could run between trees. "How do they even get in? I thought the whole camp was supposed to be safe."
The only reason he went along with his satyr guide, called Ash, was the promise of a safe haven.
Annabeth shrugged. "It is," she said. "Most of the time."
"What does that mean?"
"There are ways to get them in, you know," she said, her tone light.
"Why would anyone do that?" he said.
It was beyond dangerous, playing around with creatures like those. It only took a moment and they could end a life.
"Mostly for training." She said, "Sometimes as a prank too."
His eyebrows shot up, "A prank?" They were moving away from the forest now, the camp's fighting arena behind them.
"Don't judge," she said laughing. "And don't act so high and mighty," she bumped his shoulder, "I know you already have a potential target," she smirked.
He playfully pushed her away and continued walking. "It's not like that," he said. "I just don't understand her."
Annabeth snickered, "I have known Clarisse for years," she said. "There's not much to understand there."
He frowned, tilting his head. "What do you mean?"
She swept her curly blonde bangs back, "Come on." "She's pretty simple at her core. Might makes right and all that."
"She's a brute," she continued. Her self satisfied smirk faded into a frown, "Desperate for attention."
"She was angry I insulted her dad, I think," he said after a pause, rubbing his chin. "I would probably feel the same if I was in her place." He looked at Annabeth, "I guess I owe you an apology too."
She blinked, then smiled. "It's ok, I get where you're coming from. Now come on, we'll be late for lunch."
"I'm not coming," he said. "I need to find Ash."
Seeing her eyebrows quirk up, he explained. "My satyr guide."
"Well then," she said finally. "I bet he's somewhere there," she pointed toward the distant figures working among the rows of strawberries.
He turned to look, and sure enough, most of the people working the fields had distinct goat legs.
He turned to thank her, but Annabeth was already moving toward the pavilion.
He waved half-heartedly and went on to find his friend.
***
The strawberry fields spread out ahead, rows of green plants spotted with red and green berries. The heat was bearable now that the sun was lower in the sky.
Near the far edge, by the tree line, he spotted his satyr, shoulders hunched, kneeling on the ground with hands deep in the foliage.
He made his way over, carefully stepping around the green bushes. The air smelled sweet, like fruit warming in the afternoon sun. Ash didn't notice him.
"Hey," Philip said when he was close enough.
The satyr jumped, bleating loudly, eyes going wide, "Philip." His voice lowered slightly, "What are you doing here?"
Philip exhaled, looking at his friend. "I wanted to see how you were doing," he said, reaching out with his hand.
"Thanks," the satyr grunted, pushing himself up. His hand was rough and dry with dirt.
Philip nodded, but before he could speak, Ash blurted out: "It was all my fault. I couldn't protect either of you. That was my job, and I—" He stopped, swallowed hard.
"Are you okay?" He finally said, voice soft. "I heard what happened with Mr. D last night." His grey furry legs kept scraping against the dry ground.
Was he okay? His grandma was dead. Just this morning he had to drive off an attack. Like a wild animal dragged into a ranch, expecting to behave.
"Not really."
A breeze rustled through the strawberry plants. In one night his whole world was destroyed, and his life remade. Nothing was going to be the same anymore, he knew it.
His fingers found the rosary beads in his pocket, worn smooth from his grandmother's hands.
He looked at his friend, the one who had been tailing him for the better part of the year. The one who'd saved him from the cyclops.
"It wasn't your fault," he said at last, his throat tightening.
Ash, pale faced and with bags under his eyes, looked up at him, something like hope flickering behind his eyes.
His eyes shone with tears. "You really mean that?"
"Staying behind was her choice." Philip said, pushing past how his voice trembled. "That's not on you."
Tears were streaming freely down the satyr's face, and Philip felt like he was on the verge of crying himself.
He wiped his eyes.
"I wish I said goodbye," he admitted with eyes closed, feeling the ocean's breeze on his face. His fists were clutching his shirt.
He felt Ash's warm hands gently pulling on his hands. "I think your grandma knew you really well," he said. "Before we left she gave me this."
He opened his eyes. Ash was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand, torn out from one of his school notebooks.
His name was written over the grid squares in his grandmother's handwriting.
His hand shook as he took the note and unfolded the thin piece of paper, the paper crumbled and uneven.
He had to steady himself, before he sat on the ground, legs crossed and leaning in to read.
The note was short, barely legible, but he didn't mind.
'Philip,
The monsters are real. Go to St. Catherine's convent in upstate New York, ask for sister Margaret. Ask about your mother.
I wanted to go with you, now there is no time.
Psalm 139:14-16.
Love you'
He read it again and again.
He would need to go to St. Catherine's, find out the truth. His mother died when he was born. She died in the very same convent, he'd always known that much.
He read the letter once again, looking for anything he might have missed.
His eyes settled on Psalm 139:14-16. He knew most of it by heart.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made," he said, meeting Ash's eyes. "My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place," he recited from memory.
Tears finally slid freely down his cheeks.
In fact, those words were suspiciously well suited to his current situation.
He laughed. Ash was looking at him, head tilted in concern.
He chewed his lip, trying to remember the rest. "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
His grandma knew he was different from the start, this letter confirmed it. This was her way of telling him she accepted him. Telling him God did not abandon him to fend on his own.
"Those words," Ash said, eyebrows drawn together, "What do they mean?"
Philip opened his mouth, then closed it again. How did he explain this?
"It's from the Bible," he said finally. "It means God made each of us on purpose. That we're not mistakes."
He looked down at the letter. "My grandma must have suspected something all along, because she taught me those same lines." He paused, folding the paper carefully." In short, it says that God knew what He was making."
He looked up at Ash. "Even demigods," he realized.
They sat in silence for a while, the breeze rustling through the strawberry plants around them.
The sun was sinking lower, turning the sky orange.
Philip folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket next to the rosary.
"Ash," he said after a while, "How'd you feel if we went on the road again?"
Ash opened his mouth, when the dinner conch sounded.
They both looked toward the pavilion. The distant sound of campers moving, voices rising in excitement.
"We should go," Ash said, he offered Philip a hand. Philip took it, letting Ash pull him up.
His legs were stiff from sitting on the ground, and his back ached.
They walked back in silence, the fields behind them now shadowed in the fading light.
The air was cooler now, and he could hear crickets from the bushes.
Philip's hand kept going to his pocket, feeling the thin and fragile note through the fabric. His grandmother's last words.
Ask about your mother.
"You didn't answer my question," Philip said as they reached the edge of the fields. "About going on the road again."
Ash was quiet for a long moment. His hooves clicked against the dirt path. "You really want to leave? After just getting here?"
"Not right away," Philip said. The pavilion was ahead now, golden light spilling from it, the sound of campers laughing and talking. "But eventually. I need to find that convent."
"And if there are monsters?" Ash's voice was tight. "If something happens again?"
Philip thought about his grandmother. About how helpless he'd been against the cyclops.
"Then I'll need to be ready," he said. "That's why I'm staying here first. To learn and to train." He glanced at Ash. "But I'm not staying forever."
Ash nodded slowly. "Okay. When you're ready, then. I'll go with you."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." Ash met his eyes. "But I'm going anyway. I couldn't protect her, but maybe I can protect you."
He wanted to argue, to say he didn't owe him anything. But the words wouldn't come.
They reached the pavilion steps. Inside, campers were already gathering at their tables, the smell of food drifting out into the evening air.
"Philip," Ash said, stopping him. "That thing you said. About God making you on purpose. About not being a mistake."
"Yeah?"
"Do you think..." Ash hesitated. "Do you think that's true for me too? Even though I'm not human?"
Philip faced his friend. At the satyr who'd been protecting him for at least half a year without him even knowing. Who'd kept his grandmother's letter safe through everything.
"Yeah," Philip said. "I do."
Ash smiled, something fragile in it.
They walked into the pavilion together.