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Chapter Text

If you could ask Patroclus one rotten thing about his life, he wouldn’t take a single second to answer it. Of course, that didn’t undermine the amount of terribleness his life held. His mother was dead and his stepfather was a hunky old man who dwelled in cellars and lived on whiskey. He had no friends, no ambition, and no disposition to do anything great in life beyond drifting in the shadows.

But still, that didn’t answer what Patroclus would name as the worst thing of all this.

That, my friend, was the number seven. Bad things always happened to Patroclus through the number seven.

He was born on the seventh month on the seventh day at exactly seven am in the morning. As the sun rose from the plains of Texas dust and grime, he was delivered to a very delirious mother who looked at him and decided to ruin his life then and there.

She named his Patroclus. Not Patrick or plain Pat, but Patroclus.

His mother told him later that he looked at her and smiled when she said it in his ear. If he could, Patroclus would slap that baby for forfeiting to such a horrendous name.

It wasn’t the heritage that bothered him, but could her livid interest in the Iliad not produce a better name than one of a man whose most memorable feat was dying?

He never quite asked her, though, because before he could conjure his great disdain, she was dead. He was seven then.

See how horrible that number was?

And when Patroclus swore that this retched number would never come again in his life, it did in such irony.  

Patroclus was doing nothing much that fateful day except brooding on his failing grade in English. He was curled on his swivel chair, the only comfortable furniture in his dorm. His boarding school believed that kids would learn under any conditions given the will, so they would embellish the scratchy mattress as a disciplinary device. His stepfather saw through the guise, though, so sent him hear with a delighted grin.

He was twirling a pencil, reading a medical book, because why not, when a stupid eagle smashed into his window.

The first thought that sprang to his mind was why it had to be his window of the many linear glasses on the building side.

His second thought was not really a thought, but an exasperated sigh that came instantly and instinctively. The eagle smashed into his window because it could. It was the same way Clyro and his minions would line up and smash pudding on his face when there were so many other options.

They did it because they could.

Patroclus stared into the mass when he realized that this was not an eagle.

Great, just his rotten luck.

It had an oblong head and a sharp nose. The talons were quite long, like pocketknives, and Patroclus could feel his throat tingle at the possibility of a metal interruption and iron blood.  Patroclus realized then that this was a Harpy, and he hated how he knew this creature better than his book report.

Stupid B+ and Dyslexia.

He defeated that Harpy that day. Well, rather, the harpy vanished to smoke after experiencing one too many glass shards in its shoulder. That was a clear indication of his fate; he would always be too late and hesitant to do anything. Just as Patroclus was turning his back, readying himself for another restless sleep where he would pretend that life was just sunshine and butterflies, a prickly half-goat goat half-man abomination came thrashing into his dorm complaining about the dean of the boarding school, who he said was a Cacodemon.

If he could set his face to cringe, he would. It would be very efficient.

Patroclus looked at him, and that thing looked back at him.

“Come on, kid. We ain’t got all day. Call me Coach Hedge or don’t for all I care”, it barked.

Patroclus blinked, apparently for too long because Coach Hedge was already leaving. His fluent curses in a stream of mangled Greek brought fond memories of his mother at the grocery store shouting at prices. He looked around at his dorm, the tossed bed sheets and broken glass, before sending an apology to his dorm mate. Patroclus swiped his mother’s parting gift, a pair of ivory dice, into his pocket and clamored behind the thing.

He really did hate seven.

Chapter Text

Patroclus stared at the thing, trying to find a word for it. He knew what it was and had a vague idea of the concept of the creature. But the name wasn’t providing itself so easily, putting up a fight with his muddled brain, and he felt stupid asking Coach Hedge. After seven years of his mother injecting Greek myths into his blood alongside Medical jargon, was this his level?

Apparently so.

Hedge’s shoes (hooves?) gave a small tap, which Patroclus associated with Ronda Alla Turca for some strange reason. They stepped through the corridor, the dirty posters flapping under rectangular boxes of flickering light. Patroclus hated these hallways, the musty smell wafting from the clogged bathrooms. The tiles were cracked, and Patroclus stepped over them even though he had no mother who could break her back.

In hindsight, Patroclus was distracting himself from the inevitable.

“So, sir”, he began. “You’re here cause”.

Patroclus let the phrase run, waving his hand ambiguously in an attempt to convey whatever he was asking. In truth, he didn’t know himself.  Had a mythical creature really run into his window, or was it just freaky Friday?

Maybe this was another trick of Clyro.

Coach Hedge looked at him, scrutinizing his form. He was quite lanky and tall, with broad shoulders. He was built like a starved bull; he knew that quite well. But something about those goat eyes staring at me made his skin prick up in attention.

Finally, his flitting eyes landed on Patroclus’s shirt, a very ragged Led Zeppelin t-shirt with too many holes considering the number of times he washed it.

“You’re really like your father, aren’t you?” he spoke, cautiously weighing his words.

 Patroclus shook his head in confusion. His stepfather never wore Led Zeppelin shirts, and his birth father was this ambitious shadow lurking in the depths of his mind.

When had Menetious worn a Led Zeppelin shirt?

Before he could say anything, though, Coach Hedge pulled him but his shoulder, patting a very eerie comfort.

“Now don’t be shocked by the rest of it, alright, kid?”

Patroclus truly didn’t know what Coach Hedge had wanted him to do. When you see your school, the pristine academy that you had spent nearly five grades burn to the ground, what are you supposed to do?

Well, Patroclus did the most logical thing. He pulled on his chestnut curls and breathed too much ash.

“The schools in flames, sir?!”

Coach Hedge looked incredulously, though Patroclus did not notice through the haze of anxiety.

“Getting through a Cacodemon is no ordinary feat”, Hedge exclaimed. Patroclus shot him a glare before his eyes landed on a group of his classmates bound to a table leg. He patted down the flames before loosening the knot. When he went to reassure them, they moaned against the rope in their mouth, rubbing their hands like he was the Grim Reaper.

Well, truth be told, the soot on his face did not help his case now.

Hedge let out an exclamation, something between a squeal and why am I doing this before pulling Patroclus to the doorway by his hair.

“See here, Patrick-“

“Patroclus”, he corrected.

Hedge sighed and ran a hand through his wrinkly face. “Look, Patroclus, you are not normal. You’re a demigod. And doing this”, he pointed to his attempt at freeing the ropes,” will make you a teenage delinquent. Do you want that?”

But Patroclus did not quite understand the words coming out of his mouth, his heart chucked away by the phrase and thrown a thousand miles.

And to make this moment so much better, he had to connect this news with another very iconic and now ironic moment. Stupid, stupid brain.

Yer a demigod, Patroclus.

Yeah, he was going to look into that plastic surgery.

Chapter Text

 In a very short moment, and even shorter word, Patroclus felt like he had grown a second head. He knew very well that he was not special; he liked to call it plainly dumb and ordinary with quirks.

Did he notice weird things happen around him? Of course.

He could never excel in English, getting mundane words mixed up. He miraculously never caught a cold in his life, and had weird dreams of events that seemed to happen per point days later.

He had his fair share of teachers and bullies, who to him felt otherworldly.

And with his retched hemophilia, it seemed like the universe was against him.

But a demigod was taking it too far.

Coach Hedge looked at him incredulously, Patroclus noticed though his panic-induced stupor. Maybe he had grown a second head. Maybe he had fallen on his only head and broken his brain.

“A demigod. You mean like a superhero”.

Coach Hedge gave him an exasperated sigh, raising a fist with a curse.

“A demigod or better said Half Blood. Half human, half god. Just like I’m half man and half goat. Kapiece”.

“But-“,

Coach Hedge shot him a very dangerous glare, a very clear signal of one more word and I’m feeding you to that harpy.

Patroclus gulped, swallowing his mix of fear and bile. His mind was throbbing, pounding against his head and turning to mush. He felt like mush too, icky and out of place.

Patroclus pushed past the slippery wood floor outside to comforting gravel, where Coach Hedge was fishing out a very weird coin.

“Are their more people like me or am I the only one?”.

Coach Hedge scoffed, muttering incomprehensible about a certain Jason Grace who was so much more worth the hassle that him – only one, little brat thinks he special. Patroclus pretended not to hear than, staying indifferent and preening over the bushy facial hair. Coach Hedge grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him to a hidden alleyway by the side. The stale sunburnt trash did not help the appeal of the words that came out next.

“Look, kid. There are more people like you and you’ll meet them too. Just take this cab to camp and they’ll explain it to you, alright?”.

Patroclus shook his head, shaking the hand on his shoulder effectively too.

“But what if I don’t want to go with you to camp. After all, you could be a kidnapper for all I know. And where is this camp anyway?”.

But before Coach Hedge could elaborate on the comment stuck in his throat about how do I look like a kidnapper, another one of those eagles – no harpies- landed straight into the alleyway. The sunlight flittered through the black silhouette, and if goat legs could shake, then Patroclus was sure Hedge’s legs were shaking.

Who was he kidding, his legs were shaking too.

This harpy was sharper, more cunning and exact. Whereas his first one was an inexpensive bundle of joy, this was the kind that would kill you and do it with a smile. Vaguely, Patroclus recognized the face as one of Clyro’s minions, a lanky girl who would pull on his curls, but before he could do anything, Hedge thrust a knife into his palms.

“Show you stuff kid. Hit it in the spot, y’know”.

The knife felt heavy in his fingers, as did the information.

“I don’t know actually. What spot?”, Patroclus shouted back. The rush in his ears was drowning him in a monotonous beep, and not knowing a single thing about this creatures’ anatomy was not aiding his cause.

Hedge rolled his eyes, pushing Patroclus forward before presuming fiddling with the coin.

Was a coin more worthy that his life?

The Harpy girl thing took a jab at him, as if he was a cat she (it?) was toying with. Patroclus ducked a little to avoid her bird arms, but it was short lived and lasted. She gave him a mocking smile so familiar to the ones he would have before blacking out from punches, before effectively swiping half of his shirt and a good portion of his skin.

Patroclus groaned a little, crawling over feathers and deadly razor arms to Coach Hedge, who was now misting spit. He looked at Patroclus, who was already pale and bleeding out and nearly bare chested, and did the most ridiculous thing of waving the coin into his spit.

And that was when Patroclus confirmed his horrible fate. He was going to die.  He was really going to die, and he had such big dreams.

He was really looking forward to that cheer up key lime pie.

Patroclus took another look at that harpy girl thing, who was still swinging aimlessly. Was he not even worth proper demolition? Patroclus gave a air solute, before walking into battlefield with open arms, though one arm was limp by his side due to excess blood loss.

Until that very moment, Patroclus had thought death was this ceremonial flash of pain, a blinding white light taking you to heaven, and then a fade into nothingness.

Funny thing: Patroclus wasn’t even lucky to receive that. For Patroclus, it was a jab in the hips by a dashboard of a car and a roar of three screechy voices shouting, “Where’s my eye?”.

Chapter Text

Patroclus, at that moment when the car hit his hip bone to a point of fracture, realized that he hated his fate. Why must he, a normal thirteen year old loser, go though so much pain? And to think that his worst problem was his book report.

Such simple times.

Patroclus didn’t think much at that moment, not of the screaming lades in the driver’s seat or a pushy Coach Hedge throttling him into the back seat, expect the fact that he was not dead. But on the other hand, maybe he would have a less chaotic afterlife. The blood loss made his mind fog and his eyes mist with haze; he really wanted to sleep, but he realized that it might be a while before he received any.

The car was nice and cold as he fell in, a good reprieve to his sweat drenched skin. The air punctured his jagged cut, and he groaned. One of the ladies turned to meet him with her eye in a welcoming gesture.

Wait eye?

It was at that moment Patroclus really saw the drivers. And when he did, he wanted to get out of the car, scream his lung out, and then barf out his other vital organs.  It was just his luck that he couldn’t have a normal day, or a normal escort to this camp, but a demon abomination of three ladies sharing an eye and a tooth.

The lady who stared at him gave him a frown.

“This one’s broken, Wasp”.

Wasp, who was at the steering wheel, snapped back.

“And I need my eye to DRIVE, Tempest”. She then promptly punched the lady underneath her and dug her dingy nails into skin. “Anger, get out of my seat”.

Anger, who apparently was a squiggling from under Wasp’s behind, gave her a hard hit back.

“Well, you bit the coin. I wanted to this time. You deserve this”.

“Does not”.

“Does too”.

“DOES NOT!”.

Their bickering could be heard all across the city. Patroclus gave a sigh, contemplating the nicest way to ask about this. Was it normal for a kid like him, a demigod, to see such things? Would he have to share his eye at camp? No offense, but Patroclus quite enjoyed having two to himself. Unfortunately, before he could ask about their situation, Wasp plucked the eye from Tempest’s socket (quite gross, if you asked Patroclus) and plugged into her own. It was then that she noticed the car, left unattended, was heading into a brick wall. She pressed the accelerator, leaving Patroclus to abandon his stomach and his sanity on the car carpets. Patroclus gripped onto his shoulder and banged onto the front seat.

“Can’t you guys see or something?”.

Tempest plucked the eye back and gave Patroclus a hard stare. Her comment though got lost as she noticed a red light, promptly screaming “RED LIGHT” into everyone’s ear.

Patroclus can still feel the blood pooling where the voice cut his eardrum. He was pushed hard into the backboard, and he was sure he have swallowed a tooth in the process.

Oh, Coach Hedge was much better, Patroclus thought. At least he owned all his limbs and used then properly for his shenanigans, unlike these people. He went to open the door.

Better to die jumping from a moving car than to burn in one, he figured.

Anger, who apparently had the eye now, grabbed his hand instantly, crawling into the back seat and partially into his lap.

“You can’t do that”, she warned.

Patroclus gave her a glare.

“Well, I’d rather die anywhere but here”, he retorted, prying the lock with his pinky. However, the door wouldn’t budge. He shot her a exasperated look.

“It’s child locked?”.

“Well mister”, Anger regarded, “We, Grey Sisters, intend to follow rules in this cab”.

Unfortunately, Wasp had hit a brake, hurling Anger’s eye into Patroclus’s lap, just as the words left her eccentric parody of teeth. The slimy ball rolled across his palm before stopping at a bulging vein. Patroclus swore, when things couldn’t get any weirder, they somehow did. Patroclus tossed the eye, but in the jerks, it tumbled under the seat.

“We can’t see”, Tempest cried.

Well, you never could, Patroclus thought though he it behind his grimacing smile. In any way, he still needed to have a good entry photo for heaven or Demigod adjacent when he died. Wasp turned the wheel, letting the car spin before stopping in front of a forest border.

Wait, the city had already passed?

Patroclus had to admit that they were quite entertaining in the moments they weren’t risking his life.

As soon as the locks clicked, Patroclus clamored out and crawled away with such urgency that it could be told that Patroclus was fearing death. The Grey Sisters speed away as soon as they dumped him, explaining how ungrateful customers had become.

He would love to say that he wasn’t a customer or even part of this magical world. But he couldn’t because when he heard the shouts of children screaming “There’s a new Demigod”, he couldn’t deny them for the life of him.

Well, in whatever fashion, this was a problem for Future Patroclus. Present Patroclus was still believing that this was just a very very realistic dream.

Chapter Text

The first thing Patroclus noticed was the overwhelming number of people rushing up to him, like he was the most discounted item on Black Friday Clearance. Boys and girls of various sizes, tall and short and skinny, in fluorescent orange t-shirts. And most alarming of all was the presence of weapons in their hands.

Seeing this made Patroclus want to run away into the forest.

How could he sport such a thick ax or bow or sword or anything for that matter? And Orange was not a color he would look good in; in fact, he would look like a dork. Patroclus could just foresee his future as a practice dummy, though the more rational part of him saw a lovely life awaiting him if he just took a step forward.

And (blame it on his blood loss), he did.

Immediately, a blond-haired boy came up to him, grimacing when he saw his Led Zeppelin shirt soaked with crimson blood. He was probably ghostly pale, pallor skin contrasting starkly with the black of the shirt. 

He was followed by a girl with dirty overalls, who marched right over and then turned her nose in disgust like he was a weed. But, to Patroclus’s surprise, the blond-haired boy just gave her a glaring look before taking his hand. That was when Patroclus decided that he liked this person.

Maybe not all things were bad in this place, just 99% of the lot.

“I’m Will Solace. Let’s get you to the infirmary, okay? Then, I’ll take you to Chiron. What’s your name?” he asked, effectively snapping Patroclus from his thoughts.

Patroclus could feel himself blushing as he dumbly nodded, not so stoic for a camp of child soldiers. But under the eyes of this boy, he felt unusually safe. And that feeling, a feeling of comfort, was not so often present in the tragedy of his life.

It was either bullies or enablers. Will seemed to be neither.

“Pat”, he replied. He didn’t even try to say his full name; most people couldn’t pronounce it anyway. Even Coach Hedge, in the small times they weren’t screaming, had butchered the name and tossed it like meat to the dogs.

Thank you, mama.

Patroclus walked up the hills, crested between the statues and old relics. Momentarily, they walked by a strawberry field and Patroclus gawked at the endless rows of bright red bushels. Never had he seen so many strawberries nested together in one place.

Maybe this camp was a Strawberry export, sending crates of strawberry jam and sponge cakes with strawberry filling. If it were that, then Patroclus could get used to this.

All the while, Will droned about something. Patroclus tuned in occasionally, humming like he knew what the other was talking about. Regardless, he learned three things in the walk-through camp.

1. This was a place for Demigods. Coach Hegde was not kidding when he said that camp was a safe space. No danger could harm them here.
2. Will was an Apollo Child, which meant he had powers corresponding to the god himself. For example, as an Apollo Child, he could heal. His siblings could do archery or serenade with music, or heal like him.
3. In turn, it meant that Patroclus probably had a Godly Parent, but they would reveal themselves in time. (This included an entire dialogue about his revealing and his father Apollo’s adventure as a human five years prior)

Patroclus also listened to Will recount his adventure in Tartarus with a certain “death boy” (so endearing), thought it was evident that he was toning down details. His mother would do that often, especially by the end; Patroclus was an expert in pretending not to notice these blaring signs. She would purposely forget to tell him things, as if it made it easier to accept that his mother was dying.

And then she was dead.

Will’s tone, though, was not like his mother’s. Whereas his mother’s voice would be tight with unsaid emotion, his was laced with indifference akin to “I went to the store last week and forgot cash, y’know”.

Perhaps this was a coping mechanism, but he couldn’t decide if this was normal or if Will had exceptionally strong stamina to even come out of the experience alive.

Would Patroclus be the same way in a couple of years?

Oh, you know, I almost died. Say, what are we having for dinner now?

It was hard to believe.

Either way, in the walk to the infirmary, he had to dodge two thrown axes, a blowtorch, and five runaway Pegasus (which made Patroclus faint in its separate way, since when did horses have wings?).

He thought he knew the myths, but he was wrong. Really wrong.

“Is it always like this here?” he’d asked.

“You’ll get used to it. Just last week, Aphrodite Cabin put a love spell on the Demeter kids to make them fall in love with plants. They had a secret midnight wedding and all”, Will had answered, to which Patroclus gave a meek yeah, and I thought I was weird.

By the time he sat on the crunchy paper sheet inside Cabin 7, the Apollo Cabin, Patroclus was half delirious and insane. And his bloody shoulder, which was cemented in red with his clamped hand, was beginning to feel mushy and rotten.

Will eyed him before producing a golden square of brittle candy. Or at least, that was what it looked like. Then, as if he was doubting himself, Will also poured a cup of glowing golden liquid.  

It looked like the ichor of the gods.

Patroclus peeled his bloody hand and gripped the cup, looking at Will expectantly.

“Is this a painkiller for when you stitch the wound?”.

Will laughed. “No, this is ambrosia. It’s like a super elixir for demigods. Try it”.

Patroclus raised his eyes. Super elixir? His mind amply supplied that super elixir might possibly be another word for poison, but the lack of pressure on his wound made the blood bubble faster, and Patroclus felt dizzy.

If he was going to die, then so be it. Patroclus was tired of fending for his life today. Tomorrow, he would be more cautious. He let his lips take a little taste.

Instantly, he could feel a warm fuzziness, like fluid baklava and Lemonopita (a 10 out of 10 Greek lemon cake if you asked him).

The feeling made his eyes prick with tears. Darn, the ambrosia even got his mother’s secret splash of honey. Patroclus gargled a mouthful, intending to savor the taste forever.

“Can I get a second serving?”. 

Will chuckled, which Patroclus realized now that he did a lot. Will seemed to like to laugh, even for no apparent reason. He laughed like life was worth laughing, that life was not this hopeless prison that one was stuck in.

And that alone made Patroclus smile, too.

“You can’t drink it in huge amounts. If you get hurt next time, we’ll see then”, he answered slyly, like it was a secret. Patroclus nodded and let Will inspect the wound. The ache was less, but he could still feel the blood run warm. Will let out a huff and produced a roll of gauze from the cabinet behind.

“It isn’t healing. Do you usually bleed this much?”.

Patroclus tilted his head with a smirk.

“I do. I’ve got the royal disease. I ain’t royal though, if you’re wondering”.

Will gave a curt nod, then a little bow before helping him off the cot. It was so natural, the way he behaved around Patroclus. He didn’t think of him as weak or infectious, and that alone made Patroclus feel a little optimism amidst the bevels of grim.

Then, he handed Patroclus a bright orange shirt, which effectively wiped away any traces of happiness he had. Oh, why must things go wrong when they were going so right?

Stupid orange. Why couldn't it be green or sky blue?

Regardless, Patroclus wordlessly changed out of his beloved shirt, which was now more worthless than rag cloths, and made his way to the “Big House”.

Chapter Text

The Big House, as Patroclus learned, was just that. A house that was very big and very house-like. It had rickety sliding and a grand porch with rocking chairs. The color was a standout blue, with random streaks of wash out peeking through the grill texture.

It was very true to its namesake, almost comforting even. And that alone made Patroclus want to cry. It was the first most direct thing he had witnessed since that stupid harpy crash-landed into his window.

How his life had changed so much that he was feeling sentimental to a half-broken house.

Will guided him up the pebbled pathway and through the creaky wood flooring. A cup of lemonade sat in the heat, broiling and scenting the air in citrusy lemon. It gave the vague aura of when life gives you lemons. Maybe someone was trying to cheer him on, promising him good things through the signage of a stale cup of lemonade.

Or maybe someone was very forgettable and like to liter.

Will walked forward, hesitating before stepping onto the porch. The heat was broiling them alive and the porch shade gave a good reprieve, but Patroclus felt miserably nauseous. 

Would there be a dissecting table and creatures with too many teeth inside? Patroclus had learned that here, things were always too good to be true.

Patroclus wouldn’t doubt it if there was.

Will cracked the doorway open, shooting him a comforting smile. It was like he could read Patroclus’s mind, though he knew his nervousness was terribly obvious in the way his foot couldn’t keep still.

Will opened the door, hand on the doorknob, when a loud boisterous voice cut through the air. Will unceremoniously banged the door in surprise, then winced at his cut thumb.

“Bill, how have you been?”.

Will muttered under his breath something oddly familiar to a curse, before addressing the slouchy man. If laziness and bad fashion could have a child, Patroclus figured this was what it would be.

The man had odd animal prints on his clothing, paired with a clashing purple hat and a shirt with the words “Whiskey and Vice is Life, baby”. He was fiddling with a wine goblet, sipping precariously and burping.

Change that, this man was also the child of a person who wrote really really bad poetry.

“Hey Mr. D”, Will spoke. His voice was nonchalant, but Patroclus knew when a person was biting through a conversation. He was an expert on matters himself.

“Do you know where Chiron is?”, Will asked. Mr. D just shrugged and pointed into the far distance. The figure though was taking their sweet time getting here, sauntering over by the sparring station and giving Patroclus plenty of time to observe Mr. D more. Patroclus felt oddly short and inferior, his body clothed in the man’s shadow.

That was strange. It was as if the man had inflicted a feeling of godliness on him by just existing.

But this man couldn’t be a god. Believe Patroclus, he was smart enough to figure out if a god was in his vicinity.

He wasn’t that dumb, right?

The man gave a grovel, and apparently it took his surprised squeak for Mr. D to notice him standing there.

“And who are you?”.

Judging by his dismissive nature with names, Patroclus just nodded. He didn’t need secondhand embarrassment.

Luckily, before both him and Mr. D could make more awkward eye contact, Will pulled his hand over to the sauntering figure coming from the left by the archery stations (boy these kids shot like they were at war).

And maybe it was the sun blinding his eyes, suddenly more stronger and intense, or the screams of children from the lake shouting “roasted potato”, but somehow Patroclus managed to realize a bit too late that this man was not walking with two legs but trotting with four.

Oh, how wrong he was to jinx himself. It wasn’t the house he had to worry about but Chiron.

Chiron took no moment to come to him, looking at him like he was a ghost. There was something strange flickering in the old man’s horse eyes.

It was like nostalgia.

Now, Patroclus didn’t have much experience with nostalgia. He had no memories to think fondly about other than dreams that felt a bit to real and a voice that would haunt him in them.

Because you’re the reason.

But Chiron was clearly an expert with it.

He cleared his throat, leaning down to meet him in eyesight. Will conveniently slipped away, and Patroclus cursed the others excellent skills of escapism.  

Could Will not have stayed?

Apparently not.

Chiron cupped his face, then ran a finger through his hair. He took his arms in his, fingering and feeling the skin and bone. Patroclus felt like a statute under display, under the preening eyes of Chiron who was trying to blink back tears. Was he that weird and tragically horrendous to look at?

Chiron then lifted up his shirt, staring for a minute at the jagged mole over his navel. Patroclus felt himself burn red, tugging the shirt down immediately.

Boy, the centaur was great at exploiting him.

“Since when do you have the mole?”, Chiron asked. As far as first interactions, this was by far the weirdest, Patroclus noted.

“Since I was born. Like everybody else”.

Chiron gave a flicker of amusement, before continued to inspect his shins. Patroclus turned helpless to Mr. D, but alas to no prevail. The man was more interested in cursing out at his empty goblet and giving occasional huffs.

Would it be so bad if he just punched Chiron?

However, instead of obliging to his desires, Patroclus stood very still. When Chiron reached his fingers, which were too long according to his step-father, he held them to his chest reverently.

“So beautiful. A medics fingers truly. Have you studied medicine?”.

So they were going right along without even saying a hello then.

“Yes”, Patroclus spoke, weighing his words with bite. “Well, if taking first aid in fifth grade counts, then yeah”.

Chiron turned to Mr. D with a certain awe that didn't place right with Patroclus. 

“He is the one. He looks the same as when I last saw him”.

Wait, what was Chiron talking about?

“Well,”, Mr. D spoke, “He seems pretty dumb to me. He didn’t even tell his own name”.

Chiron pursed his lips.  “He is Patroclus. The revival, it is coming true. His twin flame, he will arrive shortly as well, I suppose”.

Mr. D gave a small shrug, as if to say how am I supposed to know?. Patroclus waved his hands in front of Chiron; if anything he was the person they had to be talking to. They were talking about him after all and even after a lifetime of his stepfather pretending he didn't exist, it still wasn't any less annoying.

“Could someone please explain to me what’s going on? Revival? And how did you know my name?”, Patroclus snapped.

Chiron’s eyes flicked over him momentarily, looking very pleased. He stood up, then took his palm.

“Let’s get you situated shall we?"

Chapter Text

Chiron has a hard grip, Patroclus realized. Within a minute of Chiron holding his hand and walking him through camp, his palm was cramping with uneven sores. The worst part, though, was that the old man didn’t seem to notice Patroclus’s evident discomfort, the way Patroclus seemed to always lag.

Additionally, the whole gesture made him look like he was five years old.

Gods, Chiron really needed to be more aware of other people. With his swishing horse tail, Patroclus was sure he got some hair in his mouth. Forget sleeping arrangements; he needed a bathroom and a hideout far away from Chiron.

Chiron gave him a warm smile, which Patroclus replicated (poorly). To be fair, having a swarm of horse flies nesting in your hair didn't make things easier.

“Camp Half-Blood is a haven for demigods. Here, one can expect no problems from the usual ailments of half-bloods. Monsters and such cannot escape the magical boundaries”.

Chiron paused, studying Patroclus. Patroclus really did have nothing to say. Will explained most of it, and the rest was through pure deduction.

Chiron smiled and continued talking.

“Most of the campers here are there for the summer. You have arrived right at the beginning of the season. Other campers are year-round. Some, like our Will, have come here out of pure nostalgia. He and his friends study at New Rome, a wonderful insutitui-“

“Wait, there’s more? More places?”.

Chiron gave a cryptic smile at his outburst, earning a very due blush from Pat. Gods, if Chiron acted like he was a child, Pat really acted like it. They walked through the strawberry fields, nearing a turn of cabins.

And oh, how Patroclus gasped and wanted to possibly scream his throat bloody.

The cabins were exquisite, and that itself was an understatement. Boy, this place really was blessed by the gods!

Only if they could bless him, wouldn't that be so great?

The Apollo cabin was the most peculiar, though, painted in a golden shine and looking like the sun itself. Chiron, though, steered him away from it and to a very bland and “normal” cabin. Great, he didn't even deserve the cool-looking ones.

Chiron continued.

“Of course. Near California, we have Camp Jupiter, the home of the Roman demigods. And New Rome holds a wonderful college for demigods alike”. He gave Patroclus a warm squeeze.

“Welcome home, Patroclus. Until you find your godly parent, you will stay here, in Hermes Cabin. As the god of travelers, he houses all unclaimed demigods”.

Patroclus opened his mouth, about to object to the unfairness. Not only was he forcefully evacuated from his dorm, but now he had to share a dorm with nearly fifty smelly kids. But before he could, something barricaded him.

“Oh great!” Chiron spoke as he clapped his hand eagerly. As time progressed, the more Patroclus became worried for the old man’s sanity. Obviously, too much time being a centaur was getting to his head. Patroclus winced, his head smarting as he lay on the wooded floor.

“I think you’ll love it here! I'll let you all get acquainted”.

Patroclus took a look at his perpetrator, a skinny little brat who decided he was ideal for jumping on and scaring the life out of. The brat gave another kid a grin, who shoved him and said Tel, don’t be mean!

Yeah, Tel, don’t be mean.

Patroclus sighed and lay back on the floor. Maybe if he pretended he was dead, no one could disturb him. 

Tel, though, had other plans, gabbing him by the shoulders and patting a lung out his back.

Great, he didn’t even have a choice in his existence. Oh, who was he kidding? Pat knew they would disturb him in his grave

And by the looks of Tel and his friends, Patroclus could feel a speed montage coming up. Patroclus supposed it could be titled “Pat’s dog days of summer”, but then, when did he have a choice in his life? It had started with his mom; he would have killed the lady if it weren’t his mother.

But she was the lady who birthed him, and here he was, on the brink of a speed montage on all the ways he sucked.

Stupid god of jerks!

Chapter Text

Patroclus tried to bargain, really, he did. He waved his hands up and down like a lunatic, but Tel and his friends didn’t see it.

Or at least they pretended not to, keenly avoiding all signs that showed that Patroclus didn’t want to skinny dip in the lake. Patroclus supposed that’s the way with everything about him- selective hearing and visuals, the whole lot.

Tel waited for a second and began his shenanigans the minute that stupid Chiron left.

Patroclus felt uttermost hate, at Tel, at the camp, at his life (though when hasn’t he done the latter). The moment he actually wanted Chiron was the moment the old man left, and Tel took no effort hauling Patroclus into his arms, though the boy was very wiry.

Such a scrawny kid, but so cruel.

Maybe he should get a tough guy persona, too.

“Guys, let’s be civil about this”.

“Not happening, hobo”.

Yeah, Pat was definitely not a kid of Hermes. In fact, if he ever saw the god, he would tackle him to the ground and mash the face that sculpted these brats into a bloody pulp.

If he were, then he’d kill himself.

It took him five minutes to convince Tel and the others not to throw him into the lake, but they did it anyway in less than three. Of course, being thrown into a magically induced lake does wonders to your phenomenal immune system, the lake somehow as warm as a block of ice.

Tel and his friends laugh, a little bit too loudly for Patroclus and a bit too far for him to do anything about it.

“Welcome home, buddy!”

Patroclus would have said something back if he weren’t being frozen to death, but his threats wouldn’t land anyway, looking like a wet dog.

Gods, that stupid orange shirt made him even heavier, amiss trying to float and survive. He looked like one of those bouncy water buoys.

Patroclus tried to wade, the water pulling him under and above and everywhere but safely on shore. It wasn’t life-threatening, if catching hypothermia didn’t count. It was truly unfair; four pairs of hands had thrown him in, but he only had four limbs to get out.

Pathetic.

The sun was broiling by the time he managed to flop onto the beach like a jellyfish. Hours, that was how long Patroclus concluded his escapade had taken. Hours stuck in the frigid water-

Patroclus noticed in his periphery Tel and his friends slowly sauntering back to the cabin after fooling around.

Oh.

Okay, maybe it was just ten minutes, but it felt like hours.

Patroclus tried to heave himself further, but he just felt plump and lifeless; maybe he should look into those fighting lessons.

A camp full of child soldiers was no joke. He muttered to himself, then cursed as the gravel bit into his skin, pebble after pebble. He expected a great warm ray of sunshine to hit him, but the sun promptly hid behind a cloud.

Great, even the sun hated him.

Patroclus decided right then that he wasn’t going to get back up. The kids hated him, he hated Chiron, and even the sun wanted nothing to do with him and his achy, cold bones.

It was a balanced cycle of let’s see how much we all can hate Patroclus.

He was never one for luck anyway.

And that was it, he supposed. He couldn’t even die peacefully, because of course someone had to disturb him.

Patroclus would have groaned if he weren’t so cold; the sun had one job of warming him up, but even it decided that he wasn’t worth it. If he was sweating buckets before, now the sun was like, well, you hated my heat anyway so bye, bye!

The person shuffled against his curls, and Patroclus slowly peered at them: a girl with dark curly hair and grey eyes who looked like he was a specimen to dissect.

“You’re not dead,” she noted.

Patroclus sighed.

“Unfortunately”

The girl huffed, amused, hair swaying in the breeze.

Breeze?

Oh yes, apparently the world thought it would be fun to make him even colder by presenting nice cooling breezes. Patroclus supposed he must have been really distressed because instead of leaving him to rot, the girl threw him another one of those stupid orange shirts.

Patroclus felt a jolt as he stumbled upright, fiddling with his soaked apparel. Honestly, he appreciated the favor, but god, he wasn’t going to change in front of a girl in the middle of camp.

He might die soon, but he wasn’t a brute.

Luckily, the girl noticed his discomfort, turning around so that Patroclus could change in peace and not have any weird centaurs commenting about the mole on his stomach or something. Though it was alarming to find the girl already halfway down the field by the time he’d finished.

Manners Patroclus!

His mother was choosing the wrong times to resurface - always. Maybe he should have a séance to tell her to knock it off, though he doubted she would listen. Patroclus stumbled to his feet, gaining stability as he called out to her fading form.

“Hey! What’s your name?”

The girl squinted her eyes in the blinding sun behind him (because of course the sun would emerge once he was nice and dry).

“Just Bri!” she called back.

“Justein Bier?”.

Even miles away, Patroclus felt her resigned sigh, though it felt oddly endearing.

Nah, that was his overactive imagination.

“Just Bri. My name’s Bri”.

Patroclus blushed, then waved back.

“Thanks, Bri! I’m Pat!”

Patroclus didn’t see Bri for the rest of the day. He moped around the cabin, counting his miseries, and tried- mostly unsuccessfully- to hide from Tel. He vaguely heard the kid’s full name, though it was so long that the only thing that stuck was that it meant something about being a long-distance fighter.

Not that it mattered. The kid would torture him either way.

By the time Patroclus had emerged from his safe shelter of pillows, and I wasn't there, that’s your imagination, he was famished and tired. And though he wanted to eat, meeting Chiron again just felt so exhausting and so dreary that Patroclus would rather throw himself into the lake again. The whole huzzah was just getting old, and he partly hoped that if this was a dream, he would just wake up and get it over with.

Alas, this was very real, and Patroclus was very much stuck in this relentless nightmare.

By the time he had dodged all threats and lay to sleep, Patroclus decided he wouldn’t even care if he woke up again.

If eight hours of sleep was good, then how good was a lifetime?

Still, he couldn’t sleep, instead staring at the ceiling and thinking about what had happened. He thought about his mother and his name and the fact that he had just learned something about himself that most people thought didn’t even exist.

Demigod.

The whole day had been just running and running from something thrust in him.

Patroclus breathed and tried to sleep. At least in his dreams, all this wouldn’t afflict him.

How wrong he was.

Patroclus didn’t remember falling asleep, though he didn’t think anyone did.

Of course, the thing that told him that he was in a dream was the deadly silence seeping into his bones. It was bright, too bright for nighttime, like someone had put forty bulbs into a ceiling fan because they thought it was a good idea.

His eyes hurt, and that was a sure sign that whoever turned on the lights was an idiot.

Patroclus forced his eyes to open and immediately wished he hadn’t.

He was standing in a field of wheat.

Shocker, he didn’t expect this either. In addition to that golden hue, the warm, fuzzy yellow made his brain hurt with all that sunshiny happiness it was imposing.

Patroclus blinked and then saw him.

A man.

Very descriptive, he knew.

Well, Patroclus didn’t know who it was.  He looked human the way marble statues looked human: too perfect, too sharp, too wrong.

His hair was sunlight- no, literally every strand flickering like a flame. His eyes glowed as if they held a miniature sun inside each pupil and then he looked at Patroclus like he had personally avenged that man’s entire family and bloodline.

Creepy stuff, honestly. For a dream, this was like playing the movie in 4D.

The man’s expression softened momentarily, akin to bullies wore right after their moms dragged them to apologize to their victims. Forced kindness stretched over something harsher.

“You can’t run.”

Patroclus looked behind him as if he might find someone else being addressed.

Nope. Just him. Great.

“You cannot run Patroclus, and you cannot escape your fate. Hear me?”

Patroclus swallowed before stiffly nodding. The man gave him a gracious smile with all his teeth. He wondered if he should fight the man, since stranger danger rules did apply, especially in a place where the impossible was probable.

The man smirked.

“You will die, Patroclus.”

That shut him up effectively.

The light swelled, pressing against Patroclus’s ribs, squeezing his lungs. A warmth spread across his skin-pleasant at first- until it turned scorching. For a dream, this was getting a bit too realistic.

He stumbled backward, trying to make the feeling of waking up palpable.

His skin was blistering as he tried pinching himself awake, the man stepping a bit too close for personal boundaries. Truth be told, though, Pat was too scared to say anything about it.

Maybe that was normal for someone who just heard their death call?

The man stepped closer, his radiance turning the air molten.

“Your death will be worth it,” he murmured. “That is your gift. And your curse.”

He looked him him like he wanted Patroclus to die.

Then, with a flick of his wrist-

Pain.

Spreading from his abdomen all the way to the tendons of his feet, warmth soaking into his clothes. Patorlus’s vision flicked, breaths hot and heavy, tearing away at his chest.

He didn’t like this dream anymore. Not one bit.

This wasn’t normal, and he needed to get out now.

Patroclus looked down, and his heart caught in his chest. Crimson rives poured from his skin, cracked like a drought-parched land.

Bleeding out, he was bleeding out.

Stupid hemophilia.

He buckled to his knees as his hands grasped at his wound.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no no n-

“Patroclus?”