Chapter 6: The Day of Arrival
Alaric woke to horror and anticipation tangled so tight he couldn't separate them. The nightmare was still fresh: Percy's broken body trampled under the Minotaur's hooves, Sally Jackson's scream cutting off mid-sound, Grover bleeding out in the grass. Variations on the theme he'd read about, made visceral by knowing they could happen today.
If he miscalculated. If he was wrong. If the changes he'd already made somehow prevented Percy from arriving at all.
He was out of the cabin before dawn broke, moving through camp's predawn quiet with borrowed speed. His feet knew the path to the Big House without conscious direction, hellhound senses tracking every shadow, every movement, hyperaware and overstimulated.
Chiron was already on the porch.
The centaur stood in his full form—no wheelchair disguise here—his white stallion body gleaming in the first hints of sunrise. He held a cup of coffee in human hands, steam rising in lazy curls, and his ancient eyes tracked Alaric's approach with zero surprise.
"You dreamed of today," Chiron said. Not a question.
Alaric nodded. Didn't trust his voice not to shake.
"Sit," the centaur commanded gently. "Tell me what you saw."
Alaric sat on the porch steps. Gripped his knees to stop his hands from trembling. "A boy. Sea-green eyes. Maybe twelve. He's coming here with a satyr, and there's something chasing them. Something big and angry."
"Did you see what?"
"Bull-headed." The word came out rough. "Massive. Greek—the Minotaur, I think. From the old stories."
Chiron's expression shifted. "That is... concerning. The Minotaur hasn't been seen in decades. If it's hunting demigods again, someone powerful must have sent it."
"The boy needs help." Alaric looked up, meeting those ancient eyes. "I saw him fighting alone. I saw him nearly dying. We have to—"
"We will intervene if necessary," Chiron interrupted. His voice carried absolute authority. "But Alaric, prophetic dreams are not always literal. They show possibilities, not certainties. The future remains unwritten."
"Not for me," Alaric thought. "I've read the book. I know how this ends if we don't change it."
But he just nodded. Accepted Chiron's wisdom. Let the centaur believe his concern came from visions instead of meta-knowledge.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the sun rise over the strawberry fields. Waiting for the story to begin.
The bellowing came mid-morning.
Alaric was pretending to train at the arena when he heard it—a sound like tearing mountains, coming from Half-Blood Hill. His borrowed instincts screamed minotaur before his conscious mind processed the noise, and he was running before he could think about it.
Other campers heard it too. People stopped mid-practice, heads turning toward the boundary.
"Was that—" someone started.
The scream cut them off. Female. Terrified. Human.
Alaric hit the hill at full sprint, Cyclops strength pushing his legs faster than they should move. The Gate of Babylon erupted around him without conscious command, portals tearing open, weapons spilling into existence as he crested the rise.
The scene was exactly like he'd imagined and nothing like it.
Percy Jackson—skinny, dark-haired, soaked with rain that wasn't falling anywhere else—supported a woman who had to be Sally. She was dressed for cleaning, her clothes torn, blood on her face. Grover limped beside them in full satyr form, pants torn to reveal goat legs, reed pipes clutched uselessly.
And behind them, smashing through the trees with apocalyptic fury, came the Minotaur.
Nine feet of muscle and rage. Bull head on a man's body, horns like spears, eyes burning with intelligence and hate. Its hooves gouged craters in the ground with each step. Its breath steamed in the cool morning air.
It saw Sally. Charged.
Percy screamed—inarticulate rage and grief—and tried to drag his mother faster. But she was limping, and they weren't going to make it, and—
Alaric moved.
The Gate of Babylon exploded. Ten portals opened simultaneously, and weapons erupted like a golden hailstorm: swords, spears, axes, hammers, all of them garbage-tier but sharp enough to matter. He threw them telekinetically, using the rudimentary weapon control he'd been developing, and bronze rained down on the Minotaur's back.
The monster bellowed. Stumbled. Three spears lodged in its shoulders. A sword carved a line across its snout.
It looked at Alaric.
Their eyes met. The Minotaur's burned with ancient fury, and Alaric felt the weight of myth pressing down on him. This wasn't just a monster. This was a legend. A creature that had killed heroes for millennia.
And he was about to fight it.
"Get her across the boundary!" Alaric shouted at Percy. "NOW!"
Percy stared at him—this strange boy with glowing mismatched eyes appearing from nowhere—but Sally screamed "GO!" and Percy's body moved on instinct. He dragged his mother forward while Grover limped alongside, and the Minotaur charged after them.
Alaric intercepted.
He summoned a hammer mid-sprint, the biggest weapon he could pull, and swung with everything the Cyclops bloodline gave him. The hammer connected with the Minotaur's kneecap. Bone crunched. The creature stumbled, going down on three legs, and Alaric used the momentum to roll under its next swipe.
Claws (fingers? the Minotaur had hands with claws) scraped across his back. Fabric tore. Skin parted. Pain bloomed white-hot, and Alaric gasped, stumbling forward.
The hellhound senses saved him. He smelled the next attack before it came—musk and rage—and dove left. The Minotaur's fist cratered the ground where he'd been standing.
Percy's scream cut through the chaos: "MOM!"
Alaric risked a glance. Sally had made it across the boundary. Had stepped through the magic barrier and dissolved into golden light—taken by Hades, just like the books said. Percy stood frozen at the boundary, watching his mother vanish, grief and rage warring across his face.
The Minotaur charged Percy.
Alaric summoned five weapons and threw them. Only two hit—a spear in the shoulder, a sword in the thigh—but they bought Percy time to move. The boy grabbed a broken branch from the ground (no Riptide yet, that came later) and faced the monster with the kind of courage that made Alaric's chest ache.
"Together," Alaric shouted, positioning himself opposite Percy. The Minotaur swiveled between them, confused about which target to prioritize. "When it charges, you go low, I'll go high!"
Percy didn't question it. Didn't ask who this stranger was or why he was helping. He just nodded, gripping his pathetic branch like a sword, and waited.
The Minotaur chose Percy. Lowered its horns and charged.
Percy dove at the last second—brave or stupid or both—and grabbed the monster's horn. Used its own momentum to wrench the thing sideways, snapping it off at the base with strength that shouldn't exist in a twelve-year-old body. Son of Poseidon strength. Forbidden-child power.
The Minotaur bellowed. Reared back. Exposed its skull.
Alaric was already moving. He'd summoned another hammer—bigger, heavier—and brought it down with everything he had. Every bloodline working in concert: Cyclops strength, hellhound speed, the combat instincts he'd copied from watching fights in his mind.
The hammer caved in the back of the Minotaur's skull with a sound like a wet branch breaking.
Percy drove the horn into the monster's chest at the same moment.
Bronze and bone and sheer desperation, perfectly synchronized without planning. The Minotaur's eyes widened. Fury turned to shock turned to nothing as its body dissolved, collapsing into golden dust that scattered across the hill.
Blood splashed them both.
Percy gagged, stumbling backward, wiping his face. But Alaric's body knew what to do. The Bloodline Devourer activated automatically, hungrily, and the Minotaur's essence flooded into him through his skin.
Oh God.
The power was massive. Pure strength burned through his muscles, making them spasm and grow denser. The Minotaur's perfect directional sense carved itself into his brain—an instinct so strong he suddenly knew exactly where he was, where camp was, where every landmark within miles existed in relation to his position. He'd never be lost again. Could navigate by feel alone.
But the memories came too. Fragmented. Violent. The Minotaur's rage at being caged in the Labyrinth, the joy of killing, the ancient hunger that defined its existence. They tried to overlay his consciousness, and Alaric fought them with everything he had.
"You're still you. Still Alaric. Still human where it matters."
His knees buckled. The world tilted.
Percy caught him.
Strong hands on his shoulders, sea-green eyes too close, concern bleeding through the grief. "Whoa, hey, are you—"
Their eyes met. Crimson-gold to sea-green. And something passed between them—recognition of shared trauma, shared triumph, the bond formed when two people survive something impossible together.
"I'm okay," Alaric gasped. The lie tasted like ash. "Just... absorbing power. Side effect. I'll be fine."
"You absorbed—" Percy's eyes widened. "The blood. You drank the Minotaur's blood."
"Absorbed," Alaric corrected weakly. "Through skin contact. It's my... thing."
He tried to stand. His legs gave out. Percy caught him again, and then Chiron was there, appearing with the kind of speed that suggested he'd been watching the whole time. The centaur's expression was unreadable as he scooped Alaric into his arms like a child.
"Percy Jackson," Chiron said, voice formal. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. You fought bravely. Now come—both of you need medical attention."
The last thing Alaric saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Percy's face. Grief-stricken over his mother, exhausted from the fight, but alive.
Alive and safe.
"Worth it," Alaric thought. Then the darkness took him.
Waking up hurt.
Everything hurt, actually. His back where the Minotaur had clawed him. His muscles from absorbing too much power too fast. His head from the memories trying to integrate themselves.
But he was alive. In a bed. Soft sheets and the smell of nectar.
"He's awake," someone said. Female. Familiar.
Alaric forced his eyes open. The Big House's infirmary resolved slowly: white walls, multiple beds, jars of medical supplies on shelves. Annabeth sat between two beds—his and another one where Percy was still sleeping.
"You've been out for six hours," Annabeth informed him. Clinical. Detached. But her eyes were too bright. "The Apollo cabin had to use half their nectar supply to heal your back. You're lucky the Minotaur didn't disembowel you."
"Lucky," Alaric croaked. His throat was dry. "Sure."
Annabeth handed him a cup of water without being asked. He drank it, grateful, while she continued her interrogation masquerading as a medical briefing.
"You and Percy killed the Minotaur together. Perfectly synchronized. Like you'd trained together for years."
"We hadn't."
"I know. You met thirty seconds before the fight." She leaned forward, grey eyes dissecting him. "So either you're the luckiest demigod alive, or you knew he was coming. Knew he'd need help. Knew exactly when and where to be."
"She's too smart," Alaric thought. "Way too smart. This is dangerous."
But the lie was already built. Had been building since the soup kitchen, refined through conversations with Chiron and Luke. Time to commit to it fully.
"I dreamed about him," Alaric said softly. Let fear color his voice—not fake fear, but the real terror of what could've happened. "For weeks. A boy with sea-green eyes, fighting monsters. I saw him face the Minotaur. Saw him nearly die. I couldn't let that happen, Annabeth. I couldn't."
The raw emotion sold it. Annabeth's expression softened, skepticism giving way to something like understanding.
"Prophetic dreams," she murmured. "You're not just seeing the past in your visions. You're seeing the future too."
"I see what's coming. Sometimes. Not always. I can't control it."
That was mostly true. He did see what was coming, just from reading books instead of divine visions.
"That's... incredibly rare." Annabeth's mind was already working, fitting him into categories. "Most prophetic demigods only get fragments. You're getting detailed, actionable intelligence. Your godly parent must be someone powerful. Maybe Apollo? He's god of prophecy."
"Maybe."
Annabeth opened her mouth to continue, but movement from the other bed interrupted. Percy stirred, making a small sound of distress, and both their heads turned.
He woke slowly. Confused. Grief hit his face as memory returned—the Minotaur, the fight, his mother's disappearance. His sea-green eyes opened, unfocused, and found Alaric first.
"You," Percy said. His voice cracked. "You're the guy with the glowing eyes. The weapons."
"Alaric." He offered a small smile. "We fought well together."
"My mom—" Percy sat up too fast, swayed. "She's gone. She just... dissolved."
"She's alive." The words came out before Alaric could stop them. Percy's head snapped around, desperate hope bleeding through despair. "I've seen her in my dreams, Percy. Your mother is alive. She's being held somewhere, but she's alive, and you're going to save her."
He shouldn't say it. Shouldn't give false hope. But the expression on Percy's face—the raw grief—demanded reassurance.
"How do you know?" Percy whispered. "How can you—"
"I see things. The future, sometimes. Pieces of it." Alaric shifted, trying to sit up, hissing when his healing back protested. "I can't explain how I know, but I do. Trust me on this."
Percy stared at him for a long moment. Calculating. Trying to decide if this weird stranger was lying or insane or somehow telling the truth.
Finally, he extended his hand across the gap between beds. "Percy Jackson. And... thank you. For helping me fight that thing."
Alaric clasped his hand. Felt the calluses from hard work, the strength that came from Poseidon's bloodline. The connection between them was immediate and undeniable—two kids who'd survived the impossible, who'd fought side-by-side without planning it.
"Alaric Bond. And you're welcome."
They held the handshake for a beat longer than necessary. Then Percy managed a weak smile—grief still present but no longer all-consuming—and Annabeth cleared her throat.
"Now that you're both awake," she said briskly, "we need to talk about what happens next. Percy, you're the son of one of the Big Three. That makes you extremely important and extremely dangerous. Alaric, your prophetic abilities make you valuable to camp leadership. Both of you need training, education, and probably about fifty safety lectures."
"Can't wait," Percy muttered.
But his hand was still extended, still offering friendship, and when Alaric took it again—just a brief clasp, acknowledgment—something settled in his chest.
He'd changed the timeline. Intervened in Percy's arrival. Altered canon in ways he couldn't predict.
But Percy was alive. Safe. And willing to trust him.
Whatever consequences came from that, Alaric would handle them.
Because this was real. These people were real. And Alaric was done letting tragedies happen when he had the power to prevent them.
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