Chapter 7: The Unclaimed Duo
The morning lessons were torture by another name. Alaric sat three rows back in the outdoor amphitheater, watching Percy Jackson massacre ancient Greek pronunciation with the kind of earnest effort that made it somehow worse. The kid was trying—really trying—but every word came out mangled, consonants in the wrong places, vowels stretched into unrecognizable shapes.
"Φίλος," the instructor repeated. An older Athena camper with infinite patience. "FEE-los. It means friend."
"Flee-ohs?" Percy tried.
"FEE-los."
"Fee... loss?"
Annabeth, sitting two seats from Percy, dropped her head into her hands. The sigh she exhaled could've powered a windmill.
Alaric bit his lip to keep from laughing. The books had mentioned Percy's dyslexia, his ADHD, the way his brain was wired for ancient Greek but reading it was a different beast than speaking it. Seeing it in person was different—watching a real kid struggle with something his divine blood should make easier, frustration bleeding through his determined expression.
"He's twelve," Alaric thought. "Twelve years old and he killed the Minotaur yesterday. And now he's sitting here trying to learn a dead language like it's going to help him survive."
The class moved on. Percy kept struggling. By the time the instructor dismissed them for combat training, the kid looked ready to throw his wax tablet into the lake.
Alaric caught up to him on the path between the amphitheater and the arena. "Hey. You okay?"
Percy glanced over. His sea-green eyes were tired—grief still living behind them, his mother's disappearance too fresh to be anything but raw. "Yeah. Just... words are hard."
"Words are stupid," Alaric agreed. "Especially dead ones."
That got a small smile. "You're better at it. The Greek stuff."
"I've had more practice." The lie came easy. The truth—that he'd never studied ancient Greek in his old life, that his brain was somehow adapting to this body's abilities faster than it should—was too complicated. "And I don't have your attention span. You actually focus when things matter. I just fake it well."
"Doesn't feel like you're faking anything."
They walked in companionable silence. Around them, camp bustled with afternoon energy: Hephaestus kids hammering at the forge, Demeter kids tending the strawberry fields, Ares cabin running drills that looked more like gladiatorial combat. The normalcy of it was surreal—teenagers doing chores and training, completely unaware that their world was balanced on a knife's edge.
"Can I ask you something?" Percy said abruptly. "About your dreams. The prophetic ones."
Alaric's stomach tightened. "Sure."
"You said you saw my mom. That she's alive." Percy's voice cracked on the word. "Did you see where? How I can get her back?"
"Careful," Alaric thought. "Too much information and he'll wonder how you know. Too little and you're cruel."
"I see pieces," he said carefully. "Fragments. Your mom is being held somewhere dark. Underground, I think. There's a god involved—not Poseidon, someone else. But Percy, the dreams don't give me instructions. They just show me possibilities. You're going to have to figure out the how on your own."
"But I can save her." Not a question. A statement of intent.
"Yes."
Percy's shoulders straightened. Some of the grief lifted, replaced by determination. "Okay. Then I'll figure it out."
The simple certainty in his voice made something twist in Alaric's chest. This was Percy Jackson—the kid who'd walked into Tartarus to save Annabeth, who'd given up immortality to be with his friends, who chose loyalty over power every single time. That heroism wasn't learned. It was fundamental to who he was.
And Alaric was terrified of corrupting it.
They found Percy behind the dining pavilion at midnight.
Alaric couldn't sleep—the Minotaur's memories kept bleeding through, rage and hunger mixing with human consciousness in nauseating waves—so he'd been walking the camp's perimeter, trying to exhaust himself into unconsciousness. That's when he heard it: a hitched breath, someone fighting tears.
Percy sat with his back against the pavilion's stone wall, knees drawn up, staring at the stars like they held answers. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. Twelve years old and trying so hard to be brave.
Alaric almost walked away. Almost left him to grieve alone. But the image of Percy's face when Sally dissolved—the absolute devastation—was too fresh.
He sat down beside him. Didn't say anything at first. Just existed in the same space, offering presence instead of platitudes.
Percy wiped his eyes quickly. "Sorry. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Your mom got taken by a monster. You're allowed to not be fine."
"Chiron said crying doesn't help. That I need to focus on getting stronger."
"Chiron's three thousand years old. He's forgotten what it's like to be twelve and scared." Alaric leaned his head back against the stone. The stars were incredibly bright here, away from the city lights. "My mom used to make blue food."
Percy's head turned. "What?"
"Blue food. Stupid stuff like blue pancakes and blue mac-and-cheese. She'd add food coloring to everything, just to prove that the world could be different from what people expected. That rules were made up and we could break them if we were creative enough."
It was a lie. His real mother had died of cancer when he was seven, and she'd never done anything as whimsical as blue food. But Sally Jackson had, and Percy needed to hear it.
"My mom does that," Percy whispered. "Makes everything blue. Her boss at the candy store said it was stupid, that food shouldn't be weird colors, but she kept doing it anyway. She said..." His voice cracked. "She said little rebellions matter."
"They do."
Percy looked at him with those sea-green eyes, searching for something. "You dreamed about my mom making blue food?"
"Yeah." Alaric held his gaze. "I think godly parents show us glimpses of each other's lives. Maybe to help us find our real family—not the blood kind, but the chosen kind. The people who matter."
"Do you think..." Percy swallowed hard. "Do you think she's scared? My mom? Wherever she is?"
"She's in the Underworld, being used as leverage by Hades, absolutely terrified but trying to be brave for her son's sake."
"I think she's exactly as scared as you are," Alaric said instead. "And exactly as brave. You're her son, Percy. You got that courage from somewhere."
Percy wiped his eyes again. This time he didn't apologize. They sat in silence, two kids carrying too much weight, and when Percy finally spoke, his voice was steadier.
"Thank you. For helping me fight the Minotaur. For... for this."
"We're friends now," Alaric said. "That's what friends do."
Percy's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah. Friends."
They stayed there until exhaustion finally claimed them both, falling asleep against the pavilion wall under stars that had witnessed ten thousand similar conversations between heroes throughout history.
Luke paired them for sword practice the next morning with the kind of casual malice that suggested he was testing something.
"New blood versus new blood," he announced to the gathered Hermes cabin. "Percy, Alaric—grab practice swords and show us what you've got. First one to score three touches wins."
The practice arena was packed. Word had spread about Percy—son of Poseidon, killed the Minotaur, forbidden child of prophecy. Everyone wanted to see what he could do.
Alaric caught Luke's expression as they took their positions. The scarred counselor watched with predatory interest, like a scientist observing an experiment.
"He's evaluating us," Alaric murmured to Percy. "For recruitment, probably. Luke's been training demigods for years. He'll see through basic tricks."
"So what do we do?"
"Fight like we mean it. But watch each other's backs."
Percy frowned. "We're fighting each other."
"We're sparring together," Alaric corrected. "There's a difference."
The practice swords were bronze—blunted but still capable of leaving bruises. Alaric summoned one from the Gate rather than using the rack's selection. Golden light flickered, the portal opened, and a gladius materialized in his grip. The crowd murmured.
"Show-off," Percy muttered. But he was grinning.
"Ready?" Luke called. "Fight!"
They moved simultaneously.
Percy came in aggressive—just like the books described, all instinct and raw talent. His sword cut through the air in patterns that shouldn't work but somehow did, natural athleticism translating into combat effectiveness despite zero formal training.
Alaric had been expecting it. He'd read those descriptions a dozen times, studied Percy's fighting style like scripture. So when Percy lunged, Alaric didn't block. He redirected—turned the blade aside with minimal force and stepped into Percy's guard.
Their swords met. Bronze rang against bronze.
Percy adapted instantly. Pulled back, feinted left, struck right. Fast enough that most opponents would've been hit.
Alaric summoned a shield.
The golden portal opened in the path of Percy's strike, and the small buckler absorbed the impact. Percy's eyes widened—surprise mixing with delight—and he pressed the advantage. More strikes, faster now, testing the limits of Alaric's ability to summon and dismiss defenses.
They were moving together. Not against each other, but in concert—Alaric creating openings that Percy exploited, Percy's aggressive style forcing Alaric to adapt on the fly. When Percy overextended, Alaric summoned shields to cover him. When Alaric got pressed, Percy's strikes bought him space.
The crowd was silent. Watching.
Forty seconds in, Luke blew his whistle.
They froze. Swords inches apart, both breathing hard, neither having scored a single touch.
"Interesting," Luke said. His voice carried across the arena. "You fight like you've trained together for months. How long have you known each other?"
"Three days," Percy said.
"Two, technically," Alaric corrected. "I was unconscious for some of yesterday."
Luke's expression shifted. The calculation behind his eyes intensified. "Natural synergy, then. That's... rare. Very rare."
He stepped into the arena. Drew his own practice sword—a longer blade, better balanced. "Let's see how you do against someone with actual experience. Both of you, together. Try to land one hit."
Percy and Alaric exchanged glances. Then, without words, they fell into position—back to back, covering each other's blind spots.
Luke attacked.
The next forty-five seconds were brutal education. Luke was fast—faster than anything Alaric's copied techniques could match, faster than Percy's instincts could predict. His blade was everywhere at once, exploiting gaps they didn't know existed, forcing them onto defense and keeping them there.
Alaric summoned weapons—swords, shields, spears—but Luke deflected everything with contemptuous ease. Percy's natural talent didn't matter against someone who'd been fighting for years. They were outmatched and they knew it.
But they lasted forty-five seconds. Together, covering each other, adapting to Luke's patterns. When he finally scored the winning touch—a blade against both their throats simultaneously—they were still standing.
Luke stepped back. Lowered his sword. "Not bad. For beginners."
The contempt should've stung. But Alaric saw something else in Luke's face—a flicker of respect, quickly buried. These "beginners" had lasted longer than they should have. Had fought with coordination that took most demigods months to develop.
They were worth recruiting.
"And that's dangerous," Alaric thought. "Because Luke doesn't recruit for camp's benefit. He recruits for Kronos."
Annabeth cornered them that night at the sword-fighting arena.
They'd been practicing—just the two of them, working on the defensive patterns that had almost worked against Luke. Percy was frustrated, all that natural talent hitting the wall of inexperience, and Alaric was trying to teach without revealing how much he actually knew.
Then Annabeth appeared from the shadows like a grey-eyed ghost, arms crossed, expression somewhere between fascination and suspicion.
"We need to talk."
Percy jumped. "Jeez, Annabeth! Wear a bell or something."
"About what?" Alaric asked, though he knew exactly what.
Annabeth looked at Percy. "You're clearly powerful but untrained. Natural talent that's going to get you killed if you don't develop actual skill." Then to Alaric: "You fight like you've had years of practice but can't be more than thirteen. Your technique is too refined, too polished. Nobody develops that kind of control in a few days."
"Maybe I'm a fast learner," Alaric offered.
"Nobody's that fast." She stepped closer, grey eyes dissecting him. "And you said you 'dreamed' about Percy before meeting him. Which is either genuine prophetic ability or you're lying. So which is it?"
"He helped save my life," Percy said immediately, stepping between them. His loyalty was instant, reflexive. "That's good enough for me, Annabeth. Whatever he is, he's on our side."
"I'm not questioning his loyalty. I'm questioning his explanation."
Alaric raised a hand peacefully. "You're right to be suspicious. I would be too." He took a breath, committing to the lie fully. "I have prophetic dreams. I don't know why. Maybe it's my godly parent's gift, maybe it's something else. But they're real, Annabeth. I've seen pieces of both your futures—glimpses of quests, choices, dangers. I can't control what I see or when. It just... happens."
"Prove it." Annabeth's challenge was immediate. "Tell me something from my future."
"Careful. Too specific and she'll wonder how you know. Too vague and she won't believe you."
"You're going to face a choice," Alaric said slowly, letting fear color his voice. Real fear, because he was improvising now, walking a tightrope. "Between what you want and what's right. Someone you care about will ask you to choose them over everything else. And the choice is going to hurt no matter what you pick."
Annabeth's expression flickered. "That's... incredibly vague."
"That's prophecy." Alaric spread his hands. "I see moments, not details. Emotions, not explanations. It's frustrating for me too, trust me."
She studied him for a long moment. Calculating. Running scenarios behind those grey eyes.
Finally, she nodded. "Okay. I believe you have some kind of prophetic ability. But Alaric—if you see something specific, something that could save lives, you tell me immediately. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." She turned to Percy. "And you need to stop relying on instinct. Natural talent only gets you so far. Tomorrow we start actual training. Real training, not whatever show-off sparring you two were doing."
"That wasn't show-off sparring," Percy protested. "That was—"
"Undisciplined and dangerous. Be at the arena at dawn. Both of you."
She left without waiting for agreement. Just melted back into the shadows like she'd never been there.
Percy exhaled slowly. "She's terrifying."
"She's brilliant." Alaric watched the darkness where Annabeth had disappeared. "And she just accepted my cover story. That's... actually a relief."
"Cover story?"
"Explanation. Whatever." Alaric turned back to Percy. "Come on. We should get some sleep before she kills us with training tomorrow."
They walked back to Hermes cabin in comfortable silence. The camp was quiet—most demigods already asleep, only a few torches still burning. Somewhere in the distance, the lake lapped against the shore in gentle rhythm.
Percy bumped Alaric's shoulder companionably. "You're weird, you know that?"
"I've heard."
"But good weird. Like, if you're gonna have prophetic dreams, at least you use them to help people."
The simple acceptance in his voice made Alaric's chest tight. This was Percy Jackson—seeing the best in people, choosing trust over suspicion, loyalty over safety. It was exactly what Alaric had loved about the character in the books.
And exactly what he was terrified of corrupting.
"Promise me something, Percy," he said impulsively. The words came before he could stop them. "No matter what happens. No matter how strong you get, or what people say you are, or what prophecies get thrown at you. Stay good. The world needs heroes like you."
Percy looked at him strangely. "That's a weird thing to ask."
"I know. But promise anyway."
"Okay." Percy's grin was lopsided. "I promise to stay good if you promise to use your creepy prophetic dreams for good instead of evil."
"Deal."
They shook on it—a ridiculous, solemn handshake under the stars. Two kids making promises they might not be able to keep, trying to hold onto something human in a world that wanted to make them monsters or heroes or both.
Alaric just hoped he could keep Percy from becoming the latter without accidentally creating the former.
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