CLARISSE LA RUE

You don’t remember the exact moment the pain became constant.

It’s not the kind of pain that arrives all at once, sharp and clean, something you can trace back to a single instant. No—this is something deeper, something that settled into your bones the moment Polyphemus lifted you like you weighed nothing and threw you into the earth hard enough to make the world go white.

Now, every breath is a reminder.

Your ribs protest with every inhale, a dull, grinding ache that sharpens when you move too quickly—or sometimes when you don’t move at all. It lingers, clings, refuses to be ignored.

But you’re back.

That’s what matters.

Camp Half-Blood rises before you like something out of a dream—familiar and surreal all at once. The air hums differently here, charged with something ancient and powerful. You feel it the moment you cross the boundary.

The magic.

It’s stronger than you remember.

Stronger than it has any right to be.

Your gaze drifts toward the hill almost instinctively, drawn to the source like a compass finding north.

And there it is.

The Golden Fleece.

Golden Fleece rests against Thalia’s tree, glowing faintly, threads of gold catching the light in a way that feels almost alive. The magic pulses outward from it, subtle but undeniable, seeping into the soil, the air, the very bones of the camp.

You can feel it working.

Healing.

Restoring.

The barrier—once weak, fragile, barely holding—is whole again. Stronger. Unbreakable, maybe.

For a moment, everything else fades.

The pain.

The exhaustion.

The chaos of the journey that brought you here.

You made it.

You all did.

Voices rise around you—relief, awe, disbelief tangled together in a wave of sound that sweeps through camp like wildfire. Campers gather, pointing, whispering, celebrating something that felt impossible not so long ago.

You should be part of it.

You should feel it.

But your body doesn’t let you forget itself so easily.

Your knees threaten to give out as you take another step, your breath hitching as pain lances through your ribs. The world tilts slightly, just enough to make you pause, your balance faltering as you try to steady yourself.

You don’t get the chance.

“Careful—”

Hands catch you.

Familiar.

Steady.

Annabeth’s voice—sharp with concern, grounded in logic even now—cuts through the noise as she adjusts her grip on you, supporting more of your weight without making it obvious.

You hate that.

Not the help.

The fact that you need it.

“I’ve got you,” she says, quieter now, more certain.

You nod, even though the movement sends another wave of discomfort through your chest. You don’t trust your voice just yet—not when it might betray how much this actually hurts.

You take another step.

Then another.

Each one is an effort.

Each breath a calculation.

But you keep moving.

Because stopping isn’t an option.

Not here.

Not now.

The crowd parts slightly as you approach, attention shifting—not entirely, not enough to pull focus from the Fleece, but enough that you can feel it. See it in the way people glance at you, recognition flickering in their expressions.

You went on the quest.

You came back.

Alive.

Barely.

But alive.

That should be enough.

It almost is.

Until—

“Aside, idiot.”

The voice cuts through everything.

Sharp.

Commanding.

Unmistakable.

Your head lifts before you can stop it, your focus snapping toward the source like it’s instinct.

Like it’s always been instinct.

Percy Jackson barely has time to react before he’s shoved unceremoniously to the side, stumbling a step as the force of it catches him off guard.

“Hey—!”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Because Clarisse is already there.

And everything else—

Everything—

Fades.

She doesn’t look at the Fleece.

Not once.

Not even a glance toward the thing that proves her success, her victory, the culmination of everything she fought for.

Her focus is locked on you.

Entirely.

Completely.

Unshakably.

It’s almost jarring, the intensity of it—like stepping into something too bright after being in the dark for too long. Her gaze moves over you quickly, taking everything in at once—the way you’re standing, the way you’re breathing, the way Annabeth is holding you up.

The way you’re hurt.

Her expression doesn’t soften.

It never does.

But something shifts.

Subtle.

Dangerous.

“Move.”

It’s not directed at you.

Annabeth hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—but it’s enough.

Clarisse doesn’t wait.

She steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides, and suddenly her presence is overwhelming, filling the space around you in a way no one else can.

Her hand closes around your arm—not rough, not careless, but firm. Certain. Like she’s already decided something and isn’t about to be argued with.

“I’ll take it from here.”

There’s no room for negotiation.

Annabeth opens her mouth, ready to protest—you can see it, the way her expression sharpens, the way her grip tightens just slightly—but then Clarisse looks at her.

Really looks at her.

And whatever argument was about to come dies before it can form.

It’s not just the glare.

It’s what’s behind it.

Something fierce. Protective. Unyielding.

Something that says this isn’t a discussion.

Annabeth exhales sharply, her jaw setting as she carefully transfers your weight, her hands lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before she steps back.

“Don’t make it worse,” she mutters, not quite looking at Clarisse.

Clarisse doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t acknowledge it.

Because her attention is already back on you.

It always comes back to you.

Her grip shifts, sliding from your arm to something more stable—your side, just beneath your shoulder, careful but solid. She adjusts you without asking, moving you in a way that forces your posture straighter, steadier.

It hurts.

Of course it does.

But it also—

Helps.

You realize it a second too late.

Your breath catches, sharp and uneven, and her hand tightens slightly in response—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you.

“Don’t,” she says, low and warning.

You blink, trying to focus.

“Don’t what?” you manage, voice rough around the edges.

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Because they’re not mocking.

Not teasing.

Just… true.

You huff out something that might be a laugh, might be a protest. “I’m fine.”

It’s automatic.

Reflex.

Useless.

Clarisse doesn’t even dignify it with a response.

Her jaw tightens, just slightly, her gaze flicking down to your ribs for half a second before returning to your face.

“You’re not.”

Simple.

Certain.

Unarguable.

And the worst part?

She’s right.

You both know it.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The noise of camp continues around you—celebration, relief, the hum of something restored—but it feels distant. Secondary. Like it belongs to a different world entirely.

Because here—

Here, it’s just you and her.

Again.

Always.

Her grip adjusts once more, more deliberate this time, and she starts moving—not toward the crowd, not toward the center of everything, but away from it.

Toward somewhere quieter.

Safer.

You don’t question it.

You don’t have the energy to.

And maybe—

Maybe you don’t want to.

Each step is easier with her there, her presence steady and unyielding at your side. She matches your pace without comment, without impatience, adjusting when you falter, compensating without making it obvious.

Like she’s done this before.

Like she always will.

After a few steps, you glance at her.

You can’t help it.

Her expression is set, focused, that same familiar intensity etched into every line of her face. But up close—closer than anyone else ever really gets—you can see the cracks.

The tension in her jaw.

The way her grip hasn’t loosened.

The fact that she still hasn’t looked at the Fleece.

“You did it,” you say quietly.

It feels important.

Like it needs to be said.

Her eyes flick to you, just for a second.

Then away.

“Obviously.”

The response is automatic.

Deflective.

But there’s something underneath it—something quieter, something uncertain in a way that doesn’t quite fit her.

You watch her for a moment longer.

Then—

“You didn’t even look at it.”

That gets her attention.

Her gaze snaps back to yours, sharper this time, something almost defensive flashing across her expression before it settles into something more controlled.

“I know it’s there.”

That’s not an answer.

You both know it.

You don’t push.

Not yet.

Not when her grip on you tightens just slightly, like she’s reminding herself you’re still there. Still real.

Still standing.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… full.

Heavy with everything neither of you is saying.

Finally, she exhales, sharp and quiet, her gaze dropping—not to the Fleece, not to the camp—but to you.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters.

It should sound like an insult.

But there’s no bite to it.

Just something rough and honest and—

Relieved.

You smile, just a little.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

Her grip doesn’t loosen.

Not even a fraction.