ONE         FIRST BLOOD

"It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same."
— Richard Siken, Crush

There's blood in his mouth.

Ajax can taste it. Salt and copper on his tongue like the tang of rusted pennies. There's blood in his mouth, but he can't spit it out. That would mean forfeit—that would mean losing—and it's too soon for him to admit that kind of defeat, even if he knows he is fighting is a losing battle. He's still on his feet, still has his heavy spear in hand. There's a lot of fight left in him before he'll give that up. Surrender is not something that should be relinquished so easily.

On the opposite end of the arena, his opponent remains vigilant. Wolves on the prowl, they circle one another—watching, waiting, looking for weakness. Looking for blood.

Ajax grits his teeth and swallows.

It had been just after dusk when the match began, the final fleeting streaks of daylight fading from the sky. Since then, night had fallen overhead and cloaked the world in inky black darkness, visible through the Colosseum's open ceiling. Light cuts through the dark from blazing torches adorning the stone walls, casting flickering firelight shadows on the purple-gold banners decorating the arena and everything else it reaches. Seated in the stands, a solemn hush has settled over the crowd of spectators—the silence held with bated breath. They too are watching and waiting, eager for the fight to end and for a victor to be named.

Ajax knows the victor won't be him. That doesn't mean he's going to make the victory easily won.

An inconvenient ache is blooming beneath the breastplate covering his chest, threatening to derail him from this goal. Ajax is no healer but he knows his ribs are in a sorry state; either badly bruised or broken from a glancing blow to the chest delivered via the blunted tip of a javelin. It hadn't pierced his armor, but the impact had still been enough to rattle him—hence the blood in his mouth. A steady throb of pain radiates through him from that spot, red-hot and blazing, flaring angrily with every move, every breath he takes. He should've been faster; should have blocked the blow before it ever had the chance to touch him. Instead, he'd been sloppy and careless—his offense getting the best of his defense—and he had paid the price for it.

His only consolation: the wound hadn't drawn blood in the traditional sense—blood that could be seen. The fight would continue until first (second) blood was drawn; those were the rules of tonight's games.

Ajax resolves himself to not strike first this time. If he wants to hold out for much longer, he'll have to fight smart. That means defense; keeping as much distance between himself and the boy across from him as he can. To land another hit on him, Ajax's opponent will have to come to him. It won't be enough to save him; Ajax knows this. It might be enough to buy him more time.

The wind inside the arena abruptly dies—a sudden and unnatural stillness like the calm before a storm. Then, a low, familiar frequency reverberates through his ears—the telltale hum of electricity. This is Ajax's only warning before the boy lunges, swift-footed and lightning fast. It's as if he heard Ajax's thoughts; as if he knew he would have to be the one to make the first move and decided he might as well make it now. The boy seems to glide across the dirt separating them as he moves, javelin raised over his shoulder before he hurls it at Ajax. The lance sails through the air, careening towards Ajax in a deadly arc; the wind, no longer still, seems to guide its path directly towards him.

Ajax tenses. His knees bend, coiling before he springs and lunges out of the way. The spear misses and embeds itself in the dirt behind him, temporarily rendered useless and unable to do harm. It's Ajax's turn to return fire then—elbow locking into place, arm extending, ribs twinging. He throws his spear and his aim is true; a practiced throw that he has rehearsed over and over again, until it became as natural as walking, as simple as sleeping, as easy as breathing. It's a perfect shot, he can see it—

Then the wind comes with a vengeance and knocks it away, casting it off to the side.

Swearing under his breath, Ajax reaches for the gladius sheathed in his belt. His opponent is still charging at him, weaponless but not deterred in the slightest. In fact, he's smiling—an infuriating flash of white teeth gleaming as he approaches head-on. Ajax scowls in response and draws his short sword, planting his feet in preparation for the imminent impact. He has a weapon; he still has an advantage here, small as it may be. There's twenty feet of open space left between them. Then ten. Then—then he's gone?

Instead of charging directly at him like Ajax had anticipated, the boy sidesteps him completely, vaulting past him to retrieve his fallen javelin. He rescues it from its cast-off place in the dirt, wrist twisting as he twirls it in his hand and tosses it high up into the air. There's a blur of movement, gold glinting as the spinning lance catches the light before its form begins to shrink and stretch into something else entirely. It returns to the hand that tossed it as a sword rather than a spear—a double-edged gladius forged of Imperial gold, the blessed metal of Rome.

Ajax's scowl deepens. "Show-off."

His opponent's face breaks into a genuine grin as he levels his newly-acquired sword, drawing himself into a fighting stance that mirrors Ajax's. The blade in his hand is perfectly balanced—the only weapon of its kind, specifically crafted to be used by him alone and given as a gift by a mysterious patron. God-given, if Ajax's suspicions are correct... not that he spends much time thinking about it. Or him. Just an observation. That's all.

"Thank you," Jason Grace (son of Jupiter, pride of New Rome, bane of Ajax's existence—the list goes on and on and on) replies, his tone amicable. Friendly. Aggravating. "I was impressed with your fighting as well. That last throw—really well done."

Ajax feels his jaw tic. A genuine compliment or is he mocking him?

Stormy blue eyes bore into him with the kind of intensity that is only learned by those who have been raised by wolves. Ajax's gaze narrows, lips curling into a snarl—he was raised by wolves too, after all. Probably mocking him, he concludes. And wait a minute—

"I never said I was impressed," he protests.

Jason's grin widens. "Didn't need to."

Alright, that's it, Ajax decides. To hell with defense.

They both move at the same time, swords singing when they meet with a jarring clash. Ajax would much rather fight with a spear than a sword, but he's proficient enough to hold his own here. He presses forward and the boy springs back, quick and light on his feet; possessing all the grace and agility of a trained dancer. He parries and sidesteps each of Ajax's attacks with an easy sort of fluidity to his movements, so effortless that it almost seems lazy, though Ajax knows he is anything but that.

They fight like this for what feels like hours—neither of them able to gain a true advantage over the other, closely matched in ability and skill. But fatigue makes the sword in Ajax's arm grow heavy. His ribs feel as if they're on fire; the ache there sharp and demanding and growing sharper still. There's a sloppiness to his movements that wasn't there before. A vulnerability to be exploited.

Jason notices. His gaze sharpens, more calculating than it had been before. He finds an opening and he takes it; catches the flat of his blade under the hilt of Ajax's and twists. It forces Ajax's arm into an awkward bend, leaving him with two options: his wrist breaking or his sword dropping. (A difficult choice; his injured wrist would likely heal quicker than his wounded pride, but enduring another scolding from the camp's head healer might actually kill him.) He considers the former—really, truly considers it—but reluctantly decides on the latter.

With no small amount of cursing, Ajax releases the sword held in his left hand and lets it tumble into the dirt. At the same time, his right hand flies to the dagger sheathed at his hip—a weapon of last resort and the only weapon he has left aside from his bare hands. Fighting against sword with dagger is never ideal, but he blocks the first strike with gritted teeth; feels the force of the blow as it rattles all the way up his forearm to his jaw, but doesn't buckle beneath it.

If he is upset that his victory has been thwarted yet again, Jason Grace does not show it. In fact, he looks—pleased, almost, that Ajax managed to catch the strike and parry it before it could land. Like he is glad the fight can continue for at least a little while longer.

And it is only a little while longer.

Speed has never been where Ajax's strength lies. Rather, his strength has always been... well, strength itself. An immovable object to whatever unstoppable force opposes him. But with his sword and spear gone and nothing but a dagger left to defend himself with, speed is what he needs most. What Jason, unfortunately, possesses an abundance of.

Ajax stands his ground for as long as he can, tossing his dagger from hand to hand to fend off attacks from the other demigod, who moves quick as lightning; coming at him with his gladius from all sides and angles, seeming to be anywhere and everywhere all at once. Sweat trickles down Ajax's spine. His muscles burn from exertion. Every labored breath is followed by an accompanying stab of pain to his battered ribs.

He manages to glean some satisfaction from the way Jason's face has lost its easy smile; jaw clenched and brow furrowed. Ajax may not win this fight, but he has not made it easy for Jason to beat him. The son of Jupiter is all focus now, operating with swift and deadly precision as he rains down blow after blow—relentless as a summer storm; violent as a tempest's tumult.

A particularly hard strike rips the dagger from his grasp and sends it clattering towards the ground. Ajax watches it slip through his fingers in slow-motion, tumbling hilt over blade over hilt until it meets the dirt; the sound swallowed up by the cheering crowd that Ajax had nearly forgotten about.

His now empty hand curls into a fist. Ajax looks up, finds the end of Jason's sword level with the hollow of his throat, and knows it's over then. Jason is staring back at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. The hardness of his features has softened, leaving him windswept but calm; like the parting of storm clouds revealing clear blue sky behind them. There's a look in his eyes—not gloating or triumph, but something else that Ajax can't place. Pity, maybe, or an apology but neither of those seem right either.

Whatever it is, Ajax can't bear to look at it any longer. A familiar bitterness fills his mouth that has nothing to do with the blood in it—the taste of defeat sharp and acrid on his tongue. He turns his head away and spits into the dirt before Jason can draw any blood from the sword at his neck.

"First blood," he says, chin jutting towards Jason with a sanguine show of teeth.

Jason's brow furrows and for a moment Ajax thinks he might be angry, but then he laughs and lets his sword fall; head shaking in disbelief before he demands, "How long?"

Ajax's answering grin is only a little smug. "That first pass where you got my ribs."

"I knew that was a good hit," Jason exclaims. "But you—you didn't even flinch."

He hadn't—just bit his tongue and rattled off every single Latin obscenity he could recall inside his head until he no longer saw red... but Jason didn't need to know that. Ajax shrugs and moves to cross his arms over his chest in a way that he hopes comes across as nonchalant before he winces. Now that the fight had ended, his adrenaline was flagging and couldn't keep the pain he'd been ignoring at bay for any longer. He settles for clasping his hands together in front of him with a casual dip of his head instead.

"Wasn't about to let you win so easily," he replies.

"You certainly didn't," Jason agrees, still annoyingly good-natured about all of it. "There were a few times where I thought you might have me beat."

Ajax's eyes narrow. In the decade they'd spent training and fighting together, he could recall the number of times he'd managed to beat Jason at anything on one hand. Was he mocking him again—taunting Ajax with his victory? Or was this him being sincere? Unable to tell which it is, Ajax scowls and offers a noncommittal grunt in response. This makes Jason frown and open his mouth to say something else before he is interrupted.

"Romans!" A girl's high, clear voice rings across the arena.

Out of the crowd seated amongst the tiers of the Colosseum, two figures had abandoned the stands and hopped down from the podium onto the field—a tall teenage boy and a much shorter teenage girl; the praetors of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, Eli Parrish and Liya Antonia. Their purple cloaks billow behind them as they approach, coming to stop in front of Jason and Ajax. Instinct makes Ajax stand a little taller; chin up, shoulders back, eyes front and all that. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jason do the same.

"Quite a show you gave us, legionnaires," Liya—daughter of the victory goddess, Victoria—tells them, her voice projected loud enough that the entire arena can hear her despite her small stature. "That was well fought."

"Perhaps a bit drawn out," Eli, a legacy camper and descendant of the god Quirinus, adds under his breath so that only they can hear him; a good-natured smile on his face despite his teasing. "But yes, still well fought."

"Jason Grace," the girl continues, elbowing her companion in the side but otherwise maintaining the solemn dignity of her role as praetor, "you've once again proven yourself to be a soldier worthy of the Legion and brought honor to the Fifth Cohort through today's victory."

A raucous cheer goes up from the crowd at this—most likely the cheers of the Fifth, who need as much honor as they can get. Ajax tightens his jaw and stares straight ahead. This is no new occurrence for him: standing beside the son of Jupiter and listening as others laude him with praise and recognition while receiving none himself. Since their childhood days at the Wolf House under the goddess Lupa's tutelage, Ajax had always been considered second-best to Jason. If Ajax is good then Jason is better; if Jason is great, then Ajax is lesser. He could still remember the wolf goddess's parting words for Jason when she'd sent the two of them off to Camp Jupiter together after they'd completed their training and proven themselves worthy in her eyes. You will be the pride of Rome someday, she'd told him. Our saving grace. She'd had no equal words of praise to share with Ajax.

The trend continued once they arrived at Camp Jupiter. As the only known son of the king of gods himself, there had never been a question of where Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, belonged. Not only was he exalted by birthright through his god-king father, but there were rumors that his father's divine wife, Juno—queen of gods, had claimed Jason as her chosen champion, setting him apart from his peers. Every cohort had scrambled to claim Jason as their own; even without the benefit of letters of recommendation that all other campers were required to present if they hoped to be accepted into the Legion's best cohorts. Ajax still couldn't understand why Jason had willingly chosen to join the Fifth Cohort instead—the very worst the Legion had to offer. (Ajax had wound up in the Second Cohort, because, of course.) Joining the Fifth did nothing to lessen Jason's infamy amongst the other campers. If anything, it'd only made him more mythical in their eyes and he'd been made a centurion in record time.

Jason bows his head, strands of golden hair falling into his face and obscuring it slightly. "A victory is only made worthy by the worthiness of one's opponent," he says in response to Lian's praise, eyes flicking over to Ajax. "Mine deserves equal honor."

Ajax looks at Jason sharply, eyes flashing as he glares daggers at him. His lips press into a thin line and he grinds his teeth together until his jaw starts to ache. Prickles of heat burn across his skin, anger and indignation coursing through his veins. What is Jason playing at? Does he think his pity is somehow noble? That Ajax will be grateful for his charity? He isn't.

"Indeed," Liya agrees diplomatically. She offers Ajax a fleeting smile and a quick incline of her head. "A lesser opponent would not have made your victory so hard-earned. For that, you are to be commended, Ajax. However: there can only be one victor. That honor and title belongs to you alone, Jason."

As always, Ajax thinks to himself, still boiling with resentment. He hadn't asked Jason to say anything; hadn't wanted any sort of prize or acknowledgment for losing. He knows well enough by now that second-best earns you nothing in the Legion—well, nothing that matters, at least. Nothing he wants.

"Your trophy," Eli interjects, presenting Jason with a crown of vibrant green laurel leaves woven into an intricate garland wreath. He drops it onto Jason's head with ease, standing several inches taller than him—but not before he ruffles his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. Then, for ceremony's sake, Eli steps back and turns to face the crowd, offering Jason an exaggerated salute before calling out, "Ave, Jason Grace, son of Jupiter!"

"Ave!" The crowd of spectators echos.

Jason raises a hand in response to acknowledge the crowd. He doesn't seem pleased by the attention, though. Perhaps he had become so used to winning that even the thrill of victory was old to him. Except... Ajax sees the way the tips of his ears have gone red and the slight twist to his expression that indicates discomfort—maybe even embarrassment. Like he does not want any sort of prize or acknowledgment for winning. It almost makes Ajax feel bad for him. Almost—until the Fifth Cohort rushes the field and surrounds their centurion, whooping and cheering loudly.

Something serpentine and viridescent coils in his gut. Ajax turns away, unable to stomach any more of the scene. "Can I leave now?" He asks the two praetors, tired and angry and in a considerable amount of pain; wanting nothing more than to fall into his bunk and sleep off the past several hours.

Eli and Liya exchange a knowing look before Eli claps a hand on Ajax's shoulder, making him wince as the movement jostles his ribs and threatens to set the flickering embers of pain ablaze once more. "Sure," he says cheerfully, his ironlike grip preventing Ajax from immediately bolting. "As soon as a medic clears you. Don't think we didn't notice those ribs."

Ajax groans. "They're just bruised!" He protests. "They'll heal on their own—"

"I think I'll be the judge of that," a new voice interrupts.

Ajax nearly jumps. He turns and finds Camp Jupiter's head healer, Pranjal, standing just behind him; somehow having managed to escape the ranks of the spectators and approach without Ajax noticing. One look at the disapproving expression on his face tells Ajax that he won't be able to argue his way out of avoiding a trip to medical. A son of Asclepius, god of medicine, Pranjal was the camp's most gifted practitioner despite only being nineteen years-old. He was also one of the most stubborn people Ajax had ever met in his life; relentless and uncompromising in his duties.

"Fine," he agrees sullenly, knowing a losing battle when he sees one, "let's just get this over with."

He allows himself to be led off the field into the medic's tent, grumbling the entire way there. Pranjal gives him both a dressing up (his ribs—cracked, apparently, not just bruised—bestowed with an ice pack and a glass of nectar) and a dressing down ("... continuing to fight with an injury like that! Really, AJ, what were you thinking?") before he is finally cleared to leave. By then, it's late enough that most of the spectators have returned to their dorms, but still early enough that it isn't lights-out yet, meaning his roommates will be awake to pester Ajax with questions that he is not in the mood to answer. He'd wanted to leave early for that exact reason so he could feign sleep and avoid them till morning, but since when does Ajax ever get what he wants?

Glaring at nothing in particular, he trudges up the road leading away from the barracks towards Temple Hill, hoping that it will be primarily deserted after the day's excitement. The night air is brisk on his sweat-dampened skin and it helps to cool some of his anger to a low simmer rather than a boil. His feet carry him up the grassy knoll dotted with temples, altars, shrines and all other places of worship dedicated to the various gods of Rome. Ajax passes the Temple of Bellona in all its gilded glory and hurries by the imposing shadow of Pluto's Shrine, feeling a chill run up his spine before he finally comes to a stop in front the stone steps leading up to a familiar red crypt—the Temple of Mars Ultor, the avenger. Rome's god of war.

Ajax's father.

Just the sight of it feels like a dagger to the chest, filling him with equal parts resentment and grief and stirring up memories that Ajax is both terrified of losing and desperate to forget. The warmth of a woman's kind smile; the playful laughter of a little girl. A monstrous man's glowing mechanical eyes; red blood seeping into dark earth. His father's large hand on his shoulder; the warmth of his touch as he cupped the back of Ajax's head and held him close. Be brave. Be strong. We'll see each other again someday.

The last time Ajax had seen or heard from his father was over ten years ago, after the death of his mother, when he'd left him at the Wolf House with Lupa and her pack. With Jason Grace. Since then, Ajax had done everything in his power to impress his father—to prove his worth as a son of Mars so that maybe, just maybe, his father would return to him. He'd trained harder and longer than any other demigod in the Legion; honed his skills as a soldier to the point of perfection—not through god-given abilities or natural talent, but through hard work. He volunteered for the most difficult jobs and dangerous tasks; signed up for gladiator fights and chariot races.

He was good at what he did; just not good enough.

Despite his father's seeming indifference, Ajax would visit his temple often. He burned offerings and said prayers, kneeling on hard stone floor in front of the towering marble statue crafted in the likeness of his father's image; each time clinging to some desperate shroud of hope that this time his father would answer him. That he would keep the promise of someday he'd made Ajax all those years ago. He'd been a child back then, weak and unworthy, but he wasn't the same scared little boy anymore. He would prove that to his father eventually—then he would see him again, he was sure of it.

He's just barely taken his first few steps up the temple stairs when Ajax hears someone call his name. "Rath! Hey, Rath!"

Out of the periphery of his vision, he sees a flash of blonde hair. Ajax whirls on the approaching demigod, expecting to see—someone else. Instead, he finds himself looking down on Camp Jupiter's augur, Octavian—a legacy camper and a descendant of the god Apollo. Also: one of the worst people Ajax has ever met. His family had an extensive legacy at the camp, dating several generations back, which had given him a heightened sense of self-importance and earned him his role as not only the augur of the camp, but also the centurion of the First Cohort and a place amongst New Rome's senatorial body. Octavian's strength was in politics, manipulating and maneuvering pieces around in whatever way best suited him.

Ajax despised senate politics and, in turn, despised Octavian too.

"I had a feeling I'd see you here," Octavian calls out, his tone smug and knowing. Hardly ten words had left his mouth, but Ajax could already feel his earlier irritation rekindling with a vengeance.

He scoffs. "Did you have to cut open someone's favorite teddy bear to tell you that?"

The augur gives him a lipless smile that makes his already pinched features look even more gaunt and unpleasant. "Very funny," Octavian says drily. "But no—you aren't nearly important enough for me to go through all that trouble. I've simply got an instinct for these sorts of things, that's all."

"What do you want?" Ajax growls.

"Do I have to want something just to have a chat with you?" He asks, feigning innocence.

"Yes."

Octavian sighs heavily. "Really, you should lighten up, Rath. Though I can't blame you for being a bit ill-tempered after tonight's games," he says, shaking his head and tutting softly. "Tell me: does it ever get tiring—constantly losing like that?"

Ajax clenches his jaw and wonders just how angry his father would be if he assaulted someone on the steps of his temple. "Not as tiring as this conversation."

"It must be frustrating for you," Octavian continues, as if Ajax hadn't said anything at all. "Never being good enough to defeat him."

His hands clench into tightly-balled fists until his knuckles are pale against his skin. "He's a son of Jupiter," Ajax grinds out. "It's to be expected. His children are always..." His voice trails off.

Everyone knows how Jupiter's children are: more powerful than most demigods—like young gods themselves who walk amongst mortals. Trying to keep up with a child of Jupiter is a lost a cause, yet Ajax has spent his entire life chasing after one. It was the definition of insanity—doing the same impossible task over and over again and expecting a different result—but it felt like he had no other choice than to keep trying.

Octavian makes a sympathetic sound. "Of course, of course—they always get all the glory. But they're not gods, are they? No reason for them to be treated as such."

"Hurry up and get to the point or I'm leaving—"

"Fine," the augur snaps, dropping his pretense of false compassion. His shift in persona is a tangible thing; like a snake shedding its skin and leaving an empty husk behind. "As you know, elections for praetor are next month. I've heard that Jason Grace is being lauded as a potential candidate. Since you and I have a common adversary in him, I propose an alliance. Your cohort respects you; if you convince the Second to support me as praetor, I will make sure you are made centurion of the Second in return."

Ajax's head is swimming; the world seeming to tilt on its axis. Jason might be made praetor? And Octavian wanted Ajax to support him in order to stop it? The prospect is so nonsensical that he can't help but laugh, the sound mirthless and sharp to his own ears. Octavian looks taken aback by the response, his face scrunched with disbelief, which only makes Ajax laugh even harder.

"You really think," he says, pressing a hand to his ribs as they ache from his laughter, "that I would help make you praetor? Are you out of your godsdamned mind? I mean, I know some people say you are, but I'd always thought it was more of an act—"

"Enough," Octavian interjects shrilly, his pale face flushed with anger or embarrassment or perhaps a mixture of both. "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you! If Grace is made praetor, he'll be treated like a godling among the rest of us. Take it from someone whose family has been around long enough to remember what it's like to have a child of Jupiter in the Legion. Any glory to be won will belong to him and him alone. I've seen you: desperate for recognition, for a chance to lead, yet always forced to follow in his footsteps. That is all you will ever be if he is made praetor."

The words cut deep, striking right at the heart of Ajax's oldest wounds; his biggest fears. His blood runs cold at the thought of existing forever in Jason's shadow, unable to ever prove his own worth. Unable to ever prove himself to his father.

His thoughts must show on his face because Octavian grins viciously at the dawning realization. "See?" He sneers. "Not so funny, is it? If you know what's good for you, you'll accept my proposal."

A surge of bitterness rises up inside Ajax, churning and swelling like the ocean tide in a storm. It isn't fair, it isn't fair. The thought of Jason being elevated into further infamy makes him burn, but the thought of helping Octavian and making him praetor is even worse. He couldn't do it; no—he wouldn't do it.

Glowering at Octavian and resisting the urge to wring his skinny neck, he says, "I'd rather see Jason as praetor than you, asshole."

The satisfaction of watching Octavian's face contort and grow purple with rage is almost enough to make Ajax feel better about the prospect of Jason's potential praetorship. Almost.

"You'll regret this," Octavian warns as Ajax turns to leave, making his way up the steps of his father's temple. The augur continues shouting and Ajax wishes he could drown it out. "Just wait and see! You will never amount to anything if Jason Grace becomes praetor; you will live in his shadow and you will be forgotten. Believe me or don't; it makes no difference to me. But deep down you know it's the truth. You'll have no one to blame but yourself—!"

Ajax storms into the temple in a rage. His anger feels like a living, breathing thing inside his chest; a fire lit beneath his ribcage, blazing white-hot under his skin. He paces the chamber furiously—a wolf on the prowl, desperate to sink his teeth into something and tear it apart. He does not think he has ever been so angry before. Octavian's words ring in his ears, followed by the memory of Jason's golden head being crowned with laurels. Then, an even earlier memory: Lupa's final parting words to Jason; her indifference towards Ajax. Every single moment of his own inferiority seems to rear its ugly head, taunting him as if in agreement with Octavian's words.

You will never amount to anything; you will live in his shadow and you will be forgotten—

Ajax throws himself to the ground in front of his father's statue, hardly noticing the sting of hard stone beneath his knees. "Father, I know you can hear me," he shouts, his throat tight with anger; aching with the threat of tears. "In ten years, you've never once answered me, but if you care at all, you'll answer me now."

The temple is as silent as a crypt; the air stiff and heavy around him. Suffocating. His father's statue remains unchanged—cold and lifeless—but Ajax continues anyways. "Send me a war," he says. "Let me prove myself and I promise I'll make you proud."

For a moment, there is no change and Ajax thinks it will be nothing more than another unanswered prayer. But then—a gust of wind blows through the temple, sending shivers down his spine. The dying flames in the braziers flare to life, burning brightly and casting strange shadows on the walls. Overhead, thunder rumbles across the sky despite the cloudless, starry night.

And thus his fate is sealed.

author's note: well...! i feel horrendously out of practice with writing and i still don't know how i feel about this chapter, but i figure the only way to not feel out of practice is to, you know, write which is why i am saying to hell with it and publishing this in the hopes that it will get easier the more i do it. i have a lot i want to say in this author's note but i also just sort of want to publish this right now, so i will try and keep this short(er) than usual:

if jason seems a bit different here from the jason we know in hoo/toa, that's because he is! he's younger here, he hasn't gone through the titan war yet, and he hasn't had his memories wiped. a lot of people complain that jason is a boring protagonist and like that is totally fair! however, i do think that a lot of what makes him come across as boring initially is the fact that when you first meet him, he is missing all of his memories and he is surrounded by strangers in a strange situation. he opens up more as the books go on and i think if we'd really gotten to see him in his element, surrounded by the people he grew up with, he would come across differently. he isn't percy, which i know a lot of people were disappointed in at first, but i think there's room to appreciate both percy and jason for their similarities and their differences. ok, that is all! i will step off my jason grace soapbox for now (but i make no promises about not returning to it in the future...)

and now for a(chilles)jax: i really love ajax. he's my little guy. a lot of different characters have served as inspiration for him, but the most important one in this chapter is thee achilles pelides himself. ajax asking mars for a war is meant to serve as a reference to achilles asking thetis to have zeus interfere on his behalf and make the greeks lose during the trojan war after agamemmnon pisses him off. much like achilles, ajax is very stubborn. unlike achilles, who thinks he is the shit, ajax feels he has a lot to prove. some of the reason for that has already been explained in this chapter; more of it will be explained in future chapters, especially regarding his mom. i am really looking forward to ajax's growth as a character and how he adapts / changes / comes into his own without these crushing feelings of self-doubt and inferiority that plague him. however: we got a ways to go till then, so buckle up everybody!

i feel like i have more i want to say, but alas—it will just have to wait. thank you so much for reading! any comments / votes / shares are always, always, always appreciated. next chapter: expect to see REYNA! she will be there. many more shenanigans to come in the future. i will see you all in CHAPTER TWO! 🫶