"Where the Fight Is Won or Lost"
Title: Where the Fight Is Won or Lost
Pairings: None, actually. (Erin is writing GEN? Shocker! Gen where the gods actually spend time with their kids? The end of the world is nigh!)
Rated: T for language. There's nothing actually objectionable in it.
Warnings: Canon-compliant for the most part. There's nothing in here that suggests AU, but it is part of the Sightless universe.
Summary: "The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I go under those lights."
Notes: Features a realistic Clarisse. Because no one ever writes her correctly, ever.
Word Count: 2,294.
Where the Fight Is Won or Lost
By Neko Kuroban and Sister Grimm Erin
"The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I go under those lights."
-Muhammad Ali.
X X X X X
The first training session had been nine years ago.
X X X X X
Clarisse-then Clarisse La Rue, not yet Clarisse Starling-had been claimed halfway through her first summer at Camp Half-Blood, the same day that she turned nine. Her half-brother (Mark Sherman, then almost fifteen; the boys called him Sherman, so Clarisse did, too) had asked what the significance of the day was. She had not mentioned it to anyone else - why should they care? - but, under his gaze, she felt a strange pull of pride as she admitted, "Today's my ninth birthday."
"Nine, huh? It's a good age." He moved as if to put her hand on his shoulder, but she stepped away. His gaze met hers. She stared back at him levelly, almost in challenge, but she couldn't place the expression on his face. He said something she would never forget:
"You're lucky."
She didn't ask why.
She didn't want to hear the answer.
She wished he hadn't even brought attention to her in the first place. Especially not here, in the middle of the dining hall, where she couldn't ignore the occasional glances of envy - and some of genuine malice - gleaming in others' eyes.
One boy, a tousled blonde called Cain of about her age, was staring at her across the room; he had wiped his face of emotion, but he couldn't hide the way he kept his fists balled on the surface of the surface of the table...or the way they were shaking with anger.
"What's his damage?" She asked Sherman, and he followed her gaze.
"Who? Cain Hatcher?"
"Yeah. What's his problem?"
Phineas Smith-Finn, they called him-overheard. She had forgotten how sensitive everyone here was: lowering your voice was no guarantee of confidence. He laughed. "Oh, new kid," he drawled, tilting back in his chair. "First rule you have to learn: stop asking why anyone around here does anything. You might not like the answer."
"She just asked a question," Sherman pointed out, and then, as if it were some rule, added an obligatory insult: "Ass."
"Screw you, douche bag. I'm just saying-"
"Hey, Sherman!" Someone called.
He turned. "Tell you later," he murmured to Clarisse. "Promise."
She expected it to be empty, because, after all, weren't those the only kind she had any experience with?
X X X X X
So, she was surprised when, later that same night, Sherman, fresh from the shower with wet hair, swung nimbly up to sit cross-legged on her top bunk. He wore flannel sweatpants and little else; he was shirtless save for the thin white towel draped loosely around his broad shoulders. A stainless steel pendant hung on a rawhide cord around his neck in place of the Camp necklace some of the others wore, but he had strung on a handful of beads, each separated by a hard little knot. Clarisse was already clad in her night clothes, blue summer pajamas much more functional and utilitarian than cute.
"So here's what's up with Cain," he began without preamble, not bothering to lower his voice. "Everyone knows he's a son of Apollo. He looks like one; he acts like one. He's from some shi-crap," he corrected, catching himself, "town in Arkansas known for manufacturing archery gear and instruments. But even though it's obvious to everyone, he hasn't been claimed yet. So he just gets to wait it out with the Hermes kids until his father remembers."
"That's it?" Clarisse asked, not able to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice.
Mark looked as if he was about to respond, but then there was the sound of a scuffle being raised - Finn and Leon fighting in jest once again, laughing as they threw accusations and half-hearted blows - across their dormitory-styled room.
"Screw you!" Finn exclaimed, but he seemed more amused than annoyed, even to Clarisse, who barely knew anything about him beside his name. "You asinine fucktard! I do not whine too much!"
"All you do is piss and moan! If it's bothering you that much, ice, heat, and shut the hell up! Don't bitch like a girl."
Clarisse leaned over the edge of the bunk bed to watch. Leon was laughing, even though Finn had him caught in a submission hold - an arm lock, Clarisse recognized, with Leon's arm circled under Finn's and secured on the neck, which he broke free from easily. He pivoted, his hands connecting with Finn's shoulders, and used the force of his momentum to shove him back onto the stripped mattress of the nearest empty bunk. Finn retaliated with a sweep, knocking Leon off his balance. Leon picked himself up off the floor, and then flopped down onto the bare mattress beside his half-brother.
"You suck," he said, sounding barely winded.
Finn flipped him off. "Love you, too, Princess."
Clarisse looked at Sherman. "Are they always like that, Sherman?"
"Usually." He reached out as if to tousle her hair, and, this time, she let him. At least, she submitted to his touch for three seconds before pulling away. "Cain's not that bad. He's just a kid. He's a little younger than you are, I think, and he's new here, too."
"That's no excuse."
"It's not," he agreed, and it might have been the first time anyone had ever given validation to something she had said in years. "But between you and me? What he's used to is his mom and her husband - and the guy seems like a real asshole - and living in a trailer park. Give him time. He's probably not used to...you know."
He gestured as if to encompass the entirety of Camp Half-Blood - which was, if nothing else, a land of plenty - and she nodded as if she understood, but she did not quite. The next time she saw Cain Hatcher, however, the next morning with a shadow of weariness in his eyes, Clarisse didn't feel sorry for him, but a twinge of something that was not entirely unlike empathy resonated within her.
"Hey," he mumbled as she passed.
She neither smiled nor slowed, but she did allow herself to return it. "Hey."
X X X X X
It had been the longest week of her life, even counting everything that happened with her mother and the trial four days later. It had been a week of proving herself to her handful of newly acquired half-brothers, the lone girl and the youngest among them: a week of grueling training with Samson and Sherman, who seemed determined to correct in days what they saw as "deficiencies" in what she had learned over the past few weeks; a week of learning to meditate with Gabriel; a week of Finn surprising her with random acts of kindness and equally unpredictable tests on what she had been learning; a week of Leon telling off the other boys for being "too rough" before applying poultices to her skin so she would be "ready to do to do it again tomorrow, of course." It had been a week of new glances and new expectations from the other campers - and from herself, still trying to adapt to a new existence and make sense of this new half-life.
She was attacked in the woods at twilight at the end of it.
She fought back with everything she had, not caring that he was older and bigger and more experienced than she was, but she was easily overpowered. He had hooked both her arms behind her back with one of his, but she thrashed, trying to break free, until she felt the chilling pressure of a blade against her throat. She remained still, muscles tense and clenched, until she felt it removed. The arm he had snaked through hers pulled away, and - this is the part she is ashamed to remember - she, weak with relief, fell to her knees.
The man behind her snapped it closed with a soft click.
"Not bad," the man noted, sauntering around to look down at her. "For a tyro," he added, but his tone was not unkind. He held up the switchblade so she could see it and then dropped it to the hard-packed dirt. "There. You're armed. I'm not." He crouched to her eye level - the gesture made his height and strong shoulders less intimidating, and she suspected that he knew it - and held out a hand.
Without thinking, Clarisse accepted it - and immediately recoiled as soon as she was standing. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice rising with indignation. "What the fuck are you doing?" Her hands were on her hips, her foot turned at an angle. "I don't know what your game is, but I'm not playing."
The man might have smiled.
She snatched the blade from the dust and fumbled to open it. The blade jumped into place. "Who are you?" She repeated.
"Ares," he answered. "Lord of War."
He was matter-of-fact about it, not grand or dramatic. She liked that.
"I'm going to teach you how to fight, Clarisse."
"Why?" She couldn't help her insolent, insubordinate tone.
"Because you're going to need to know how," he said as if it were that simple. "Meet me here in a week. Same time, same place."
"Why?" She asked again.
He stepped closer, and, for the first time, the setting sun illuminated his features. His sharp jaw line was a little like Leon's; the red in his brown eyes and his high cheekbones made her think of Finn; his thick dark hair reminded her of Sherman. It almost made her trust him.
Almost.
She felt that he, too, was assessing her. Did her olive complexion make him think of her mother? Did he see himself in her straight brown hair and serious dark eyes? At last, he snorted and looked away, eyes flickering to the side before his attention returned to her.
"Because you have potential, kid," he said at last. "Don't let it go to your head. And don't tell anyone but Mark. He's a good kid; he'll cover for you."
She almost smiled to hear someone refer to Sherman as Mark and a kid. No one referred to him as anything but his surname, and he seemed so much older than anyone else, even at fourteen or fifteen. "Do you teach Sherman, too?" Had she stumbled upon some kind of initiation rite for Ares kids? Did her half-brothers go through this, too?
"He's a good kid," he repeated, and then, as if that wasn't cryptic response enough, he added, "He won't face as much as you will."
"What does that mean?"
A wry chuckle was her only answer. There was a flash of light - Clarisse threw her arm over her eyes just in time - and then he was gone.
X X X X X
She was there at sunset seven days later, waiting.
After all, if there is one gift to endow a child with at birth, it is curiosity.
Clarisse had never lacked that gift.
X X X X X
In the earlier years, she had fought to prove herself to him. Although Clarisse knew much, much better to call Ares Dad, she had searched for some of herself in the god.
Clarisse found some of it-they shared the same sarcastic sense of humor, the same sarcastic insults, the same wary attitude towards personal relationships-but she was forced to admit, in her very honest and private moments, that she had been searching for some of her father. She had known better, but still she felt compelled to search for some sort of semblance of father in the god of war.
Naturally, she had been disappointed.
A conversation in the third summer had made her stop-and also resulted in the way she now thought of him.
She had come to practice furious. She had been twelve, and that had been the year her temper had been constantly hot and eruptive, a danger to herself and everyone around her.
The god had defeated her easily-he had caught her in a beginner's mistake, and although she usually lost, the way in which she had tumbled to the floor had been nothing short of mortifying.
"You don't come here mad," Ares had ordered her. "Fighting isn't about anger. Sounds rich…"-and to his credit, he had chuckled-"coming from me, but when you set out to kill something, you abandon all emotion. Otherwise, you've already defeated yourself."
He frowned at her abruptly. "Get up. Helanie would have wanted you to stand."
Clarisse immediately stood to attention.
It was the only time he had or ever would mention her mother.
"Yes, Coach." The epithet had come unbidden, but it seemed to fit so much better than anything else she might have been tempted to call him. Before, it had always been you. (She could not, for some reason she had never admitted or acknowledged, even to herself, call him Ares.)
Clarisse changed. She found a family, gained a second mother who was a translator in the United Nations, a (real) father who was career military, dropped a last name, found love, lost two brothers, and gained acceptance to the U.S. Naval Academy. She fought a war and commanded an army. She became a hero in every sense of the word. She discovered friends.
But nothing changed in that dusty arena throughout those long summers. He was still Coach.
X X X X X
Authors' Notes: Feedback is greatly appreciated and always, always replied to!