Right, so, I've been feeling really out of sorts the past couple of days, and so I decided to start working on this little plot bunny to relieve some of my frustration. It kind of grew and grew, and I'm really quite pleased with it, so I decided to post it and see what ya'll thought. I think there will be three or four parts to this, so please bear with me and I'll update whenever I can.

WARNING: Characters might be slightly OOC because I have not read a PJO book in two years, and my copies are currently 4,000 miles away. Also, very, very light hints of SaruMi. Seriously, it's only there if you squint.

Whelp, I hope you enjoy this!

Disclaimer: I do not own the cover image. I also do not own PJO or K Project. If I did, there would be some serious changes to certain pairings. :)

Final note: This work was inspired by "Crow at War" by ShikiKaze09.

Vanguard of Ares

Summary: He gets the call soon after the Mole incident with Fushimi. "Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard." The Red Clan is said to have bonds thicker than blood, but these particular bonds are strengthened with golden ichor, so he says dutifully, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse." (Alternatively, the Red and Blue Clansmen are about to learn something earth-shattering.)

Part 1: Life and Times of the Vanguard

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They say blood runs thicker than water. They say a lot of things, like it's your duty to stay and defend the Camp and you can't run from your destiny.

And the most recycled: You won't survive in the real world for long – the monsters will find you: they always do.

Had Yata Misaki been anyone else, he might have let everything they said rule his life and make his decisions for him: if he were weaker, less stubborn, he would have done as they said and stayed within the safety of the Camp boundaries, never venturing out except for school or – if he was really lucky – a quick trip to see his father's throne on one of the Solstices.

But because his blood was already so strong and drew monsters to him like a beacon – despite the fact he wasn't a child of the Big Three – he was forbidden from leaving the Camp with very few exceptions. School wasn't a good enough reason to be given permission to venture out into the real world, and he had never been granted a Quest, so he remained trapped in the one place on Earth that was supposed to be his refuge, but quickly became more and more like a prison with fancy trappings.

Be grateful, they said, you're lucky you were able to survive long enough to reach this haven – a lot of others aren't so fortunate.

For a while, he let them convince him to stay. It wasn't that bad after all – in fact it was kind of awesome, because he had finally found a place where he belonged. His father claimed him seconds after he stumbled – exhausted and bleeding but still fighting – across the Camp boundaries for the first time, passing under the tall pine tree that was actually his cousin several times removed.

Apparently that was rare, to be snatched up so fast by his godly parent – but Yata hadn't cared about the blood red boar and spear that floated over his head because all he had wanted at the time was to fall asleep and never wake up.

He just wanted to forget everything for a while and act like the terrified twelve-year-old he was: he wanted to forget about the monsters that had clawed at him and taken his mother, wanted to forget that he'd probably never hear his native tongue again for a long time, wanted to forget about how the other campers – his relatives somehow, apparently – whispered in awe about how he had managed to survive and find his way to the Camp without a satyr to guide him.

And for a while he was able to forget about the horrors he had seen. For a while he was able to focus on learning to fight with his new brothers and sisters; for a while he was able to enjoy the new friendships he built; the games of Capture the Flag and s'mores by the magic campfire that changed colors constantly and was an endless fascination to him because he'd always been a little bit of a pyromaniac (and that was partially the reason why he'd been able to take out that hag in Chicago).

He even started to make a name for himself: his eagerness and skill and tendency to always lead the charge in a mock-battle earned him the name, "Vanguard of Ares," a responsibility he took very seriously.

But eventually his year or two of bliss began to turn sour, and he started to feel restless.

It was just little things at first: the fact that his siblings couldn't properly say his name began to grate on him, and the fact that nobody was able to properly challenge him in the arena with a staff or spear anymore began to make him feel edgy.

He started staring out across Long Island Sound more and more often, feeling the tension wind tighter and tighter in his chest. His already quick temper became more explosive, and it eventually got to the point where Chiron had to intervene so he didn't start a blood feud with the Aphrodite Cabin, who had been tittering away again that his love life was going to be absolutely horrendous.

(He didn't know why that had been the last straw, but somehow it had been the last grain of rice to tip the scale and he had snapped.)

As was to be expected, Chiron dragged him to the Big House for an audience with the Camp Director, Mr. D.

Fidgeting in front of them, Yata dutifully did his best to explain his frustrations, and as he was talking he suddenly had a flash of inspiration about how to possibly resolve them.

"Can I leave the Camp for a while?" he asked, "Just for a day. Let me go on grocery runs with Argus or something."

The two governing bodies of Camp-Half Blood shared a quick glance that he couldn't quite decipher, before Dionysus shut him down with a blunt, "No."

Something in him snarled at that, and his blood started to boil.

"Why not?" he demanded angrily. "I haven't set foot outside the Camp in almost two years, except for that one trip to Olympus at the last Winter Solstice!"

Chiron attempted to pacify him by saying gently, "Your blood is too strong. It's just not safe, Misaki."

"Don't call me that," he snapped back, because the only person in the world he allowed to call him by his embarrassingly-feminine first name was his mother, and she was gone.

"Watch your mouth, boy," Dionysus had sneered at him. "The answer is final. You're forbidden from leaving the Camp."

"It's for your own good, Yata," Chiron tried to reassure him, but the son of Ares had already been out the door before he could do something he would truly regret later.

The next few weeks he had been nigh-unapproachable: snapping at everyone and spoiling for a fight. The only one brave enough to oblige him had been his younger half-sister Clarisse, who had just arrived at the Camp and had quickly taken to considering him a mentor and role model, despite the fact he was only three years older than her.

Sparring with her had helped him to blow off some steam, and eventually the sparring had turned into impromptu training, and by the end of it he had felt calm enough he thought he could restrain himself from biting someone's head off.

"Why don't you try talking to Dad?" Clarisse suggested, still bright-eyed and tough: despite her age and what she had been through. She was another unusual one: their father had purportedly watched over her on her journey to Camp, something that had had everyone aflutter for a while. "You're his Vanguard, right? I'm sure he'll listen."

Yata had been doubtful, but eventually figured he had nothing to lose by trying. And so, every night from then on he had sacrificed some of his food to the fire at dinner, asking his father for some kind of advice, for any guidance at all.

For two months, his prayers went unanswered, and things only got worse.

The peculiar restlessness continued to buzz under his skin like a hive of angry bees, and his temper became shorter and shorter even as his silent, wistful vigils over Long Island Sound became longer and longer.

Eventually he decided to Hades with it all. He packed up his few meager possessions, took the measly allowance he had been able to earn over the past two years helping in the strawberry fields, grabbed his standard-issue Celestial bronze knife (not his first choice for a weapon, but it would have to do), and marched up the hill toward Thalia's Tree.

People had caught wind of what he was doing by then, of course, and so he found himself being trailed to the Camp border by a crowd of mildly-curious campers.

Chiron and Mr. D. were waiting for him at the top of the hill, of course, and he stopped a good five feet away from them, absently adjusting the straps of his pack to fit more snugly over his shoulders.

"What do you think you're doing, Yata?" Chiron was the first to break the silence.

"I'm leaving," Yata replied bluntly, fixing the two immortals before him with a look free of the fear he probably should have been feeling from daring to challenge them both head-on.

"I'm afraid we can't let you do that," Chiron began, shuffling his hooves slightly.

"Why not?" Yata fired back, feeling exhausted and exhilarated at the same time, like he was standing on the cusp of something amazing. "It's my choice."

They said a lot of things to try and get him to stay, tried to order him to give up and give in, in the end.

But he was more of his father's son than he had perhaps been given credit for, because he brushed them all off with reckless abandon, ignoring the fact he was this close to pissing off an immortal god who could turn him into a can of Diet Coke if the urge struck him.

He almost thought Chiron was going to attempt to restrain him by force at one point, and he had tensed in anticipation of the fight – when suddenly there was a rumbling of thunder in the distance and a muscular man in biker's leather with fire for eyes was standing in their midst.

(Yata didn't have to feel the almost overpowering waves of ragebloodlustneedtofight rolling off the newcomer to realize instinctively that this was his father – Ares, the god of war – who had for some reason decided to grace the gathering of demigods and two immortals with his presence.)

"Brother," Dionysus suddenly looked terribly bored with the whole affair, "To what do we owe this dubious honor?"

Pointedly ignoring the question, Ares barely spared his half-sibling a glance before turning the full force of his literally burning gaze on the lanky teen standing tall (even at just over five feet of height) in front of him. Yata glared right back, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance.

After a moment of dead silence (during which Yata felt distinctly like he was being judged, analyzed for something he couldn't quite put his finger on), the god of war finally deigned to speak.

"Let the boy go," he rumbled: his voice gruff and strong, the tone of command adding steel to his words.

"But, Lord Ares –" Chiron tried to protest, only to have the god of war cut him off.

"You heard me, centaur," Ares fixed his impossibly heavy stare on his son once again, considering the small body that was obviously tensed and ready to fight. The god of war smiled suddenly, all sharp white teeth, "I like your guts, kid. You truly are my son."

The words shocked the gathered campers, but Yata stood his ground and waited, certain there was something else his father had come here to say.

He discovered his hunch was right when the god of war reached into one of the pockets of his leather jacket and tossed something small and shiny at him.

Yata snatched it out of the air on instinct, and looked down briefly to examine the gift.

It was nothing special: just a small silver pendant in the shape of a flame. Yata's thumb accidentally pricked on the sharp point of the flame, and he hissed in surprise when his blood welled out of the puncture wound. Then he gasped along with the gathered onlookers when the moment his blood touched the pendant it lengthened into a spear tipped in glowing Celestial bronze.

Speechless, he glanced up at his father, whose face was carefully neutral.

"You've got a tough road ahead of you, kid," was all the god of war said, "This is the least I could do. Make me proud, Vanguard."

Then Ares vanished in a flash of fire, leaving Yata with a spear and the sudden awed attention of all of Camp Half-Blood.

Setting his mouth in a firm line, Yata carefully deactivated the spear and slipped the pendant into his pocket. Resetting his pack on his shoulders, he looked up expectantly at the two immortals that still stood between him and freedom.

"Foolish brat," Dionysus sneered at him, but nonetheless got out of the way. With a sigh, Chiron reluctantly moved aside as well, and suddenly Yata had a clear path ahead of him.

Pointedly ignoring the mumblings of his relatives behind him, Yata started forward with his head held high. The restlessness that had been plaguing him for months was almost singing in his blood now, making his heart pound with the certainty that this was the moment he'd been waiting for.

"Yata?" the young, lost-sounding voice was enough to give him pause, and he glanced back to see Clarisse looking at him uncertainly, her expression filled with uncharacteristic hesitation.

He deviated from his path and went to stand in front of her – settling a hand on her shoulder because she was already almost as tall as him (somehow he was the runt of Ares' litter, a fact that people had been quick to learn did not make him any easier to take down in a fight), and looked her in the eyes, "I'll be back, Clarisse. Right now I just need to leave for a while. If you need me, I promise I'll return."

"Okay," she whispered, and he could tell she was stubbornly holding tears back, so he clapped her on the shoulder and gave her a small smile, "Keep working on your sword techniques. Maybe next time we meet you'll be able to beat me in a fight."

He could tell from the glint in her eyes that it was a promise, and then he turned away and walked under the shade of Thalia's Tree.

"Good luck, Yata," Chiron sounded so old for a moment, but his voice was sincere, "We are always here for you if you need us."

Yata nodded at him but didn't stop his steady trek to the edge of the Camp border. Without hesitating, he crossed that invisible barrier and for the first time in two years breathed in the air of the mortal world.

He didn't look back as he headed down the hill, and started down the dirt road to New York City on foot.

Yata Misaki, the Vanguard of Ares, was fourteen years old when he left behind the only safe haven for his kind in the entire world, and went off to face the unknown with only a magical spear, his father's blessing, eighty-five dollars cash, and the clothes on his back.

They said he wouldn't last a week.

They were wrong.

-one year later-

It took Yata Misaki fifteen months to make his way to Japan. He lived on the streets and worked odd jobs to survive, finally managing to save up enough money for a one-way ticket to his homeland.

It was not an easy life: monsters attacked at least once a week, drawn by the siren call of his blood. But he hadn't wasted his years in Camp Half-Blood, and although there were a few close calls, he managed to stay relatively intact.

He did not keep in close contact with the Camp. The only IMs he answered were from Clarisse, and those were exceedingly rare. He did his best to ignore the gods' existence, and they did him the courtesy of not going out to their way to cause trouble for him.

When he finally stepped off of the airplane in Tokyo International Airport and was hit with an audial wave of his native language, Yata felt some of the restlessness that still plagued him dissipate a little, and a smile stretched across his face.

Something settled in his chest, and Yata reveled in the first flicker of peace that he had felt in a long, long time.

This far East, the monsters that plagued his brethren were unlikely to follow him, drawn as they were to the power of Olympus that at the moment was situated firmly in the West, so he wasn't too worried about that kind of trouble finding him. (He wasn't an idiot, though, despite what some of his naysayers back at Camp thought, and he had read up on Japanese creatures just to be prepared. Better safe than sorry, as he had quickly learned.)

Allowing the cadence of his native tongue to wash over him, Yata smiled as he lifted his head, slung his ratty pack over his shoulder, and headed out into the metropolis that almost put the Big Apple to shame.

(The gods were far from here, he thought. It didn't matter what they said, anymore.)

-two and a half years later-

To this day, Yata wasn't sure how he'd ended up in Shizume City. Somehow, in between wandering the country and following the next odd job, he had found himself standing on the outskirts of a magnificent, sprawling metropolis that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. (He realized almost right away that this place was, for whatever reason, teeming with Mist, and that the Rainbow goddess obviously had a hand in keeping it hidden from most mortal eyes.)

Curious despite himself, Yata wandered over the boundary and unknowingly stepped into a different world entirely, one that consisted not of gods, but of Kings and Clans.

He quickly became absorbed in the intricacies of the city, and for the first time in almost three years, decided to put down roots for a while.

It was completely by chance that he met Fushimi Saruhiko one day while searching for work, and he should have known from the first glimpse of those dark blue, knowing eyes that it would be best to escape while he could.

But it had been too long since Yata had had a true friend, and Saruhiko quickly became the best he ever had.

Of course, the Fates obviously weren't finished having fun at Yata's expense, because one day Saru pulled him aside and asked, "Misaki, why are you glowing?"

(Turns out Fushimi was a clear-sighted mortal, the first Yata had ever met. He should have figured out some way to lie, he supposed, but looking at his best friend in the whole world, Yata found he could do nothing else except tell the truth. And that was how Fushimi Saruhiko found out that Yata wasn't completely human after all.

But Saru didn't mind. In fact, he found it fascinating, and maybe that was when Yata's fate was sealed, because how could he leave behind the first person who had no ichor-strengthened ties to him, but had nevertheless accepted him for who he was?)

Unbeknownst to Yata, the wheels of Fate continued to turn in the West, and Kronos began to rise.

-three and a half years later-

For a while after that, things were good in Yata's world, and they only improved when he and Saru met Suoh Mikoto, the Red King, and decided to follow him.

They accepted his mark and Flame, and were immediately welcomed into the fold of the Red Clan. Yata even managed to earn the honored position of being the Red King's Vanguard, Yatagarasu, and it warmed his heart that he seemed to have finally found his place in the world.

It had taken Yata almost three years, but despite what they had said, he had managed to survive on his own in the big, bad world, and with HOMRA he felt even more at home than he ever had at Camp Half-Blood.

(Yata should have remembered, of course, that he was a demigod, and that demigods' luck sucked, and would inevitably run out.)

He was almost able to completely forget the life he had left behind, but then Chiron sent him an Iris Message and told him Clarisse had embarked on a Quest to the Sea of Monsters, and was now missing.

An ugly sort of panic had shot through him when he heard the news, his Aura had flared uncontrollably, and he told Chiron he'd be there as soon as possible.

He had spent the next several hours visiting his various stashes throughout the city, quietly gathering what he would need to return to the world of gods and monsters he had been more than happy to leave behind.

Yata was still trying to figure out how to tell his Clan where he was going without raising suspicions when Chiron contacted him again and said that Clarisse had been found, and that she would be all right.

Nearly boneless with relief, he demanded to speak with her, to confirm with his own eyes and ears that his closest sibling was alive and well.

To his intense relief, she looked a little thin and rattled but no worse for wear. He congratulated her on her Quest, and she immediately began to tell him about what had been happening in the West recently.

Apparently, he had missed a lot in the last three years. Clarisse told him everything: a child of the Big Three had shown up (a "skinny dork" she'd called him), Luke Castellan had betrayed the gods to the Titans, Kronos was rising, the Golden Fleece had been returned to the Camp thanks to her Quest, and now there were two children of the Big Three running around – Thalia had been revived from her Tree by accident.

It was a lot for him to process, and he felt distinctly numb when he finally bid her farewell and waved away the lingering Mist of the Iris Message. He wandered the city for a while, trying to gather his thoughts, and it wasn't until well after dark that he finally returned to the bar, where the rest of the Red Clan had been almost up-in-arms because he had been away for so long without so much as a single word.

He laughed awkwardly as Totsuka scolded him, and in the end he managed to escape to his room without drawing too much attention (though he could feel Saru's forever-too-perceptive eyes on him as he fled the bar area).

Perhaps it was because he was so preoccupied with the sudden influx of news from the West, of the thought that war with the Titans could be on the horizon, that he missed the signs of his best friend's slow withdrawal from the Red Clan.

Yata finally noticed something was wrong several months later, but by then it was far too late.

-four years later-

Yata Misaki had just turned eighteen when his whole world shattered for the second time in his life.

The first time had been when his mother was stolen from him by teeth and claws and eyes that flashed in the dark and were desperate to eat him too.

The second time was when he watched Fushimi Saruhiko drag his flame-tipped fingers over the pale skin of his chest, raking across the mark of HOMRA and rendering it almost unrecognizable.

The second time was when Saru turned his back on Misaki and everything he had come to believe in: the second time was much worse than the first because the second time broke Misaki's heart.

They say you don't know what you have until it's gone, and on this account Yata Misaki found he was forced to agree.

-five years later-

The Vanguard of the Red Clan had just limped home from an extremely emotionally-exhausting night of being trapped underground with his old-best-friend-turned-traitor – getting shot at and nearly blown up several times in the process – and was on his way to the comfort of his bed when Mist swirled up in front of him and he found himself facing Clarisse LaRue for the first time in almost two years.

"Clarisse," he greeted, doing his best to paste a smile across his face. "You've grown since the last time I saw you."

And she had – her face had less baby fat, her shoulders were broader, and from the looks of things she had no doubt passed him in height by now. He was so blinded by exhaustion that it took him a moment to notice the serious expression on her face and the fact she was wearing armor. As soon as it dawned on him, Yata forced himself to pay closer attention.

"Yata," she replied, and her brown eyes softened for a moment, before hardening again.

She got straight to the point, "Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard."

For a moment Yata just stared at her, the events of the last twenty-four hours laying heavily on his mind, the echo of, "What was HOMRA to you?!" And the sneered reply, "It's just a bunch of thugs throwing around their powers," that couldn't possibly be true.

Then he closed his eyes and gathered himself.

They say blood is thicker than water. They say the Red Clan's bonds are thicker than blood. But these bonds that he had left behind years ago were strengthened with golden ichor, so he dutifully said, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse. I'll be in New York in as soon as possible."

His was slightly gratified to see some of the worry in her eyes melt away, and after her uncharacteristically soft, "Thank you, Yata," she swiped through the Mist and left him alone in his room that he had rented a couple blocks away from HOMRA headquarters.

For a few minutes, all he could bring himself to do was stare at his hands. Then, lethargically, he reached into his pocket and took out the flame-shaped pendant (oddly appropriate, he now realized) that he hadn't had to use for years. He studied the small silver trinket for a moment, and used the time to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do.

Once he was almost certain he could stand without being in too much danger of swaying and keeling over, Yata pushed himself to his feet and began to prepare.

He packed a small backpack with clothes, the small bits of ambrosia he had managed to get ahold of over the years, grabbed some old American cash he still had left over, as well as enough yen to buy a one-way ticket to Washington D.C. (he wasn't stupid: if his father and the other gods were currently fighting what he thought that storm system moving across the States actually was, there was no way he'd be able to catch a direct flight to New York City in the next couple of days).

Before he left his small apartment, he quickly typed a short note on his digital watch and sent it to all of the Red Clan members' tablets. He kept it vague on purpose: just letting them know he had business out of town for a while, and wasn't sure when he'd return (or if he'd return, Yata thought grimly). Yata knew it was out of character of him, but he hoped that he'd be back before any of them got too suspicious.

His last order of business complete, the Vanguard of Ares and the Red Clan left to hail a cab and re-enter the world of gods and monsters he had left behind half a decade ago.

They say that no matter how far you run or how hard you try to hide, your past will inevitably catch up with you. On this matter, also, Yata was unfortunately inclined to agree.

And, that's the end of Part 1, folks! If you would be so kind as to leave a note on your way out, I would really appreciate it! Otherwise, I wish you all a lovely early Valentine's Day!

~Home By Another Way