"Now we see in a glass dimly, but then face to face."
Lavinia of the blushing smiles and flaming hair merited only a few lines in the last books of Virgil’s Aeneid. That Lavinia was simply another lovely and dutiful princess to be married to the hero in accordance with the gods’ wishes. But Lavinia’s character is imagined and fully fleshed out by Hugo-winning writer Ursula K. Le Guin, transformed into a woman of strength and nobility in Lavinia.
Percy Jackson is not a normal 12-year-old. Strange things always seem to happen around him, and he has a problem with getting into situations that lead to getting kicked out of school. Things get even stranger when, on a class field trip, Percy vaporizes his (really creepy) math teacher (a monster in disguise) and learns that he himself is a demigod. A whole new world is opened to Percy when he goes for the summer to Camp Half-Blood, where he meets other demigod friends and finds out his father's identity. Of course, he immediately gets plunged into a quest to save the world.
Quiver by Stephanie Spinner
It was a tremendous feeling, to chase after the legendary boar of Calydon. Though surrounded by Jason and his brawny Argonauts, fleet-footed Atalanta sought glory in the hunt, not romantic entanglements. She'd been pledged to Artemis, the virgin huntress, ever since she was found, a nursling of a wild she-bear, by hunters who raised her as their own. Sport was all to her. Quick with her bow and blessed with superhuman swiftness, yet she was not blind to the yearning in Prince Meleager's eyes, so soon interrupted....
“And then suddenly the wolf was there. With a crashing of twigs and small branches it sprang into the open, then, seeing the hunters all about it, checked almost in mid spring, swinging its head from side to side, with laid-back ears and wrinkled muzzle: a great, brindled dog wolf, menace in every raised hackle.”
(From Warrior Scarlet)
Rosemary Sutcliff’s splendid stories take place in Britain’s distant past. Shining Roman spears. Cloth woven red for warrior valor. A broken bit of barley cake on a hearth whose ashes grow cold. The last signal fire against the darkness of a massing enemy.