Chapter Text
Prelude.
Annabeth could already feel the beginnings of a headache forming.
She hadn't believed the afternoon heat—the sticky sort that seemed to cling to your skin, melting your nerves and siphoning your lifeforce—could be made even more unbearable until they'd given her the basket. It was large but intricate, wrapped in grey silk—it had taken days of her own weaving, bent over with numb fingers. She smoothed her fingers over the strip of fabric, trying to memorize its soft, almost slippery feel. There was no telling when she'd get more of the silk in her hands, even for temples the textile was a luxury. The basket hadn't looked overly burdensome—barren save for the sacrificial knife and barley—until it was raised atop her head. After what felt like hours in the sun, Annabeth almost feared she would put it down only to find a crater shaped indent in her skull.
She almost considered shrugging off her honour to grasp hold of the ornate kopis within the basket and throw herself onto the blade. She was sure it would be preferable to the grueling ramblings of Octavian—a man almost delirious enough for Annabeth to wonder whether he had done something to the ire of Dionysus, or if she herself had offended the gods enough to be subjected to his presence.
She caught the eye of Piper, biting back a smile as the girl shot Octavian a look of barely veiled annoyance. Piper had never been able to mask her emotions as well as Annabeth had learned to, only the countless years she’d spent with the stoic upper priestesses of the temple would give you that, but it gave her something other than the monotony of the rituals to focus on, and so Annabeht couldn't complain.
She shifted on her feet. If she was lucky, Octavian would finish his maundering before the sun set, leaving her enough time to pour over her scrolls before bed. She could imagine herself tomorrow—the dull pain sure to build up in her forehead; the ache barely contained within her bones, stretching out in her legs; the feel of the soles of her feet, rubbed raw from walking. Her thighs had trembled nearly the entire way from the centre of the city. When she'd first started walking, the temple had seemed two thousand leagues away. It remained so until she'd reached the steps of the shrine.
Over the sound of her own heaving breathing and the thud of the procession, she could just barely hear the soft braying of the sheep behind her, quiet enough for her to ignore it. It hadn't let up since they first left the city centre, making their way up the excessively winding pathway to the temple.
She'd always held a soft fondness for animals, perhaps even too much of it—not one salve or balm Luke stole could fade away the scar she'd gotten when her father's wife found out she'd been sneaking out bits of her barley cake to the guard dogs. She'd never been able to watch the sacrifice without a hard blink once the kopis was raised. Now, there was nothing to draw her attention away from the lamb's whining. She had half a mind to push Octavian to the ground—though that may be out of personal vendetta—and gather the animal up into her arms before running towards the sea. The lamb was smaller than usual, but then, the lean season had struck harder than usual too. It wasn't odd for the village to find themselves caught up in one divine vengeance or another— a couple of worthy sacrifices and hours of prayer usually did the trick—but the barrenness inflicting the small settlement was starting to take its toll on its inhabitants.
Finally, Annabeth sighed as Octavian finally went silent, her arms burning as she reached up to hand over the basket. The kopis glinted in the sun.
She watched as he approached the lamb. With nothing else to distract her, Annabeth finally got her first proper look at the small animal. Guilt pooled in her stomach as she glanced towards the altar, she wished she had just kept her gaze trained on the gleaming marble of the temple instead. The animal was a frail thing, trembling on knobbly knees as if it were entirely aware of its fate. Its fleece seemed thin, but clean; it was a bright, nearly unsullied white that reminded Annabeth of the gleaming temple walls. It let out a small bleat—as feeble as the animal itself. Had she been a weaker person, Annabeth might have made good on her earlier, naive desire to free the lamb. A small part of her wondered if this sacrifice would be enough. They had given their largest bulls and cows in pleas to the gods to almost no avail. Sacrificing this small, almost emaciated lamb seemed just a bit sacrilegious.
Annabeth swallowed heavily as Octavian picked up the kopis. She blinked and he dragged the knife across the animal's throat. A trail of deep red blood spilled from the precise incision, dripping onto the dirt below.
"Do you believe this will truly make a difference?" Annabeth jumped, she hadn't noticed Piper moving to her side.
"Let's hope it will," she replied as she looked back towards the village. "Pray it will," she amended with a glance at Piper.
The abysmal harvests hadn't been out of the ordinary, but it stretched on for uncountable seasons. She could hardly keep track of the number of villagers who had trotted up the hill to barge into the temple, complaining of the drought. Of course, the priestesses had proceeded to sacrifice the largest ox to the gods and hoped it was enough to appease them. Annabeth knew it wouldn't, there was little the small town could offer that would appeal to the gods, high and mighty as they were.
The village was nearing devastation. On the walk throughout the city, Annabeth had glimpsed too many emaciated bodies along the roads, alive and dead and in between. Even when she was young, Hyphea had appeared to her as a struggling town. It boasted a small population and possessed very little geographical luck. The land was mostly infertile, save for a small stretch on the outskirts where most of their food came. The only beauty was found within the sea bordering the village, however violent or harsh. Years and years before Annabeth arrived, they'd sent out fishermen. She'd heard tales of the group of a dozen men that sailed out on a morning as tranquil as any other. Only a few had returned nights later, nets empty, hands shaking, and eyes hollow. That had put an end to any fishing or seafaring, leaving Hyphea reliant on their weak crop harvest instead. It never was enough though, even before this barren season struck.
Annabeth had no particular loyalty towards the village—her vows pledged her to their goddess Athena above all else—but she couldn't find it within herself to up and leave. There was nothing tethering her to Hyphea, but she couldn't help but feel as though she'd be missing out on something if she left.
From the top of the temple steps, she could just barely see the crests of the tides, crashing over the jagged rocks lining the shore. Annabeth never felt a pull to the vast sea, but like an anchor, drawing the waves closer. She was sometimes tempted to walk down to the shore, walking past the rocks and through the spindrift, to submerge herself in the brine of the sea.
Once upon a time, Annabeth recalled, she begged and begged Luke to teach her to swim. She had waded into the waves, hands clutching Luke's, triumphant at having finally worn him down. They were hardly past the shore—the water just reaching Luke's hips, but rising towards her collarbone—when Annabeth felt as though her lungs caved in on themselves, limbs feeling strangely light. She remembered thrashing like an alley cat away from him, cutting her hand against a rock. He'd managed to drag her back to shore, where she sat silent and jittering, staring out at the sea.
Afterwards, his little brothers—a mischievous pair around her age, with upturned ears and impish smiles—had stolen honey cakes from her favourite bakery, Annabeth recalled fondly. They'd all sat away from the shore—her back against a large Aleppo pine, leaning against Luke's shoulder, as Connor and Travis raced up the strong boughs—eating the cakes, watching the crashing tides. She smiled at the memory, fingers lightly brushing over the palm of her right hand. The gash had let forth a seemingly neverending river of blood. She remembered crying at the sight of the blood staining Luke's hands and chiton more than the pain itself. Now, the scar was small and white, just a patch of raised skin on her palm. Her father hadn't noticed when she returned home with the bandaged hand, but her step-mother had been incensed. Even through the days she'd forced Annabeth to stay cooped up in her room, Annabeth found the taste of the honey cakes lingered.
She felt the same rich sweetness on her tongue now, the phantom taste overtaking her senses as she looked at the sea. She felt as though the ground was sticky, the dirt moulding around her sandals to keep her pinned at the lookout.
"Annabeth?" She started at Piper voice, swallowing heavily before turning to meet her light gaze. "Are you alright? You looked… lost."
Annabeth nodded, looking back towards the temple. "Let's go to the library."
Ω
Annabeth was weightless.
She felt as though she was both floating and sinking, her cells pulling apart from each other, then colliding together.
She looked around, stretching out her fingers in front of her. She saw nothing but the hard ground outside the temple, bloody like it had been after the sacrifice. She blinked, opening her eyes to find herself inside the pristine temple, her bare feet cold against the shiny marble. In front of her, she recognized, was the statue of Athena, a regal marble fixture that almost brushed the ceiling.
She looked up and up, until she could see the statue's unsmiling marble face. Her eyes fell to the shield against her leg, tracing over the grotesque snakes and open-mouthed glare of Medusa engraved within it. Dark inky liquid began to pool out of the gorgon's mouth, a steady stream flowing past Annabeth and out through the temple doors.
She blinked and now there was a lamb. The same lamb from earlier, she recalled, with its pure white fleece and shaky legs. When she drew her gaze to the lamb's head, she found its glassy eyes trained on her, unblinking. She felt as if she was drowning in its deep blue eyes, feeling electricity thrum through her, unsettling her frayed nerves.
She watched as a detached hand—not Octavian's, pale and gaunt and sharp, but tanned and scar-ridden—carefully picked up a simple bronze dagger. A scream caught in her throat as the hand placed it underneath the silent lamb.
The animal stared at her as its blood spilled out, rushing out like a flood, cleansing the dark guck from the shield. She stood motionless as it stained her chiton and sandals.
"Annabeth!" She heard an unfamiliar voice call out from behind her, then in front of her, from above, then from below.
She looked up, watching the statue lower its head, lips turned down in disapproval. It narrowed its eyes and Annabeth found herself on the top steps of the temple, looking out at the clearing where she had stood for hours earlier that day. There was no altar or procession, just the flickering flame of the hearth in the centre and a man on his knee, head bent.
The light from the hearth made his tanned skin glow. Her gaze flitted over the cuts, both healed and fresh, that littered each exposed inch of him. A deep blue cloak covered his broad shoulders, torn and bloodied. Underneath, his chiton was a ragged mess, stained with dirt and blood. At his left side lay a gleaming bronze sword, intricate waves carved into the wide hilt, a feat of workmanship Annabeth would insist on appreciating more closely if she didn't feel an odd sense of terror at the bright red dripping down his forearm. His arm was clutched at his shoulder, trembling with the ground beneath him.
She finally found her voice. "Who are you?"
He looked up at her and Annabeth felt like she was drowning.
Ω
Annabeth woke up with a start. She looked around, raising her head from her arms as she blinked at the darkness. She was in the library, she recalled, recognizing the looming, wooden shelves. Piper had walked her there, leaving Annabeth to pull yellowing scrolls under Sister Petra's eagle eye.
The library was plain, boasting little more than administrative records and accounting scrolls—nothing like the sprawling labyrinths of knowledge in Athens Annabeth had dreamed of. In the back corner, covered by an intricate tapestry of a salt spring, was a small shelf holding the transcriptions Annabeth had been working on. Much of the mythos surrounding the village had been passed down orally, as most stories tended to be, but she had found herself transfixed on the idea of noting it down, of creating a tangible record that would last generations. So far, her project amounted to little more than written accounts of the bored shepherd she'd accosted, and the ramblings of the drunk madman who took up residence in the town square. It wasn't much, but Annabeth spent hours pouring over the accounts, trying to reference back the events to dates in the records. It was tedious work, but she felt an acute satisfaction rise within her as she pieced together the puzzle that was Hyphea.
Strangely, there was no sign of Petra in the haze of the candlelight. Strict as she was, she would never leave anyone unattended in the library, least of all Annabeth. She had met her ire within a few weeks of joining the temple, after making a mess of the neatly organized scrolls. Then drew even more of it through her insistence that Petra's filing system was excessively convoluted and required a complete upheaval. She'd gotten strongly reprimanded and the system remained intact.
There was no statue, nor lamb, nor dagger here. Just her scrolls scattered across her desk, reed pen forgotten at her side. It was not completely unheard of for priestesses to receive dreams from the gods, a response to some prayer or another, but this one felt strangely personal. It would do little more than confuse the village more, she reasoned. Moreover, she could evade Octavian's endless investigations as he pretended he possessed some divine understanding of the whims of the gods.
She thought about the man she'd seen kneeling before her, of how the hearth made his skin glow and the maelstrom of his eyes.
She picked up the candle she didn't remember lighting, it had melted almost to the bottom of the wick, dripping wax onto the papers. She'd have to figure out some sort of plausible excuse for Sister Petra, but that could come after she confirmed the statue of Athena in the main hall was indeed inanimate. She felt a bit foolish, but she didn't suppose it would hurt to go look. Out of piety of course, and no other reason. Annabeth could hear her step-mother's voice ringing in her head, she had conjured up the stories of the spiders, and surely, surely the statue had been a mere dream as well. But as she closed the library doors behind her, she felt the tug in her nerves get stronger, drawing her to the entrance of the temple.
Annabeth raised the candle as she walked, her hand raising the hem of her chiton. The temple was, as always, silent enough for even the shuffling of her feet to echo. She was no stranger to silence, she'd lived in it growing up in her room, and the temple was no different, but something felt starkly off tonight. She felt suspended within the quiet as she padded across the icy floor.
The statue of Athena loomed large as she approached it. Its face remained tilted up, stone grey eyes unseeing. The shield at her feet was still as terrifying as it had been when she'd first caught sight of it years ago, but it was devoid of any dark guck.
Embarrassment flooded through her. She was a fool for believing the dream was anymore than just that.
Just a dream, she convinced herself, turning her away from the statue. Nothing more, nothing less. As she walked away with heavy steps, she felt a pull tug at her, insistent and sharp in her gut.
She felt a sudden draft at her back. The doors of the temple were cracked open, just a hair, letting in the strangely cool gale. She frowned, the doors were always drawn closed at sunset, locked with large chains. Even without them, they were strong and heavy, unlikely to be pushed apart with the blow of mere wind. Through the sliver between the doors, she could just barely make out the outline of the dense wood surrounding the temple, to which the compass that seemed to take hold within her pointed towards.
She couldn't leave the doors open for anyone to enter as they please in the dead of night, Annabeth reasoned. Neither could she call upon the absent temple guards unless she wanted to explain what drove her to the hall at such an hour at all.
She set the candle on the ground. Just one look outside the door would be alright, if only to make sure there weren't any wounded men in need of help. It was her duty as a priestess of Athena, after all, to tend to the needs of the people.
The clearing was empty, devoid of any injured men with seastorm eyes and the blood from the sacrifice was nearly gone.
She frowned, pushing down the rush of disappointment that began to build in her stomach. What was she thinking? Her legs ache from the hours of standing, and soreness from sleeping hunched over the desk was starting to build up in the base of her spine. Really, she should be focusing on her bed, warm and soft, practically calling her name.
Sleep, she thought. That would be a good idea.
"It is late." A voice drew her out of her reverie.
She turned around, eyes widening as she tried to come up with a respectable excuse. "Sister Petra."
"I take it the library was not as comfortable as you may have hoped." She raised a brow at her.
"No, Sister Petra."
"I do hope you returned the scrolls you took, Sister Annabeth," she said.
Annabeth felt her cheeks heat up. "I was just on my way back," she lied, ignoring the strange pull and walking towards the library. I detest you and your filing system.
"Annabeth?" Petra called.
She turned around, raising her brow and tilting her head in a way she hoped didn't look as impertinent as she felt. "Yes?"
"One does not do well to dwell on dreams." She looked at her meaningfully. "Nor to forget one's vows."
"I do not understand," Annabeth said, truly meaning it. She hadn't known Petra to be anymore than a nuisance, now she supposed the woman was delirious, too. "I am devoted to our temple and goddess, if you're concerned my mind lingers elsewhere."
"You may believe you know devotion now, but you may find it somewhere else. Perhaps somewhere outside your vows. It is not worth the pain, not yours, not anyone else's." Petra was solemn, as always, but not chiding in the way that stoked Annabeth's nerves.
She nodded, pretending she understood why Petra was telling her this, and that seemed to be enough for her. She waved her hand, freeing Annabeth to deal with the mess that was the library filing system as Petra's words wove their way through her mind.