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you are silent, trailing after your older brother and your friend. this comes naturally, it always does, but there's something off about the way he'd beckoned percy into the woods. something tugs at you to follow, and so you do.
you want your gut feeling to be wrong. you plead with whoever's up there, with whoever cares enough to listen, that you're wrong. you pray that it really is clarisse, that the familiar sound of chiron's hoofbeats becomes louder as he approaches to learn the truth.
you force yourself to remain still, to observe, and not to react as the situation unfolds, as percy puts the pieces together and as luke—
you don't say a word as he tries to sway percy to his side, to kronos' side—because that's why luke has been pulling away as of late, why the boy who protected you and followed your plans and stood up for you has been shifting, drawing away and hardening.
as he draws backbiter, your hand clenches around the handle of the dagger he gave you. you watch as percy cuts him off, sword outstretched, and the sinking feeling in your gut triples.
luke is the best swordsman at camp.
percy holds his own, even manages to draw first blood, but you know it won't last forever. even as the first friend he'd made here turns against him, he apologizes.
then, you stare at the scene in front of you: your older brother, sword held high while your friend bleeds on the ground.
no. you can't just stand here. before you even process the movement, your hand is extended in front of you, the dagger—luke's dagger—flying through the air, deflecting off backbiter with a metallic clang.
as you take off your cap, he says your name with something akin to horror. there isn't any time to react the way you want to—you want to scream, to shake him by the shoulders and yell and curse and rage and cry, but you draw your sword instead.
you think before you speak, always. you say three words, unwavering and steady even though your world is being upended. and your—and luke gives you one last, conflicted look before his disappears.
you are annabeth chase. you are twelve years old, the head counselor of cabin six, and for all the wisdom at your disposal, there are no words to describe the emptiness in your chest as you watch the portal close.