Chapter Text
Annabeth Chase never wanted to be a Wayne.
Let it be known: Annabeth didn’t hate being a demigod, not like Percy. It was an outlet, a path to freedom, dangled over her by her war-born mother like a golden chalice.
No, Annabeth Chase hated being a Wayne far more than she ever hated being a demigod. At least at Camp Half Blood, she’s loved and cherished by her chosen family. She’s not swept to the side for her brothers or ridiculed for her fear of spiders. Sure, her human family never knew the extent of her fears—how much of them were buried in truth that even she had yet to fully grasp at the age of seven—but they treated her like a freak, like she was as insane as the damn Joker. The sting of memory tightened her chest, resentment mixing with the hollow ache of longing she had always tried to push away.
Annabeth’s ripped from her thoughts by a knock on her door. “Come in!” Her voice was raspy, cracking on the last syllable. Coughing into her arm, she waved a sheepish Percy into her small dorm in New Rome. With her other hand, she blindly searched through her bedside table for her inhaler, shoving it into her mouth and breathing in its medicine with grateful lungs. Even almost two years out of Tartarus, her lungs still refuse to completely heal.
“Hey, Wise girl,” Percy greeted, a lopsided grin shot in her direction. “What’s this I hear about a letter?” He flopped onto her bed, shaking the mattress and causing the old springs to creak under his weight.
“Seaweed Brain,” she growled, her voice low. “Who snitched me out?”
Undeterred, Percy leaned forward conspiratorially, his sea-green eyes crinkled, and the smell of the ocean followed in his wake. “Frank, but don’t go after him; it’s not every day we get letters from the mortal world. Can’t really blame him for mentioning that you got one from Bruce Wayne of all people.”
Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Bruce Wayne’s estate,” she growled in correction, tempering her anger. It’s not like Frank knew that Bruce Wayne was her father, so she has no reason to get angry at him for revealing this godsforsaken note. The only people who knew about her heritage were Percy, Thalia, and Chiron.
When Percy continued staring at her with only understanding in his seal-puppy eyes, Annabeth deflated. Her shoulders sagged with a groan of defeated acceptance. “Alfred sent me a letter,” she explained, biting her raw bottom lip.
Percy tilted his head, lips puckered in thought. “Your grandfather?”
An uncharacteristic snort escaped her. “Yeah, something like that.” Alfred was as much her grandfather as Zeus was, but in truth, Alfred raised her more than Bruce ever did.
Before Percy could ask more questions, Annabeth slid a hand under her pillow and snatched the offensive letter. With a shaky breath, she stared down at the Wayne W proudly emblazoned on its front in what she hoped wasn’t real gold. For just a moment, she clutched the envelope tighter, fingers curling into its furling tears before handing it over to Percy.
Eyes closed, she listened to the rustle of paper, like the quietest impending war drum, before a low whistle broke the tense silence. “Uh, Wise Girl, I’m not the best at reading, let alone all this cursive, frilly nonsense.”
“I know. I’ll explain the letter, I just– I just can’t be the one to hold it right now.”
Little preparation was needed before she shuffled over to Percy’s side, pressing herself along the warm length of him. He wrapped a loving arm around her shoulders, and she melted under his calm comfort. The unfolded letter lay in his lap, its creases cracking and paper yellow with age. She’s able to recite the letter with her near-photographic memory, hating the childish longing in her that still recognizes the perfectionist curl of Alfred’s handwriting.
My Dearest Anna,
I do not know where you are as I write this, nor whether these words will ever reach you. I only know that you are thirteen years old today, and that the silence surrounding your absence has grown far too heavy to bear without breaking it, if only with ink.
You may remember me as Alfred, the man who insisted on proper posture at breakfast and punctuality at lessons, and who pretended not to notice when you stayed awake far too late reading books that were far beyond your years. I hope you remember me as someone who listened. I hope you remember that you were never invisible in this house.
Your father has never stopped searching for you. That is not something he would ever say aloud, nor something he would allow to soften into hope. But I have watched him continue, day after day, with the same discipline he applies to everything he loves and fears in equal measure. He would wish me not to write this, I suspect. He believes in action more than words. But I have lived long enough to know that words can endure where actions cannot reach.
If you are alive, Annabeth, then I want you to know this above all else: you were always brave, always curious, always inclined to step toward the unknown rather than away from it. Those traits frightened the world far more than they ever endangered you.
If you are hiding, you do not need to be ashamed. If you are running, you are allowed to be tired, but know that many of us would put down our lives to protect you. If you believe you cannot come home, then you are mistaken. Homes are not places that revoke their welcome.
Your room remains as you left it. Your books are dusted, and sheets are ironed weekly. Your father pretends not to notice these things, but he notices everything. So do I.
Wherever you are, if you can read this in any sense that matters, know that you are loved without condition and waited for without any deadlines. Seven is far too young to vanish from the world, but if all of the children I have helped raise, you are the one wise enough to survive it. If you come back today, then I will be happy, and if you come home many decades from now, then I will be just as relieved. No matter the day or time, our home is always welcome to our most beloved daughter.
I will continue to write, whether this letter is ever read or not. Hope, like loyalty, is a habit. And habits, once formed, are remarkably difficult to break.
Yours with the warmest regards,
Alfred Pennyworth
Annabeth’s throat was coated dry by the end, worse than when she was even in the deepest pits of Tartarus without a drop of water. She wondered how many of these letters Alfred had written that never reached her. Had he ever stopped writing her?
“It’s dated over five years ago,” she eventually strangled out. A single hot tear dropped onto her cold cheek; Percy was smart enough not to mention it.
“Alfred sent this when you were 13,” Percy concluded, his voice a near whisper.
“I wasn’t exactly sure how the letter even got here until I saw the stamp on the back of the letter,” she explained, nodding her head towards Percy's clenched hands. He flipped the letter before a surprised sputter erupted from his lips. “Hermes?”
A startled laugh escaped her. “Yeah. Fucking Hermes.”
When she first received the letter and saw the stamp of shoes, she wondered whether Hermes still felt guilty about Luke, or if he just felt bad for her after she survived Kronos and Tartarus. He wouldn’t be the first god to offer a small kindness after the Greek tragedies her and Percy have suffered.
Percy obviously wondered the same thing. “So, what?” he asked, flat curiosity in his voice. “No offense, but why the Hades is Hermes delivering this five years late?” What he means is, why does Hermes, of all people, care if Annabeth reconciles with her family?
“That’s what I was thinking, until I got an IM message from Chiron. He’s the one who gave the letter to Hermes.”
The silence after her words was louder than it should be, leaving her heart beating as fast as Hermes’ winged shoes and a roar of waves in her ears. Percy pushed the letter aside to play with her fingers. “So Chiron had this letter the whole time?”
“I don’t know. I would assume so.”
Chiron was her father figure. The man who raised her after she ran away from the Wayne estate. How did he get his hands on this letter? How long has he had it, and even more, why would he keep it from her?
Never good at hiding her turmoil from Percy, she was certain he read her like a book when he gripped her chilling fingers between his calloused hands. He forced her gaze from the floor with the drag of the pad of his finger on her chin. Percy offered her one of his earth-shattering smiles. “I think it’s time to pay a visit to our favorite centaur.”