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Olympus was quieter than Annabeth remembered. Not peaceful, just quiet in a way that pressed against her ears.
Athena had sent for her that morning. A formal summons, of course. Not urgent. Just a simple request: Come to Olympus. I would like to speak with you.
Annabeth hadn’t known what to do with that. She was angry, yes. She thought about ripping the paper and ignoring it. But strong part of her wanted to see her mother still, even though she would not admit it out loud.
So now she sat in one of the side chambers of her mother’s palace, legs folded awkwardly beneath her on a comfy chair she wasn’t sitting on properly, weaving. She didn’t even know why. Maybe because it gave her hands something to do. Maybe because if she kept her eyes down, she wouldn’t have to look around and acknowledge that she didn’t quite feel like she belonged here. Or maybe she wanted to show her mother that she learned something, when she was at the stupid mission. She felt petty, but the anger inside her didn’t care.
Footsteps approached, measured and soft. Because of course.
“So,” Athena said from behind her, voice even as ever, “You have taken an interest in weaving.”
Annabeth didn’t look up. She adjusted the thread instead, pulling it tighter than necessary. “Not because it’s your domain.”
“I did not suggest that it was.”
Of course she didn’t.
There was a small shift in the room as Athena moved to sit across from her. Not too close. But not distant either. Carefully placed, like everything else she did.
“Would you like some coffee?” Athena asked.
Annabeth shrugged without lifting her head. “Sure.”
Two cups appeared on the low table between them. Annabeth paused just long enough to grab hers. She took a sip and immediately made a face.
“That tastes like poison.”
Athena exhaled, not sharply, not dramatically. Just a quiet breath. She lifted her hand again, and the scent shifted slightly. “With milk.”
Annabeth tried it again. It was obviously better. Warmer and softer. She hid the reaction almost instantly.
“It’s mid,” she muttered. “You’re bad at it.”
Athena didn’t rise to it. That almost made it worse. She simply studied her daughter instead, not in judgment, not quite. Just watching.
Annabeth could feel it. The observation. The analysis. It made her more angry only. And the thing was, now she wanted to be petty.
“You know,” Athena began after a moment, her tone still measured, “When I called you here, I had hoped for more… engagement.”
“Why?” Annabeth asked, still weaving.
“So that we may spend time together.”
“Why?”
Athena’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Because I wished to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“Annabeth,” Athena said, and this time there was a quiet firmness beneath the calm. “I do not enjoy being tested.”
The thread slipped from Annabeth’s fingers. She caught it quickly, annoyed at herself for the small mistake. She then finally glanced up, just for a second. Her grey eyes weren’t mocking. They were guarded.
“I’m not testing you,” she said.
Athena held her gaze. “You are.”
And for a moment, neither of them looked away.
“Maybe because I don’t want to be here.”
Athena’s gaze did not shift. “Then why did you come?”
Annabeth huffed loudly this time “Like I can say no. You send a word and everyone scrambles. That’s how it works. You don’t ‘invite.’ You summon, you order.”
Athena sighed, but it wasn’t dramatic. More tired than irritated. “No. You could have refused, child. I would not have dragged you here in chains.”
Annabeth’s grey eyes snapped up. “You wouldn’t have to. Everyone else would do it for you.”
“That is not my doing.”
“Still counts.”
A small pause.
“But you came,” Athena said evenly. “Because deep down, you wished to see me.”
Annabeth’s glare sharpened. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Athena rolled her eyes slightly this time. “Annabeth, I am not the child in this conversation.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Drink your coffee. It is getting cold.”
“Maybe I like it cold!”
“Then wait and drink it cold.”
Annabeth stared at her for a long second, jaw tight, then suddenly grabbed her cup and downed half of it in one dramatic swallow, like she had something to prove. A little of it spilled at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wipe it. Just glared at her mother, daring to say something. She set the cup down harder than necessary.
Athena’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest flicker in her eyes. Not annoyance, not quite. Something dangerously close to amusement.
Annabeth caught it immediately.
“Oh, don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m entertaining.”
Athena tilted her head slightly. “You are.”
Annabeth’s mouth dropped open. She reached forward suddenly and grabbed Athena’s cup instead, pulling it toward herself like a petty victory.
“Annabeth.”
“What?” she said quickly. “You said it was getting cold.”
“You are drinking mine now.”
“Maybe I prefer yours.”
“You just said it tastes like a poison without milk”
“I changed my mind, I love it without milk now.”
That did it. Athena had to look down for half a second to hide the brief curve threatening her mouth.
Annabeth noticed.
“There, you’re amused!”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am observing.”
“You think this is funny, you think I am funny!”
“I think,” Athena said, calm. “That you are attempting to irritate me.”
“And is it working?” Annabeth challenged immediately.
“No.”
Annabeth narrowed her eyes and pull out her tongue. “Liar.”
Athena took a calm sip. “You do realize that attempting to provoke me does not lessen my regard for you.”
Annabeth rolled her eyes, but there was a split-second hesitation in her eyes.
“And you do realize,” Athena continued, voice steadier now, “that I will not perform annoyance simply because you request it.”
“I’m not requesting it.”
“You are throwing it at me.”
Annabeth opened her mouth, ready with something sharp, then closed it again, just slightly thrown off.
Athena leaned back in her chair, studying her daughter openly now. “You are free to act up. You are a child. It is not forbidden.”
Annabeth stiffened at that. “I’m not acting up.”
“You are testing boundaries.”
“I’m not five.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You implied it.”
Athena raised one brow. “If I wished to imply that, you would not miss it.”
Annabeth blinked, annoyed and still hesitating.
“And you are permitted,” Athena added more quietly, “to attempt to gain my attention. It is not a crime.”
That hit. Not hard, but enough.
Annabeth didn’t respond right away. She stared at the table instead, fingers fidgeting against the rim of Athena’s cup. After a moment, she slowly pushed it back toward her mother.
“There,” she muttered. “It’s still warm.”
Athena accepted it. “Thank you. That was kind.”
Annabeth scoffed softly but she didn’t take her own cup back this time.
Athena watched her for a long moment, saying nothing. Then she leaned forward slightly, just enough to close some of the distance between them.
“Listen,” she said, quieter now. “I know you are frustrated with me. That is why I asked you here. I do not expect forgiveness the moment you step into my palace. But this—” her gaze flicked briefly toward the abandoned wool, the half-finished coffee, “—this performance does not help either.”
“I am not trying to get your attention,” Annabeth huffed immediately, folding her arms.
Athena tilted her head. “No?”
“No.”
“Then why,” Athena continued calmly, “am I informed that you terrorize your siblings? That you ignore instruction? That you refuse your classes at camp?”
Annabeth’s jaw tightened. “Because I don’t want to.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
Athena exhaled softly. Not annoyed, thinking. “You have never avoided learning before. You have never disrupted simply for disruption.”
“Maybe I changed.”
“Perhaps,” Athena said. “Or perhaps you are waiting for someone to notice.”
Annabeth’s eyes flashed. “Stop saying that.”
“I am not condemning you.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I am observing.”
Annabeth pushed back in her chair, as if distance might help. “You don’t get to analyze me like I’m one of your projects, like I am some kind of problem for you to solve!”
“You are not a problem to solve,” Athena said, and this time there was no analysis in her voice, no observation, only something steadier. “You are my daughter.”
Annabeth’s breath hitched before she could stop it. She looked down immediately, as if the marble floor might offer something easier to focus on than her mother’s face. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, nails pressing into her palm.
“You left me.”
She hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, small, almost fragile, but the words still cut cleanly through the room.
Athena did not deny it. She did not justify it. She did not deflect it. Instead, she watched her daughter for a long moment, really watched her. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way she was holding her tears. The way she was holding her breath. The way she looked both seventeen and much younger at once.
Then, slowly and carefully, Athena reached forward.
She did not seize her hands. She did not command her attention. She simply extended her fingers across the table, giving Annabeth time to move away if she wished.
Annabeth felt the motion. She could have pulled back. But she didn’t. Athena enclosed her hands gently. They were colder than she remembered.
“I did not want to leave you,” Athena said quietly. There was no echo of authority in her tone now, no goddess speaking to a hero. “If my mind had been my own, if I had been myself, I would not have ignored you. Not willingly.”
Annabeth swallowed, her throat tight. She didn’t look up yet.
“Did you mean it?” she asked, and the question came out thinner than she intended. “When you said… when you said I wasn’t your daughter anymore? That I was a disappointment?”
Athena’s grip tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“No.”
The word was immediate, but not sharp. It carried weight, not force.
“I swear to you by the River Styx,” she continued, more slowly now, making sure each word was chosen and held, “that those were not my thoughts, not my words. Minerva had control. She did not recognize you. She did not recognize much of anything that belonged to me. But even when I could not act as myself, even when my mind was divided, you were not erased.”
Annabeth finally looked up at her.
Her eyes were bright, not angry now, not defiant. Just searching.
“Do you love me?”
The question wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was almost embarrassed, as if she hated needing to ask it. And for the first time since entering the room, Athena truly looked unsettled.
“You doubt my love for you?” she asked softly.
Annabeth shook her head, then nodded, then stopped, frustrated at herself. “I don’t know. I just… I felt alone, Percy was missing, I needed help so I prayed and I prayed for months. And nothing happened.” Her voice wavered despite her effort to steady it. “It felt like you stopped listening.”
Athena inhaled slowly, not sharply. Just deeply enough to steady something inside herself.
“After Olympus was closed, Zeus monitored us closely,” she said, but there was no defensive edge in her tone. “We were unstable. Our alters were shifting. Contact was restricted. I could not reach you as I wished. And at times…” She paused briefly, searching for honesty rather than pride. “At times I could barely reach myself.”
“Do you remember everything?” Annabeth asked.
Athena hesitated. That hesitation answered more than any denial could have.
“Not clearly, just in pieces,” she admitted. “I have been told that Minerva was… the most severe among us. That I was not kind. That I was relentless, full of hate and revenge.” Her gaze lowered slightly. “But not remembering does not lessen the harm.”
Annabeth’s fingers tightened in her mother’s grip.
“I saw their bones,” she said quietly.
The words did not need embellishment.
Athena went still, not dramatically, but as if something inside her had shifted out of alignment. For a fraction of a second, the composure she wore so easily faltered. Her hand tightened unconsciously around Annabeth’s. Color drained from her face. She really looked like she is going to be sick.
“I know what Rome demanded,” she said, voice lower now. “I know what was left behind.”
“It didn’t feel like you knew,” Annabeth whispered.
That one hurt, Athena didn’t look away this time.
“That,” she said softly, “is my failure.”
The admission cost her something. It showed, not in volume, not in expression, but in the way her shoulders straightened afterward, as if bracing against her own words.
“The Fates do not bargain,” she continued more quietly. “Prophecies do not consult mothers. I tried to shield what I could. It was not enough, it was not enough for my children.”
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could prevent it. She wiped it away almost immediately, and for a brief moment there was something almost embarrassed in her expression as if she disliked being seen that way.
Annabeth noticed and that changed something. She held her hand tighter.
“This is not about me,” Athena said after a moment, regaining her steadiness. “It is about you. About what you carried and about the anger you are allowed to have.”
The chamber felt smaller now, less distant. The marble no longer seemed endless.
“You may doubt,” Athena added, her voice no longer measured for debate but for reassurance. “You may question me. But do not mistake silence for absence. Even when fractured, even when restrained, I did not stop being your mother.”
Annabeth held her gaze for a long time, then she nodded. Finally, a smile appearing on her lips, which Athena returned instantly.
She watched her carefully before carefully releasing her hands. She cleaned her throat lightly. "I had not intended for this conservation to become so…emotional."
Annabeth gave a faint, almost embarrassed huff. “Yeah, me either,”
She grabbed her coffee again, sipping it. “I was lying when I said it tastes like poison,”
“I noticed,”
“It is very good,”
Athena allowed the smallest hint of amusement to return, she reached forward and brushed her fingers lightly through Annabeth’s blond curls.
“Now, since apologies were sent, can we talk about what I heard from Chiron?”
Annabeth looked up at her, not defensive this time, but her grey eyes glinted with amusement. “I guess. But, can you give me the recipe of this coffee first?”
“No,”
“Not fair!”
Athena allowed herself a small laugh, then cleaning her throat.
“Now,” Athena said, “I have been informed that you have been difficult.”
Annabeth shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You will correct it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Athena raised a brow.
“…Yes,” Annabeth amended. “Erm will you ground me?”
Athena raised a brow. “Depends. Yes if I see you continue your behavior,”
“Yes, I will be better,” Annabeth said quickly.
“And you will not doubt where you stand with me again,” Athena added quietly.
Annabeth looked at her carefully. “I’ll try.”
“That is sufficient.”
They sat quietly for a moment. Annabeth stared at her cup, then glanced up at her mother.
“…Are you still mad?” she asked, almost carefully.
Athena looked faintly confused. “Mad?”
“At me.”
Athena’s brows drew together slightly. “I was never angry.”
Annabeth studied her face as if trying to measure the truth in it. After a second, she nodded. Then she pushed her chair back.
Athena watched her, puzzled now, as Annabeth walked around the table instead of toward the door.
She stopped in front of her mother and hesitated, just a fraction of a second, like she was deciding whether she was allowed to do what she was about to do.
Athena raised her brow, about to ask what is wrong.
But Annabeth leaned down and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. The movement was sudden enough that Athena froze, caught off guard. Her hands hovered uncertainly for the briefest moment before instinct took over. One hand settled at Annabeth’s waist. The other rose to the back of her head, smoothing gently over her soft curls.
Annabeth exhaled softly and pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, holding her tighter.
Athena’s surprise faded into something warmer, steadier. She drew her daughter closer without thinking, resting her cheek lightly against her temple.
Neither of them spoke and neither of them let go first.