Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Do I dare 
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute
      will reverse.

In T.S. Eliot, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’

“So, what did you want to tell me earlier?”

Annabeth knows what he is going to say before he says it, from the way his face shifts. Really, she’s known since they locked eyes, the sky on his back, proof of what he’d do for her. He’s the high tide, unstoppable.

Later, she’d wish she’d put a hand over his mouth to stop the words from spilling out—her will being the only one he’d bend to, year after year after decade after century, her lunar pull above all else.

But for now, Annabeth submits to the part of herself that wants to know everything about him. His every thought, every feeling, anything he’ll tell her.

“I… I thought you were joining the Hunters.”

“I was.”

Percy stares at her, then blurts in a rush, “I was gonna tell you not to. I couldn’t stand you not being here. Here with me, and… being away during the school year is hard enough, so you not being here at all, and there’d be no chance for us—” He stops himself.

“No chance for us,” she repeats quietly. The corner of her mouth ticks up.

“I…” he chuckles lightly, eyes dart to the ground. His head does a little shake, a squint of his eyes. She can hear him saying fuck it in his head. “I really like you. Like a lot. Like a concerning amount.”

Her light smile stretches into a grin, internalized by a warm fuzziness in her chest. Percy’s watching her closely with a red face, processing what her smile means. He begins to smile, too, and she feels silly.

“And I don’t know, I thought maybe you might feel the same?”

The warmth cools into a thick dread. Her eyes drop to the marble floor, realizing what this mutuality means. For him, for the Great Prophecy, for everyone in this very room.

Annabeth might be sick.

“Percy.”

“Well, it’s not like you have to like me a concerning amount, just maybe not in the, like, same way you like Grover—”

“Percy, stop. Please.” His face drops. The words are thick and hot on her tongue. Annabeth swallows dry sand and has to clutch her stomach before she tells him, “I can’t.”

His eyes dart back and forth between her own. The celebration rages on around them as Annabeth breaks Percy’s heart. The worst part is that he understands, he just doesn’t care. He knows he’d sacrifice the world for her, he did it last summer. Annabeth, how would being together change anything? He doesn’t care that it scares her. 

The curls of gray fall just above his eyebrow. His devotion couldn’t be ignored if she tried. Just last week, they were awkwardly shuffling, bumping toes, palms sweaty. Annabeth blinks her tears away, twitching her nose to hold back the burn.

She apologizes once more in a whisper and steps away. She’s searching for the moon goddess. When their eyes meet, Artemis looks at her as if she already knows what Annabeth is going to ask.

Percy sees her sitting on the beach when he comes up for air. It doesn’t occur to him that he should have no trouble breathing because the sight of her stuns him beyond thought. He hasn’t seen Annabeth’s face outside his dreams since she left him.

“You’re not wearing your Hunter’s outfit,” he remarks. What a stupid thing to say.

She smiles at him. “I can’t hear you from over there,” she yells out. “Come closer.”

He starts swimming to her. Maybe he can breathe again because she’s back, not because the thing filling his lungs was water from the river Styx. All he needs to do is get to her.

Nico asks him what he saw when he resurfaces. My mom, Percy says. He doesn’t know how to live with wanting someone so much it strangles him.

He looks different. She can’t put her finger on it. It isn’t just that he’s grown older, a few inches taller. No, his aura is different. There’s this radiance encasing him, something powerful and ancient. It doesn't change the fact that very soon, a shroud wrapped around his body will be lit in flames.

“How about you leave that to us?” Thalia calls for their grand entrance. It almost makes Annabeth chuckle, lightening the anvil lodged in her gut. Until the campers all turn towards them, and Percy’s eyes lock onto hers for the first time in almost two years.

“Annabeth,” he breathes, his lips forming around the syllables.

Thalia and the Hunters exchange hellos, but Annabeth isn’t paying attention to that, or her siblings she’s left behind. She steps closer to Percy, and the world fades away. Her arms open and she falls into his familiar hold. She thought he’d be angry, but he’s holding her like a lifeline. A few beating moments pass before Annabeth pulls back.

She’d seen him in dreams just a day before. At the lake, he swam towards her on the beach. She realized she’d never seen Percy’s hair wet before. Then she woke, her spine aching.

“You look… the same,” he says, his eyes never quite sure where to land. His voice is deeper, too. Annabeth mourns what she’s lost: living with the gradual aging of her best friend, and herself. Six hundred and six days that she can’t get back.

“You don’t. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He turns his attention back to his army. 

They’re mostly quiet, save for murmurs between friends, but their eyes are on the couple. Annabeth doesn’t miss the gossip. She waves to Silena and wonders where Clarisse and her cabin are. 

She can hardly focus on what Percy’s saying, lost in all the ways he’s changed.

Annabeth is with him when he’s granted his gift. With him, no, not really, but when Zeus offers him godhood and Percy looks at her, it may as well just be the two of them in the room. He reads the tension in her shoulders, the tears brimming in her wide eyes, and knows exactly what she is thinking: no.

“Okay,” he says.

That day, he sees no reason not to take it. He would come up with countless in the years to come, but none occur to him when he sees the way Annabeth’s face falls. He is so, so angry with her.

Heartbreak has a way of turning into rage—rage when he woke up each day, rage when he fought, rage when he saw her face in the Styx as if she hadn’t left, rage when he plunged his sword into Luke’s mortal spot and screamed until someone came to get him. What right does Annabeth have to fault him for this? She chose it first. 

And she hasn’t been here. I just know I’ll fight next to you, she said to him in that zoo truck. Percy had felt a broken piece of his heart slot back into place, then—promises over shared Oreos. He raged this war alone since she left because she chose to fight next to someone else. Let her heart break. She broke it herself, gave them both broken hearts to match.

“I accept,” he says, louder. A cheer breaks out from the crowd, but Percy swears he can hear her hold her breath.

Zeus places a hand over his head and Percy’s heart stops beating.

She should be thirty-four years old now.

Annabeth no longer wears her camp beads. A nomadic life is one without treasures, and a new family awaits. She isn’t used to not being the leader of a group. Their hunts tend to be fun and exhilarating. Annabeth never thought she’d pick up her bow before her knife. She’s learned how to whittle her own arrows, skin animals for pelts, how to separate herself from what she once knew.

She’s never actually hunted monsters before. She feels like a caveman throwing spears at mammoths. She isn’t fighting for survival, though, since they always win, with backup being worth a dozen. Monster dust makes up for the lack of rain in the fall and the absence of snow after winter. Annabeth would like to study the flakes beneath a microscope.

Some things strange and magical cross their paths, that Annabeth had only read about. Gorgons, Lamia, and Eidolons, towering over her in multicolor scales or misty images. Sometimes she will hesitate before letting go of her bowstring, just to admire seeing such creatures in person.

The exploration, she appreciates. The circumstances, not so much.

Annabeth finds that her existence has been guided by a malicious Janus, from birth to the present. Choices of salvation or destruction. Her life began and ended with a boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and didn’t see any issue in it. Percy or the gods. Percy or Luke. Percy or the Hunters. Despair rears its head in every direction.

Living for eternity in motion, side by side with Thalia, is painfully reminiscent of their days on the run. It turns sour with the fact that Luke couldn’t be here even if they wanted him to be. The last time she saw him as himself was those days locked in a room on the Andromeda, with matching gray hair and dry eyes from all the shed tears. The next time, in a chariot driving down Manhattan, hidden behind gold eyes.

A familiar shuffle outside her tent. Not Claudia or Diya, since it is barely sundown and there is no reason to come to bed yet.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” she whispers, barely audible.

Thalia settles in the space beside her, folding her arm below her head as a pillow. “Everything alright?” Her fingertips brush over Annabeth’s nose, like a cat’s paw.

“Just tired.” She presses her lips together to tame the wobble. “I miss it.”

“What?” Thalia brushes Annabeth’s braids off her face. 

“Everything. Does it just stop here?”

“No, it doesn’t. Where do you want to go? I’ll get Artemis to take us there, I won’t even mention you.”

“No,” Annabeth sobs. She feels like a whining child, crying into her mother’s arms over something that shouldn’t matter, but is worth the whole world to her. 

She wants Percy here because it’s never really been the location that counted, it’s been him. Anywhere she went, it would be enough just to have Percy at her side.

Annabeth has found a home with her fellow Hunters, though she’s had to make it one. Home used to be found in walking throughout Camp with her favorite person in the world. That life belonged to someone else. Now her home has been defined as sharing tents with girls from all walks of life, throughout centuries of different experiences. It’s easy to bond with people that you risk your life for and vice versa.

The strangest thing about the Hunt is the mortal girls. It makes her remember twelve-year-old Percy, if he had actually wanted and chosen his predicament. Either way, she isn’t so sure everyone here really knew what they were getting into. She will live through the deaths of every person she has ever loved. Percy is the only exception.

At some point, Percy begins receiving prayers. He isn’t sure how it happened, but it probably started like this:

He sees a child running down the street from a monster. Homeless, orphaned by their mortal parent. Tale as old as time. He decides he can—and will—guide the kid to camp, but that is not enough. A bitter kid off the streets started the war that killed his friends.

So when the child is safely delivered to Half-Blood Hill, Percy goes looking for his fellow gods. Is this your child? Is this your child? Is this your child? He bugs them into claiming their offspring. It became his cause, though he never chose it. Now, somehow, in the divine airwaves, prayers from lost and unclaimed demigods get redirected to him. Perseus Jackson, patron god of demigods.

Percy sometimes wonders if he could receive prayers for other reasons, too. From other people (one in particular). He can’t afford to linger on it because the thought of an eternity in waiting makes him wish he had chosen differently. He can’t afford to linger on it, because if he does, he will make himself known where he does not belong just hoping he will get to hear her call.

Would she call on him, if she knew she could? What would she say? Would he be able to resist answering?

Percy’s anger has faded, though not disappeared, in the years since the War. They were just children, like the lost ones whose prayers he answers. An existence defined by knowing almost nothing at all.

Out of all knowings that have come and gone in this new life, her face has stayed the same, as if it exists within him, independently of anything else. Her presence is perennial, her absence unavoidable. He does not sleep for fear of seeing her in dreams, the same image he saw in the Styx, pulling him to mortality. Ironic. Unbearable.

The moon is full tonight.

“Show off,” Percy mutters. He should not feel this much bitterness towards a goddess who has never wronged him, but he does.

The white circle is distorted by the movement of the water from under which he watches. He is nearer to the coast, in need of a break from his father’s palace, where he spends much of his time. Castle politics are exhausting, more exhausting even to constantly try to evade it. Poseidon wants him a proper prince now that he is a god, Percy wants nothing to do with it.

Suddenly, he sees fish rushing to the bottom the way they do when there is unfamiliar movement on the surface. Someone is at the beach, maybe several people. Nothing to worry about, but his skin still tingles with something new. A call unlike the ones he is accustomed to.

He surfaces so that only his head is out of water like a shark's fin. A group is setting up camp on the beach, all dressed in silver uniforms.

He cannot help the wave that rises when he sees her. It is big enough to be noticeable in the low tide, the Hunters retreat when the water starts to reach their knees. Only she stays, staring out into the sea like she’s looking for something.

Percy sinks to the bottom. He cannot go, he cannot go, he cannot go, but he hopes she will call.

A faint buzzing has set beneath her skin since they set foot on the beach. Annabeth looks out across the inky water, watches the slow, low pull of the tide. She turns back to her fellow Hunters and aids in setting up camp. Their wolves shine silver in the moonlight.

Exclamations pass between everyone around her. She follows their gazes to the sea, where the water can best be equated to look like it is glitching. Small sections moving back and forth, not following the typical flow of the tide. A cold feeling sinks to Annabeth’s stomach. 

She watches a large wave rolling nearer, surrounded by a relatively calm tide. Annabeth shakes her head, a mix of hope and fear swirling inside her. The wave settles before it hits the shore, but wets the Hunters’ boots. Groans emit from all as they must pack their nearly set camp and relocate further inland. Annabeth walks closer to the shore and bends low.

Her arm outstretched, her fingertips sink into the sand, water rushing over her skin. She turns to damp sand and writes it small enough that it’ll be washed away to nothing with the next tide. Was that you?

As she stands, she spots a small shell and picks it up. A golden ratio spiral is left imprinted in the sand. She pockets it and carries on.

Percy feels her arm in the water without having to see it. Feels her write to him. 

But a question is a question, not a call. If he shows himself, she might run. If she doesn’t know, she’ll stay nearby. He’ll feel her footsteps on the wet sand for the night as a reward for his restraint. 

He is completely still for the entire night. The beach calms nearly into a lake.

Her question lingers on his mind. What difference will it make to answer, especially now that she is gone? None at all. 

Except she asked something of him. Information. She hates not knowing. In the absence of an answer, she must have assumed it was something else. Percy doesn’t ever want her to learn to disregard the instinct that their bond has built. 

He answers over a year later, when he once again happens upon the Hunters camped out at the shores of Georgia. A turtle slowly trails its way across the beach, imprinting its footprints on the sand, spelling out three letters. 

“I thought we were avoiding beaches.”

The tents pop open one by one.

“Yeah, Annabeth gets all mopey.”

“Mind your business,” Annabeth scolds.

After the Hunters have quieted with slumber, Annabeth parts her tent and steps out onto the grass. She pets one of the wolves as the hill descends to the overgrown beach.

She likes to sit here and feel, not think of, him. Otherwise he’ll surely hear her calls and come running before she can even realize what sin she has just committed. Either way, Annabeth gets the feeling of being spied on. She trusts her instincts but doesn’t search for the perpetrator. He knows not to show his face.

Annabeth watches the slow drag of a turtle emerging from the sea. She has all the time in the world to watch turtles crawl, grass grow, and leaves change from green to orange and back again.

Except this turtle is shifting strangely. Trailing one way, making sharp turns at odd angles. Annabeth steps closer to it.

It has mapped out three letters.

Yes.

Percy draws spirals on the sand with his pointer finger, watches the water wash them away. Like a child at the beach.

He visited his mother yesterday. Her hair is entirely white, her bones fragile, which means she will die soon and Percy will be here to see it. An immortal mind is cursed with a flawless memory—Percy will always remember his mother and he will always remember she died. He wishes he could have one or the other.

Another spiral, dusted away. Time passes without his say so. He’s lost even more control of it now that life stretches on. A second, albeit short, used to be measurable. He cannot fathom what any of it means anymore.

The sea foam next to him starts to accumulate over itself. It grows taller until it takes the shape of a woman with milky white skin. It becomes apparent this is one of those situations when he realizes she is not wearing any clothes.

Percy sighs.

“Your highness?” she calls, her voice velvety.

Percy meets her eyes, not allowing his eyes to roam her naked body. He doesn’t want her to get any ideas, and even looking feels like betrayal.

“Yeah?”

“You look lonely,” she coos. “Can I keep you company?”

“I’m doing fine.”

She sits next to him on the sand, props her chin on her hand, and watches him curiously. “It’s true, then.”

“What’s true?”

“You don’t take lovers.”

Percy regards her to see if she is joking. “People are saying that?”

“They are.”

Percy supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. This one is not the first, nor the second, nor the tenth sea nymph he’s denied. Nymphs, mermen and naiads, minor gods—some even more irrelevant than himself, some not so unimportant. If he so wished, the face of the Earth could be littered with his offspring.

This one is not insistent, thank the gods. Percy looks at the nymph, then past her—the movement in the water caused by her formation seems to have dislodged an object from a nearby rock. A glass bottle with a piece of paper rolled up inside of it floats a couple of feet away from the nymph’s translucent hand.

“Grab that for me, will you?” Percy asks.

Two years since the first letter

Through her travels, Annabeth visits graves. San Francisco, California: Frederick Chase. Westport, Connecticut: Luke Castellan. Each carry their own weights, but one commonality exists between them both: Annabeth goes alone.

She plants new graves in unfamiliar territories. She'll find a peculiar stone or wild mushroom and cement it away from it's original home. It doesn't mean anything, and anyone coming across these objects wouldn't think anything of it, but she likes these X's on her mind's map.

Annabeth walks along the river, kicking rocks and skipping a few. The currents are rather rapid; the rocks fall right in.

Silver flashes in the corner of her eye. She spots a canteen on the dirt and picks it up. It's filled with water. What could it hurt? She keeps the canteen and continues following the river for a quarter of a mile until she sees smoke through the trees. A small and contained campfire.

She comes across a small camp with a singular large tent. A man with his back turned to her stokes the fire.

"Excuse me," she calls out. "Is this yours?"

A bored teenager who sits on a stump glances up at her. The man turns, eyes land on the raised canteen, and he stands. He's middle-aged, with the sun rays poking through the trees highlighting the gray in his hair.

"Thanks." He tilts his head as if trying to place her. "You're one of Evie's friends, right?" His stance opens towards the girl on the stump, probably his daughter. Annabeth has not forgotten how she appears to everyone on the outside, but actually being mistaken as a teenager makes it devastating.

Annabeth shakes her head. "No."

"Sorry. Thanks again."

She turns, following the path downstream. A strange feeling stirs in her head.

It's like an old memory, something on the tip of her tongue that is being held back from freedom. She stops dead in her tracks when she places the man's face. Last time she saw it was almost forty years ago.

Was that Bobby or Matthew? She can't remember any discernible features between the two, just differences in personality. It's aching, how little she feels about her half-brothers. They were never her brothers. Her stepmother didn't allow it. Gods, Annabeth hasn't thought about her or her sons since she was actually fourteen.

Her father has been dead for a couple years now. She couldn’t force herself to feel that strongly about it. No sobs or anger, and definitely no joy. She just wonders how things could have been different. He wanted to make things right just before she joined the Hunt. She believed him. Perhaps if she had grown up a little and he had too, there would have been more love. She swears it was there, just… dormant.

She had sent a letter to him soon after taking the oath. She didn't want to fake her death and witness his forced grieving. She wonders what he told his family, though, especially the sons who had no knowledge of any divine forces in their life. They must have considered her a sister even less than she considered them brothers. In all likeliness, Annabeth Chase has been dead for many years.

Five years since the last letter

Percy sits, unnoticed, in an apartment that does not belong to him. Not anymore, at least—this fire escape used to lead into his bedroom. He still looks like the child that slept in it. At the funeral, he introduced himself as his own grandchild. 

He knew this would happen, of course. When he was offered the gift, seeing everyone he had ever loved die was obviously on the horizon. In weighing up his choices, however, he imagined the serenity of not living below the blade of a guillotine would make up for it. If he could not have the future he most wanted, godhood would allow him to forge a completely different one. 

Fifty-five years later, Percy wants the very same things, and what he has, he has never wanted. There is not enough power in this world to turn the Earth inside out like he wishes.

Percy should have asked the gods for his mother to live forever instead. 

The Fates are mean, mean creatures. He can almost picture them laughing at him—having chosen eternal life, wishing for all his worth that he could die. 

He hears the clanging of metal as someone else climbs up the fire escape. Percy would recognize the drag of these footsteps deaf and blind, the vibration caused by her weight on the steps. 

There are tears in Annabeth’s eyes when her face emerges. Sally loved her like her own child until the very end, told Annabeth this much during one sleepover at this very apartment before it all fell apart. 

She freezes for a few moments when she sees him. Percy takes her in—full Hunter’s uniform, braided hair in a ponytail, a healing bruise on her chin.

Eventually, it seems she reaches a decision. Her posture changes, relaxes, and she moves to sit next to him. Knee to knee. His eyes drop to hers, the warm, deep brown he sees when he closes his eyes. 

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she says. Her voice trembles. 

“Yeah,” Percy says. 

“I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I know.”

She exhales a long breath. Hesitantly, she raises a hand to his hair, runs her fingers through the strands at the front. Percy knows what she's looking for and is sorry for the fact that she won't find it. The gray hair disappeared with his heartbeat.

Annabeth's lower lip trembles as she leans her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

They say nothing for a little while. She doesn’t smell like lemons anymore. It’s earthy, like fresh grass, stomped-on flowers. Not who they used to be, either of them, but he still wishes he could freeze time and live out his eternity in this moment. He’d exchange all the good that is ever to come for just this. 

“I should go,” she says, beginning to stand. Percy mourns her touch—a droplet of grief added to another ocean in which he cannot drown. 

“Wait,” he says, reaching for her arm. 

Annabeth stops and looks at him. Percy lifts up his hand and touches a fingertip to her chin. The bruise disappears. 

“Okay,” he says. 

She raises a hand to the spot he has just touched. Another tear falls down her cheek. A blink, and she is gone. 

Eleven years since the last letter

The Hunters secure their fifty-eighth consecutive capture-the-flag victory. They only visited once when Annabeth was still a camper. It was her only loss as a leader.

Decisions and decisions made in just a few seconds that can be undone just as quickly. If she hadn’t run away, she wouldn’t have found Camp until years later. If her father had been any better, she wouldn’t have run away.

Annabeth tiptoes from slippery rock to rock, following the river to the lake. Standing by the shore, she can picture it so clearly. Percy stumbling into the water, angry and confused, a cyan trident glowing above him. So young that his hair did not yet curl, and the armor was never not slipping past his shoulders. When Annabeth was interested in him solely as her ticket to a more fulfilling life.

She drops her weapons on the sand. She is slow to unlace her boots and roll her pants up to her knees. The night is cold and the water shocks her system. She wonders if Percy still feels things like heat. The water comes up mid-calf.

If she called, would he come? What would he say? What would he do?

Their disconnection has been made tangible through the loss of matching gray hair. The one thing they shared now solely belongs to Annabeth. His body reset, and hers is in stasis.

She can’t see anything in the distance, through the black sky blanketed with clouds. Artemis’ watchful eye does not shine over her.

“Percy,” she whispers. Even that feels like treason. I know you can hear me.

Minutes pass by. A sharp lump forms in her throat. She looks directly down into the water, and a tear drops, setting off perfect ripples. Salt from her system mixes with the salt of the sea.

When Annabeth walks back inland and the night air hits her skin, she doesn’t even notice the cold.

Eight years since the last letter

Poseidon tells Percy he will no longer have a prince of the oceans wandering around, helping strays. His gift—he no longer thinks of it that way—comes with strings attached. Which is strange, because Percy thought those strings were snipped when he saved Olympus from its downfall, no more than a hundred years ago. Immortality is not so much a gift as it is a loan. 

So Percy is in New York, on duty. He no longer comes here all that often except to pick half-bloods off the streets, because everything else this place had for him has turned into grief. Olympus itself is the site of his worst mistake, second only to the failed confession that led him to it. It makes him want to raze, raze, raze—this place has nothing good to offer, and he is now a guest of honor. 

Winter Solstice is a party. The entire pantheon is here, including a certain moon goddess, though her Hunters are not accompanying her. Percy keeps his distance for fear of acting un-princely. 

Percy Jackson, a prince. What a joke. 

He is standing near a wall, fending off one of his half-brothers looking to rise in the ranks, when he feels someone approach. The man before him stutters into silence, eyes wide looking past Percy. Then, there is a tap on his shoulder. 

Aphrodite usually holds herself tall, but not right now. Her head ends right at Percy’s chin. About where another head rested the last time he held her.  

If Percy could resist her magnetism, he would have. Not only are his eyes glued to her face, he convinces himself he wants to keep looking until time runs out on the universe. 

As a god, it is easier to remind himself this is not Annabeth. If he were a mortal, he would probably be on his knees, incoherent, powerless—because, holy gods, it is hard to name a single difference. The mark on her nose, the shape of her eyebrows, the trained tilt of her mouth that lingers between sad and bored. 

“Hello, Perseus,” Aphrodite says, in the discreet southern lilt of Annabeth’s voice.

He may not be rendered useless on the floor, but he certainly isn’t thinking. Anger bubbles deep in his gut, growing deeper and hotter every second he cannot tear his eyes away from the goddess. 

He is looking at his fate. His. Why would she have shown him Annabeth, over a hundred years ago, if not to bind them together?

The bonds have not broken, but they have stretched to the point of choking. The benefit of being a sea god should be to do away with the need for breathing, but he feels lightheaded with the sight. Percy needs release. Needs her. 

His head snaps back to Artemis. She alone stands between Percy and his love. It is her he must face. 

“Don’t be silly,” Aphrodite says, drawing his attention. “She chose the Hunt. She was not forced.”

Percy manages to cover his eyes with his hands. He cannot think when he looks at her and he is a needle thread’s distance from doing something that will get him cast away and sworn to death by every god in the room.

“Make it stop,” he says. “Either give her back or make it stop.”

“I did not take her, so I cannot give her back,” Aphrodite says. “She walked away.”

“I know! You don’t have to tell me that, I know.”

“Now… make it stop? You would give up the part of yourself that loves her?” Aphrodite is smiling, curiously. She is entertained.

That is all of me, Percy thinks to himself. He would be inventing someone new, which is appealing in principle, but that someone would be worthless without loving her. The best thing about him, the thing that has remained in mortality and beyond, is the fact that he belongs to her. 

Percy opens his eyes and sees her face again. The last he stood this close to Aphrodite, he ruined his own life. 

“Tell my father I’m leaving.”

He jumps into one of the waterfalls cascading off the top of the Empire State, swims until he reaches the ocean floor. He takes solace in the darkness, where nothing around him is the color of her eyes. 

Thirteen years since the last letter

For the Lord of the Wild, honoring his death is one of grand scale. It’s nice, but—she wishes it wasn’t such a spectacle. Nature spirits have gathered from gods-know-where, and in her selfishness, she wishes Grover could be honored more personally than this. None of them knew him as Annabeth did.

She starts crying the moment Percy's eyes meet hers. His cheeks are stained pink, eyes red and shining. Thalia stands beside her, arm around her in support. With this subtle restraint, she can’t run into Percy's arms and break down, both of them collapsing onto the grass.

They won’t see him ever again. Grover has been reincarnated as a cypress tree or lotus flower and when Annabeth enters Elysium, she can’t look for him.

Annabeth sees the satyr who bent down to her seven-year-old height and spoke kind, soothing words. Who cared for her even after his job was done, technically failed.

The procession disperses in quiet waves. Soon, Grover's first friends are all who remain. Percy's head is hung low, his fists clenched but thumbs tapping rapidly over his skin.

Annabeth doesn't care. She really, really doesn't. She steps out of Thalia's circle and crosses the threshold to Percy, collapsing into his arms. He holds her up, his arms just as strong as hers.

Grover, who kept them from killing each other during their first quest, brought them closer in their second, and was with them for the final moments of the war.

She remembers being twelve years old and standing in front of Percy while she and Grover argued over who would stay in the Underworld. Grover isn't in Elysium, he's somewhere in the world breathing in a new way. Maybe he likes it that way, though.

Percy holds the back of her head while her tears soak his shirt. "Beth."

The vibration shocks her system. Same as she remembered, warm and broken. In such an awful moment, his voice and touch are the antidote.

"I hadn't seen him in so long," she says.

"Me neither."

The hand in her hair moves to cup her face. He brushes her tears away with his thumb. He's too close, too familiar, too open. Annabeth steps back.

He reaches for his back pocket and hands her a piece of parchment. She tucks it into her coat before Thalia can see.

Six years since the last letter

“It’ll be just down that hill,” Percy says to the trembling kid.

She must be no older than fourteen. No idea who her mother is yet, but she’s got the laser-focused gaze of an Athena kid, even as she drops and lays her back on Thalia’s tree. Percy’s heart aches.

“What do I do when I get there?” she asks, hugging her torso. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Don’t sweat it. They’ll set you up, alright? They know what to do, they did it for me.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “You were a demigod?”

Percy is stumped whenever he is asked this question. He is still a demigod, because his mother will always be Sally Jackson, but that part of him no longer runs in his veins.

“My mother was human, yes,” Percy says. 

“How’d you become a god?” the girl asks. “I mean, can I do it, too? Sounds better than this.”

He swallows some bitterness. “It was a boon.”

“A boom?”

“Boon, with an N.” Percy chuckles. “It’s a gift. A reward.”

“Oh. What did you do to get a reward?”

Percy sees a sword sunk into flesh, a golden explosion. Death, death, death. “I saved Olympus.”

“Woah,” the girl says. “Maybe not for everyone, then.”

“It’s him!” a voice sounds from down the hill. 

Percy sees a boy running up. It’s a half-blood he helped a couple years back, minus an ear. He’s been on a quest, it appears. 

“Hi,” Percy says. 

The boy gets within a couple feet of Percy and falls to his knees. Behind him, a dozen more campers are sprinting up the hill, screaming Perseus! Perseus! Our lord!

“Jesus Christ,” Percy mutters to himself as more and more children kneel before him. 

The girl he just helped looks around, confused, and eventually joins the group. 

“I have it!” one girl says, straggling behind the group. She’s holding a long object shrouded by a piece of fabric clearly woven by Cabin Six. 

She pushes through the group and falls to her knees right at Percy’s feet. She extends her arms above her, offering Percy the item she brought over.

“We have a gift for you, my lord,” she says.

All the half-bloods are looking at him expectantly. How long have they been waiting for this chance? He feels guilty. Maybe he should have been keeping a closer eye on them, but he always felt like he’d be intruding. 

“Thank you,” Percy says.

He takes the item and unwraps it—it is a beautifully forged celestial bronze trident, engraved with waves all throughout the handle. 

“The Hephaestus cabin made it for you, my lord,” the girl says. 

“We all helped,” someone else yells from the group. “It wasn’t just them.”

Percy holds the trident, feels its weight. He seldom fights anymore, and when he does, he barely needs his sword. Wielding this trident is vanity. The part of him that was born mortal wants to put it away. 

However, the part of him that is godly accepts it willingly. Worship feeds divinity, and he cannot pretend he is not enjoying this. Yes, they should thank him. He saved their lives. He is their lord. 

“We’re so thankful to you. We hope this makes up for it,” the Hephaestus girl says. 

Percy frowns. “Makes up for what?”

“We try to burn our meals for you, but it just keeps reappearing back in our plates. We’re sorry our gift isn’t suitable for—”

“What? No,” Percy says. “I’m sure it is suitable. Maybe it’s because I don’t have an altar anywhere. That’s where burnt offerings go.”

“We’ll build one!” a boy stands to say. “Anywhere you want.”

“That’s okay. Keep your food or burn it for your parents.” He raises the trident. “This is enough.”

“There’s the statue, too,” someone says. 

“Statue?”

The Hephaestus girl nods excitedly. “Would you like to see it?”

Percy agrees. He follows the demigods down to Camp—or they follow him, since they all refuse to walk ahead of him.

A marble statue of Percy has been erected at the center of the cabin circle, where the campfire used to be. He is posed much like an ancient statue, muscles flexing as he leans confidently against a rock. It is almost impossible not to burst out in laughter.

The humor fades, however, when he sees Cabin Six across the way. When he was mortal, he’d always sit at the same spot during campfire: with his back to her cabin so her absence would be less noticeable. It never worked—she taught him all the songs, he could only ever hear her voice above the disjointed chorus.

He hasn’t returned here, past Thalia's tree, since he made the choice. He finds that it reminds him of those two years without her, and the dozens that have since followed. 

“Do you like it?” one boy asks. 

“It’s impressive,” Percy says. “Where is the campfire?”

The campers exchange glances. “We got rid of it,” the Hephaestus girl says. 

“Why?”

“We just didn’t feel like doing it anymore.”

Percy looks around. Where is Chiron? Why did he allow this?

“It existed for a reason,” Percy says, feeling himself get angry. “The traditions exist for a reason.”

The half-bloods fall silent. Percy is not sure what has changed in his demeanor, but theirs have shifted from ease to fear. 

“We can build it again,” the girl says, at the edge of stuttering. “We just—we don’t know a lot of the songs anymore.”

Percy grips his trident. “Figure it out.”

Nine years since the last letter

Annabeth is paranoid. When her dream last night had starred a kiss between herself and a certain sea god, she feared Artemis would turn her into a doe on the spot.

Percy doesn’t have the same issue. He can dream—if he can—about kissing her, going further than kissing, and the secret is safe with him. When she thinks of him in his father’s palace, or up on Olympus, or anywhere really, her mind will conjure others. Others that wish to brag about laying with the famed hero-turned-god. It upsets Annabeth so much that she has to leave her group and engage in target practice.

There is also the fact that she appears fourteen to anyone who looks her way. A woman in a girl’s body. When Annabeth was actually fourteen, she had bombed her algebra final and held the sky three days later.

A Hunter’s life is a mundane one, but Annabeth isn’t yearning to get back to that mandated torture. She hated it back then. How could she regret her past feelings when they were real emotions? Luke had taught her that.

You know who you are, Annabeth. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.

The moon’s reflection over the water is blinding. They’re camped out near an abandoned lake house in the Midwest. The panels are rotted and a few windows have been shattered. It smelled like dust and death upon stepping inside.

Her and her friends sit at the edge of the water. The sand is rough and softens her scarred palms. Perseus’ constellation shines bright tonight.

In her mortal life, Annabeth hadn't made many friends at school. On Fridays she would hear the girls planning their sleepovers, and on Mondays she would hear of the aftermath. Camp Half-Blood was different, with the campfire circles and bunk beds. But here, it feels like what an actual sleepover may have been like.

"Put a finger down if you've ever kissed someone."

"Layla," Annabeth chides.

"What, I mean before the Hunt."

Diya and Kat put a finger down, half of their four person group. Annabeth’s eyebrows raise. 

“Wait, really?” Kat questions, looking between Annabeth and Layla. “How old was everyone when they joined again?”

“Well, not everyone had the opportunity,” Annabeth says, with an edge she can't do well to hide.

“You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take, Annabeth. I was fifteen when I had sex.” She says it so casually, as if Annabeth doesn't feel like she's just been blasted backwards twenty feet. Her insides feel funny.

“You can’t really think about that anymore unless you want to get exiled.”

Kat purses her lips. “You never even gave a peck to that one guy you liked?”

Annabeth notices everyone’s hands have lowered with the new topic, along with their eyes on her. They all feel a little too close.

“No opportunity,” she mutters, her face warm.

"Hey, I was pretty nervous," Diya offers. "We stood there for, like, a good thirty seconds before finally going for it."

Annabeth looks around the camp for anyone eavesdropping. The rest of the Hunters are doing their own thing beneath the setting sun, winding down for the night. She can't spot Thalia anywhere.

"Does Artemis know?" Annabeth whispers to Kat.

"I mean. Oh. It's weird thinking she'd be able to sense that, but I'm here, right? I don't think she's that picky of what you did before if you're genuine about the vow."

What if it's uncontrollable? What if Annabeth can't dictate the thoughts she currently has, that pop into her head at any given moment or hold her hostage in her dreams?

“What was it like?” Layla asks.

“Dude, it sucked, I was just laying there and it only lasted, like, a minute. Kinda solidified me joining, actually.”

Sex so bad it makes you run to eternal maidenhood. Annabeth can’t imagine an experience with Percy ever being that horrible. She claps her hand to her mouth so hard she hits her nose, her eyes stinging from the shock.

“Oh my gods, what,” Kat exclaims. “I regret it, but it’s fine.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Annabeth stumbles to a stand, hobbling so as not to put pressure on her asleep foot. “I have to go.”

Five years since the last letter

Percy is across the world when he feels her blood spot the water. A drop, at first, then more, more, more, too much. He does not stop to think how he knows it is hers, he just feels his instincts light up like a starry sky and he is there. 

Annabeth is laying on the sand. Thalia has unbuttoned her coat and pulled up her shirt to reveal an ugly, gaping wound right above her hip. A river of blood is trailing from her body down to the waterline, painting the sea foam pink. 

The ichor feels alight in Percy’s veins. He’s by her side in a half second and he is not aware of how he moved to get there, but the Hunters jump back as if his presence burns them. The only one that stays still is Thalia, who widens her eyes, already red from crying, when she sees him kneel next to Annabeth’s unconscious body.

“Percy? What—” 

“Beth,” Percy says. He puts a hand to the left side of her chest—her heart is beating, thank the gods, but he can tell she’s weak. He doesn’t have a lot of time. “It’s okay. I got you. You’ll be okay.”

“You cannot be here,” Artemis’ voice booms from over Thalia’s shoulder. She’s walking leisurely in their direction, with a serenity that alarms Percy. Isn’t she going to heal Annabeth?

“She is my—my friend,” Percy says. The word burns his throat on its way out, and he draws on the heat to call the tides to his favor. 

“She is among friends. Leave us.”

And therein lies the issue. Percy feels a wave of jealousy flood his chest because he is not a friend, he should not be because a friend has no claim like the one she has on his very soul. He has the right to be here and no mortal or god or titan can rip him from her side. 

The fact that nobody else is moving indicates to Percy they do not understand that the Earth will crack in half if she dies. If Gaea does not break of her own accord, Percy himself will see to it. 

Artemis keeps talking, but he barely tears his eyes away from Annabeth’s face to hear what she is saying. As soon as he takes stock of the situation, his hands fly to her torso, gloved by a thick layer of salt water that glows a deep blue when he concentrates.

“You are not to heal her,” Artemis says, closer now. Percy ignores her. “Perseus! We do not interfere with battle deaths! Such is the—”

“Shut up,” he mutters, just now processing what Artemis is saying—to let Annabeth die. She’s gone completely mad if she thinks Percy is going to do that, and he might go mad if she suggests it again. 

Artemis approaches and grabs one of Percy’s arms—he flings it sideways, sending her flying several feet away. She lands with feline grace, unharmed, but her face twists with rage. Thalia’s eyes are wide, darting between the two gods, but she does not move to stop Percy. 

“You forget yourself, godling,” Artemis says through gritted teeth. 

Percy does not care. The wound finally closes but Annabeth does not yet stir. The strain on her body was too great, he can feel it, and he wishes he were a more efficient healer. He’ll have to find comfort in the fantasy of her eyes opening without him being there to witness it. 

Perhaps it is for the best she does not see him here. She would be upset with him. 

Percy forces himself to rise. “I’m finished.” 

“Do you think you can come here and interfere with my Hunters as you see fit?” Artemis demands, marching up to Percy. “They gave their lives to the Hunt. Their deaths are a willing contribution.”

“Not hers,” Percy growls. He is face-to-face with the goddess. 

“Yes, hers,” Artemis says. “This is what she chose.”

How could he forget? She chose this over him. Still, he cannot believe she would choose this awful death when she could still have so much more. 

Percy finds himself realizing he chose immortality not only to outrun the pain, but also so he could give himself time to wait for her. Empty days justify themselves because of what they could precede. It is their time. 

“She doesn’t belong to you,” Percy says, his voice low. 

Artemis looks over his shoulder. The tide is growing increasingly agitated. 

“You are trespassing,” she says. “Be gone.”

Every Hunter’s arrow is pointed at him, but he does not fear them. However, now that Annabeth is no longer dying and he is beginning to think clearly once more, he senses the real danger he is in. The sea has no choice but to bow to the moon, and the goddess could undo him right now if she so wished. The power of her fury towards meddling men is well-known and he can feel the frost of the dark side of the moon creeping out of her. 

Percy shoots Thalia a look. Her bow is steady in her hands, but her eyes betray her. She allowed him to heal Annabeth, knowing she shouldn’t have. She angered her lady, but prioritized her sister’s life (and her own, because Percy would not have thought twice before sending any of these girls who stood in his way to the bottom of the ocean).

Annabeth looks calm, as though she is sleeping. He allows himself a long second just looking at her before he disappears back into the water without another word. He will not let her die if he can help it, whether or not Artemis will allow it. If the Hunters want to prevent his interference, they ought to do a better job of protecting their ranks.

Four years since the last letter

Thalia’s hands massage Annabeth’s scalp as she unravels dozens of tiny braids.

“Artemis wanted me to talk to you.”

Annabeth’s heart freezes. Thalia’s soft, melancholic tone tells her everything. “She couldn’t tell me herself?”

“Annabeth. You can’t keep talking to him.”

If she wasn’t who she was, she might deny it. She might question who Thalia is talking about and wonder how Artemis knows. Somewhere along the way, she slipped up. What she’s curious about is when. 

“She’s known the whole time,” Thalia continues. “Not what you write, just that you do. But given the way he reacted when you got hurt, everyone could assume.”

Annabeth’s body turns cold, ice rushing to her stomach. She turns around slowly. “Thalia. What do you mean, ‘the way he reacted?’”

She purses her lips. "I think your blood washed into the water. He appeared out of nowhere and healed you. Or else you would've died."

Annabeth averts her gaze, torn between despairing gratitude and anger at him. The whole point is that she can die and he can’t. He has no right to tear her away from an earned fate. The love she feels mixes the air in her chest, hot and cold to form a tornado. 

“I thought I dreamed he was there,” she whispers.

“You know what will happen. I won’t let you get yourself killed because you want to tell him about your day.”

Annabeth whips around, stinging as if just struck. “You know it’s not… how could you say that?” Her chin trembles. “You’ve seen—you know what he means to me.”

“You can’t,” Thalia says calmly, speaking to a seven-year-old Annabeth. “I’m sorry.”

Anxiety creeps in with the storm. Percy will dismiss this. He’ll call it stupid or say that he’ll be the one to handle Artemis. He won’t understand. But they knew this was doomed from the beginning.

A tear falls onto the hand gripping her knee.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Annabeth murmurs.

One year since the last letter

A feast for immortals is futile beyond measure. Food does not have a physiological function in a god’s body, it is consumed merely for pleasure. Fruit statues tower above the table, the generals pick from the bottom of the pile just to watch them tumble slowly in the water’s lethargic gravity. They play with the food like children, then eat it like pigs.

Food scarcity is a distant memory in Percy’s life. Conceptually, he understands he was once poor, though that idea has lost all meaning. He will never hunger again and he cannot remember how it feels. It does not matter. All he knows is the pleasurable sensation of tasting the nectared berries that have been served on his plate by a palace servant is not enough to dull the emptiness he feels getting bigger each day. He thinks the hole within him might one day grow so wide he will be able to fall through it.

He looks around the room. A litter of Poseidon’s children and other godly relatives have recently been inducted into an army that has no reason for existing. In peace time, they gather, eat, strategize over nothing. Poseidon justifies it by claiming they need to double their pre-Kronos numbers, so recruitment must be refined. The next threat could come at any moment. Around this dinner table, Percy sees prideful, overconfident slobs that would fall at the first strike. 

Until recently, he had managed to skirt these events, but after his encounter with Artemis, Poseidon decided he’d had enough of Percy’s insolence. He is to wear a crown on his head and behave accordingly, lest he be doomed to an eternal fate of polishing plates at the palace, or installing horseshoes, or anything else that keeps him from her. 

One of his half-brothers elbows him. Leander, Poseidon’s offspring with a nymph that managed to climb the ranks during the Titan War. He fancies himself important, though Poseidon seldom remembers his name. 

“Your highness,” Leander taunts.

They all know Percy has no interest in the title, which causes bouts of jealousy among his lesser brothers. They would probably act against Percy if they could, or if they had anything they could rob him of. There is only one thing, of course, which is yet another reason Percy keeps his letters to himself. 

“I’m leading the hundred-fifteenth squadron for inland incursion,” Leander brags. 

“Why?” Percy asks, disinterested. 

“We need to be prepared.” Leander is broad-shouldered, bearded like their father. Percy has never seen him without his medals. 

“How are you going to train if you can’t actually do an inland incursion?”

“We’re modifying the terrain to simulate the conditions.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Have you ever stepped out of the water? You can’t possibly modify it enough.”

“Of course I’ve stepped out of the water,” Leander snaps. He turns away from Percy and backs to his twin brother, Oreus, which is just as well. Percy does not want to invest his mental energy into contributing to an incursion that will not happen any time soon. 

It might, one day, of course. Kronos is not the only possible threat. However, Percy has become re-acquainted with the value of time, and now is not the time to worry about dormant dangers. 

Every second he spends in the palace, he is unreachable. He knows her next message will come close to the surface: in the sand, floating on the surface, at the outer bottom, where she can reach. It could already be out there, but Percy is here, wasting time. 

The first few letters were surprises. He now finds himself seeking them out. Seeking her out is too dangerous, so her words are the next best thing. He can almost pretend it quells the flood. 

Seven months since the last letter

Dozens of bees zip in and out of the pine needles above. It sounds like rain.

"What were you like before this?" Claudia gestures around them.

Their folded up jackets act as pillows between their heads and the cool grass. It isn't their turn to cook dinner tonight, thank the gods, so they get to enjoy the smells building just outside the campfire.

"I wanted to be an architect," Annabeth answers easily, mournfully. "Have something live past my time."

"That would've been nice. I wanted to be a professional gymnast."

"Were you a year-rounder?" Claudia is about two decades younger than Annabeth, which is really nothing, but it does mean they just barely missed each other in their mortal lives.

"Yeah, but I didn't have to be. I just didn't want to be home when Camp was right there."

Annabeth hums. "I miss it sometimes. Not like when we visit, but when we were a part of Camp. I don't understand the resentment some of them have for it."

"Maybe it's jealousy," Claudia offers. "There's three mortals here, right?"

Annabeth counts in her head. "Yes. That I'll never understand."

"It's better than them going crazy, thinking all the monsters they see are imaginary. Now they get to kill them."

"Still."

Annabeth finds it hard to believe that the mortals believe in the Greek pantheon. It's similar to how their versions of God work. Except with Artemis, they can actually see her as opposed to silly lies of holy spirits.

No, it isn't about seeing it with their eyes. They can be told this is the goddess of the moon and they are all her immortal hunters, but do they put their faith in Olympus? Could they lose everything and still survive through sheer faith in the Olympians?

Annabeth could. She must.

Claudia sits up and frowns. "What's that about?"

Annabeth follows her line of sight to Artemis's tent, catching someone step through as the drape closes behind them. "Who was that?"

"Maya and Cee."

Her face contorts in confusion. It's a strange pairing to be talking to her at a strange time.

She spots Thalia sitting on a log beside the campfire, staring intensely at the tent, her foot tapping rapidly against the ground.

Annabeth stands and brushes the grass off her pants, grabbing her jacket. "I'm gonna ask Thalia."

"Nosy."

Thalia softens the way she always does when seeing Annabeth.

Annabeth jerks her head towards the largest tent. "What's going on in there?"

She can tell it's something big, for the way Thalia's expression hardens. She can tell this is a secret not meant to be shared. Annabeth kneels at her side.

Thalia glances around then says in a quiet voice, "Artemis is going to announce it at dinner, but Maya and Cee are leaving. She's stripping them of the blessing right now."

Annabeth isn't sure she heard that right. "Leaving the Hunt? Why?"

Thalia shrugs. "They fell in love, apparently. Can't serve Artemis anymore."

"You…" She licks her lips, trying to ground herself from the dizzy spell cast over her. "They can just do that?"

"It's not like Artemis wants them here anymore either, y'know? What's the point in only being half devoted to her and all."

"I thought she'd turn them into wildlife. Did they not break the vow?"

"No, they're fine. I mean, now they'll age and die like any other demigod, but no wildlife."

"Oh," Annabeth says smally.

She swallows thickly, at war against her shallow breathing and racing heart. She could have left the entire time? What has she done, forcing herself into this box while the truest part of herself has been fighting for freedom?

"I'm going to take a walk," she says, praying Thalia won't follow her when she stands.

She places her hand on her shoulder. "You don't look okay."

"Please, I just need to be alone."

Her jaw tingles and her tongue tastes sour. Annabeth holds it in as she tries to walk as casually out of camp as possible, before stumbling far out of sight. She braces herself against a tree, and the contents of her stomach empty out onto the grass. 

Annabeth heaves and burns as tears spring out the corners of her eyes. She curses and wipes her mouth, putting her jacket back on. Her feet carry her far away.

She doesn't know how long it takes, but the journey is long enough that her chest burns.

She races down the steep, overgrown hill to the beach below. The setting sun is blinding over the water. The salty wind hits her with a force so large it's as if her lungs have frozen and expanded at once.

Annabeth hides herself inside a large archway made of dark boulders. The rough edges dig into her back and cool her down. Her temples pound.

She needs to see him more than anything. No logic, no hesitation. What good can her faith be if it has kept her from Percy?

Five months since the last letter

Percy. Are you listening?

His entire body tenses. Her voice is instantly recognizable, louder and clearer than any prayer he has ever received. Percy puts down the pen and paper, halfway through a sentence he probably should not write. It no longer matters—all he wants is for her to keep speaking. 

I want—I need to see you.

He’s by her side the very next instant. She jumps, startled, then covers her mouth with her hand. 

They’re several feet away from the beach, tented by a cliff that forms a small cave, in which Annabeth has hidden them both. Percy shuts his eyes and feels for Artemis’s presence in the near distance, but there is nothing. 

“She’s not here,” Annabeth says. 

“Are you okay?” Percy asks, looking over her body for injuries. He prepares to heal her, imagining that might be why she called, but she looks fine. 

“I’m not—I’m not hurt.”

He stills completely. “Why did you need to see me?”

“You know why,” she says.

Percy knows why he needs to see Annabeth. He needs her so furiously he sometimes forgoes his palatial duties to linger invisibly in her periphery because he cannot go on without the sight of her. Does she also feel his absence like a third-degree burn? Would she snuff out the sun in exchange for the warmth of his skin? "Tell me anyway."

Annabeth regards him in silence for a few seconds. "I thought it would get better with time."

"You thought you'd forget?"

"No, I'd never forget, just—I thought it wouldn't feel like this anymore." She's quiet, like she's scared of being heard.

Percy knows exactly what she means. He feels fourteen and fragile.

But he isn't. There are a great many things he can do now that he could not do, then.

"Then leave them," he says. "Come with me. We'll figure out the rest together."

At this, Annabeth's eyes fixate on the horizon. She considers his suggestion for many long moments, her face falling with each second that passes. "What about you? If I leave the Hunt, eventually I’ll just die and you’ll—”

She doesn’t finish and Percy is glad for it. The only comfort in their situation is knowing Annabeth will not die of old age. If he lost her, Percy would chase down Death himself and beg to be taken along.

“So what do you want me to do?” Percy asks, incapable of preventing his despair from seeping through. They have each other for the first time in centuries and he cannot stand the thought of her choosing to walk away again.

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks. She sounds as though she realized her answer as she spoke it aloud.

“I’ll do anything,” he insists. “We’ll figure it out. You just have to—”

Annabeth puts out her hands. “I—I can’t just drop it all, like that.”

“Why not?” Percy asks, desperate. He takes a step in her direction. “We’ve wasted so much time.”

“Time? That doesn’t exist anymore.”

He steps closer. “Every blink, every breath that I don’t spend with you is wasted.”

“My life with the Hunters is not a waste,” Annabeth protests, but she doesn’t step away.

“Of course not,” Percy says. Nothing about Annabeth could ever be a waste, but he finds little value in anything he has done over the past decades. He’s helped demigods, of course, but that has been a minute fraction of his time. Most of it has been spent longing for her.

Percy realizes he is one hundred and thirty-two years old, and he has spent one hundred and sixteen of his years with the truth lodged in his throat. He is a god, he’s had Olympus in the palm of his hand, and he bows with fear when he sees Annabeth look at him like that. He needs this feeling gone.

“Annabeth,” he breathes.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Annabeth stills. He watches her process the declaration she’d already known to be true. Eyebrows twisting, eyes wide as they go, corners of her mouth lopsided like she can’t decide if she wants to smile or sob.

She shakes her head, slowly, over and over as she backs away. Percy sees her in an orange t-shirt, lifetimes ago, making this very same expression when he confessed for the first time.

“I can’t help it,” Percy says. “If I could, it would have passed by now. It means something.”

“We can’t.”

Percy steps forward slowly, as though she’s a skittish cat. “I know that, I know we can’t, Annabeth, but I love you.”

“What do you want me to do? I…” she hides her face in her hands, breathes deeply. “I love you, too, Percy, of course I do, but there’s nothing we can do. These are the lives we chose.”

“I would have chosen you if you let me.” He reaches for her hand, gently. 

Annabeth sobs. Her grip on his fingers is tight. “I— you were—”

“I was a lot of things,” Percy says. The Earth has traveled so many times around the Sun since then that nearly everything there used to be has been left behind. Everything but the sting, hotter with each second that passes.

Percy can tell she’s growing increasingly distressed the longer the moment goes on. However, when he starts to put some distance between them—if only to relieve the pressure—her hand flies to his arm, keeping him in place. Percy’s wavering resolve breaks all at once and he pulls her into his arms. 

He hasn’t held her in decades. An electric current surges through his body, some chemical reaction as though the touching of their bodies is a pivotal point in the chain of events of the universe. Being with her goes beyond mundane and bleeds into the divine, and it has nothing to do with the gold in Percy’s veins. The act is godly on its own. 

“I love you,” she whispers, slowly, like she wants to make the words last. 

She looks up at him, Percy lowers his head until their foreheads are touching.

Annabeth’s breath catches in her throat. “This is bad.”  

Percy doesn’t see how. This feels more right than anything he has done since giving up mortality. 

“I love you,” he replies. 

“Percy…” Her eyes are closed, her breath comes out in stutters. “If I break my vow and Artemis finds out, she’ll punish me. She could turn me into… a bear or anything she pleases.”

“I’m a god, I’ll turn you back.”

Annabeth shakes her head. “You don’t want to pick a fight with her.” 

“I’ll pick any fight for you.”

“I don’t want you to!”

“What do you want?” Percy asks, calmly. He wants to know so he can make it happen. Whatever she asks will be.

“I—we need… time,” she says.

Percy feels his heart fold into itself. Time. Always time. He has an abundance of it, and he wants it set on fire. “For what?”

“I have a life,” she says. “And you—”

“I’ll figure it out,” Percy says.

“How?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.” 

“We need to know,” she says. “You need to know."

Percy imagines Annabeth old and grey, then dead, and sees himself knelt next to her grave. She is right. Something needs to change. He needs to figure something out.

“Then we’ll know,” Percy says. She softens some, but he sees he’s lost her. He’s never had her, really, although she was the one who called for him. Maybe he should have known better, he thinks. Then, he looks in her eyes and loses himself all over again.

“We will?” she asks. Her eyes glisten.

“I swear,” he says. He raises a hand to her face and wipes a tear.

Annabeth grips his wrist, closing her eyes. She breathes him in, deeply, touching her forehead to his again. These moments of closeness are so ephemeral that Percy already feels the grief flooding in, knowing she will leave him again soon.

She blinks up at him and presses the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth. He can barely feel it.

“Go,” she says. “We’re out of time.”

Annabeth wakes to thunder that shakes the world. She has one thought: Thalia. She scrambles to her feet, wet and heavy, dragging herself from mud to slippery grass. Hard-grained sand is embedded in her face and lines her clothes. 

A storm ravages the world around her, whipping pine needles and branches through the terrain. A flash of lightning temporarily blinds her and rain crashes down from the heavens. Annabeth falls on her face, the wind pulling her away from the eye of the storm. She knows for certain now and pushes herself up again, vision blurry from the pouring rain and anxious tears.

She can't see a thing or hear anyone. Guilt clashes with her anxiety for having wandered away and fallen asleep by the lake.

Suddenly, the world freezes: the rain stops like that, splashing against the forest floor. It leaves behind a warm, electric feeling in the air, unnatural with the absence of wind. The silence rings.

Dread rises to her throat, with stinging bile trailing closely behind. Annabeth sprints through the woods for any sign, tripping over stumps and jutted rocks. She cannot afford to go back to the camp and set a course of action.

It is then that she spots a clearing through the darkness. A diameter of dozens of meters, free of any trees. Annabeth runs faster. Her mouth is dry, lungs set on fire.

The scene registers quickly: Thalia in the center, laying flat on the ground, caked in blood, and Artemis kneeling above her. 

“Thalia!” Annabeth wails, tripping over herself to get to her sister. She collapses at her side. Thalia’s eyes are closed, peaceful. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Her hand trembles, hovering over her delicate, hardened, beaten face. Annabeth’s gaze snaps to Artemis.

“One of Poseidon’s,” she spits, holding the sides of Thalia’s head. Annabeth’s heart drops to her stomach. “Oreus avenging his brother.”

“Avenging?”

Artemis meets her eyes, red with rage and despair. “I turned Leander into a stag for cornering Claudia. He was killed by Thalia’s arrow.”

“What does that have to do with her?” Annabeth cries. “She didn’t know!”

“No,” Artemis confirms. “The sea god will pay for this. For now…” She places her palms over Thalia’s dirty forehead.

“No!” Annabeth stops her, clutching Thalia’s drenched, heavy, dead body. “Can’t we give her a proper funeral?”

“Graves rot, my girl. We will weave her a shroud.”

Annabeth sobs until her stars disappear with the morning light.

Percy is furious. More furious than he has ever been. He rises to the surface to see a new constellation and burning shroud, stays just long enough to see that it did not belong to her. Then, he plummets to the ocean floor like a missile. A cloud of sand rises when he hits the ground and he’s kilometers away before it settles.

The news has already reached the palace by the time he arrives. Poseidon is surrounded by a gaggle of advisors yelling over each other—Artemis’s name is heard being thrown around, which confirms Percy’s suspicion that this is a proper crisis. 

Right now, however, he does not care about politics.

“Where is he?” Percy demands as he strides across the room to the throne. 

The chatter quiets as the courtsmen greet and bow to their prince, but Poseidon just sighs. “It is handled, Perseus.”

“How is it handled?”

“That is not your concern.”

“Of course it’s my concern!”

Poseidon’s eyes drill into Percy. “Because you are a prince of this court, right?”

“Yes,” Percy mutters through gritted teeth. “Of course.”

The silence in the room could shatter glass. Poseidon waves away his advisors and beckons Percy closer, not even bothering to lean forward in his throne. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” Percy says. 

“It appears it bears repeating,” Poseidon says. “That girl is not your concern. You are not to communicate with her and you are not to seek her out.”

“I—I haven’t broken any rules.”

Poseidon shakes his head. “Your life is not that simple anymore, Perseus, there is no black and white. We live in the shades of grey, and some of those shades will make people very angry in some situations. You must learn to figure out which ones.”

“This is not one of them! I was looking out for my friend!”

“Percy…” Poseidon rubs his face. “I understand loving someone you cannot have. It is how you were born, after all. But—”

“No,” Percy cuts him off. “This isn’t like that. Do not talk about her.”

Percy feels his rage grow hotter in his gut. Poseidon may have loved his mother, but he stood by as she and her son were abused, lived in poverty, suffered for years on end. Olympus’ second-in-command could have done better than that. Percy is nowhere near as powerful or important as his father, and he still knows he could vaporize any mortal that so much as came close to hurting the one he loves. 

If Percy had a kingdom to give up, like Poseidon did while Sally lived, he would. In reality, he is a prince with nothing to show for it but the weight of his crown. The one thing he feels in his soul is truly his is not his at all.

Poseidon’s face shifts, and Percy realizes he has outstayed his father’s temper. It has been long enough that any lingering care the god had for Sally Jackson has faded to distant memory, but being challenged is always enough to sour his mood. In effect, this conversation is over, but Percy is nowhere near finished. He mumbles something to his father about understanding and doing the right thing, then he steps out into the hallway.

He finds a guard further down from the throne room, out of earshot. “Where is Oreus?”

The guard swallows. A merman, mortal. Good. “Uh…”

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

“I’m—uh, I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Percy inhales sharply in anger. “I am your fucking prince. Tell me where he is before I flush you into a volcano.”

“Y-yes, your highness. He is at the Silver Chamber in the Atlantic Ward.”

Across the palace from Percy’s quarters, of course. Poseidon intended to hide Oreus from him, in all likelihood. Spoiled brats, all of these sea gods who grew up under Poseidon’s wings. 

This one will learn a lesson today. Percy's anger is his compass as he swims through the palace, lets it bubble to a boil. This is dangerous for someone like him, for whom irreversibility has assumed a new meaning in immortality. One thing is to break a glass, another is to crater the Earth with the pounding of a foot, watch the ground swallow trees whole until it is barren and all that lives has fled or died.

Percy hungers for the latter. He barely registers his surroundings, dimly aware that he will be punished for what he is about to do. Right now, the matter of punishment matters very little, so long as he is the one delivering it.

The door to the Silver Chamber swings open violently with a twist of Percy's wrist, revealing Oreus at a desk, surrounded by military leaders. He hears Artemis's name again, something about revenge and protection. Percy pays them no mind as he shoots in his direction, pinning him to the wall by the neck.

How does one kill a god? Is it enough to tear his body into enough pieces that no magic is powerful enough to reconstitute it? Perhaps it is better to keep him alive, devise a torture to be endured forever—Sisyphus and his boulder, Prometheus chained to the rocks. As he attempts to tear flesh from bone, Percy struggles to think of a penalty fitting of the crime committed. There are not enough boulders, not enough eagles on this planet, he thinks.

He is held back by ten, twenty hands. The world darkens and he does not know how. In the space between consciousness and not, he sees her face.

Three years since the last letter

Thalia’s constellation shines right above her head, and Annabeth wants to scream so loud that Apollo is forced to sew her mouth shut. Seven white dots in the night sky connect to form a woman with her most prized shield. 

Annabeth relishes in the pressure of Thalia’s circlet wrapped around her skull, her personal crown of thorns. Thalia’s jacket is a bit bigger than hers, so the sleeves are rolled once. A strand of her raven curls had been left behind with the crown, which Annabeth keeps zipped in her pocket. She hopes that after years of water and earth painting her skin, a particle or two of Thalia’s blood still lives buried in her cuticles.

Finally, or regrettably, the Hunters are in Virginia.

She gets the sense that Artemis isn’t watching over her so heavily as her new lieutenant, but to unnerve her. Annabeth can, and has, outsmarted the gods, but this isn’t a brief encounter. This is eternity.

Despite her surveillance, Annabeth was entrusted with this role for a reason. She leads the Hunt when Artemis is away, and it feels like being trapped in a glass house. Percy had once relayed to her something Luke had told him. Life doesn't get any easier when you start believing in the gods. She wonders if Luke would agree the opposite. Life would not improve if it became godless.

Annabeth has an exceptional memory. She’s watched disease spread between mortals, wars crest and collide, entire civilizations collapse. She remembers. Dreams are where she can form new memories with those she’s loved and lost.

When Annabeth was small, she used to confuse dreams with reality. All ten of her fingernails had fallen off into a bloody mess, she’d gone with her father to a magical pink amusement park, and so on. She has read before of people trapped in comas, waking up to believe they had lived entirely different lives. Annabeth prays to no one in particular that she wakes up soon.

Everyone is gone. Percy isn’t here either, though she never really had him. Loss has never felt as isolating as this.

She leads her Hunters to a targeted spot. The exact coordinates are a part of her, navigable through blindness. Once settled, Annabeth veers off the path, deep into the woods. She is far enough that the breeze flowing through the leaves is louder than the Hunt. Dust settles over her boots, getting between the cracks. She swats mosquitoes from her face, knowing she will wake with a dozen or so bites.

She keeps a photo in her pocket, paired with the strand of hair. Annabeth, Thalia, and Luke. A photo booth strip with silly faces and genuine affection reflecting in each of their tired eyes.

Through the brambles, where woven branches should give way to secrecy, there is nothing.

"No," Annabeth whispers, shaking her head. Panic seizes her chest. It isn't the nightfall, there's still enough daylight to know where she is. It's supposed to be here, she knows it. If Thalia or Luke were here, they would agree.

But there is no trace of their existence. Not like the boxes they hid in sewers, stuffed with blankets and nectar and a dagger or two. She should see stashed weapons, a lantern, golden drachmas hidden in the dirt. She digs through the earth until her fingers cake in it, finding nothing.

Annabeth sobs and sobs, whining like injured prey. Her coughs are spitting up saliva from her empty stomach.

Why wouldn't she believe in the gods? There is nothing left for her in the mortal world.

Seven years since the last letter

Five years since the last letter

Eight years since the last letter

Three years since the last letter

Forty-three years since the last letter

A ball is what it has come to. 

Miraculously, the situation with Artemis has not escalated into a full-blown war. Not for lack of trying—Poseidon sought support for a ground assault from Olympus, to Percy’s dismay and horror. He threatened generals, fought with his father, and he would have done worse to keep Poseidon’s forces away from the Hunters. Fortunately, the campaign had no backing from the other gods. It appears neither Thalia Grace nor Leander were important enough to elicit such a reaction. 

However, a diplomatic crisis is a crisis regardless. Delegates from either side have been sent to represent their gods at this ball on Olympus. From Poseidon’s cohort, Perseus, prince of the seas—better liked by the gods than the rest of his siblings, allegedly uninvolved with the situation and therefore less likely to worsen animosities. From Artemis’s cohort, of course, her lieutenant. 

Annabeth looks stunning, wearing a silver gown that falls down to her ankles. She looks no less a Hunter—her bow still draped over her back, her dagger attached to a beautifully adorned leather strap around her left forearm. The message is clear: her presence is not a white flag of surrender.

Percy looks ridiculous in comparison. He’s wearing an aquamarine suit with shoulder pads and medals of valor he did not earn. A fraudster in a crown.

She hasn’t spotted him yet, but he’s been watching her. Who approaches her, how she behaves around them. Percy tries his best not to feel possessive.

This is the first time he’s been this close to her since their encounter at the beach. The distance grinds his heart into dust. Annabeth hasn’t answered any of his letters since Thalia’s death and he feels his life has dimmed in color. Before, he would spend his days in anticipation of the next time she’d write, consumed by a watchful curiosity of the world around him because any fallen leaf could bring her next message. The excitement has been replaced by an all-encompassing dread that a new letter will never come, which would effectively eliminate their viable means of communication.

Of course, he hasn’t lost track of her. He can’t stand not knowing how she’s doing for too long, so he sometimes watches her from afar. In the powder keg of a situation they find themselves in, he cannot afford to get any closer, which is why he cannot track her down too often. If he becomes too indulgent with himself, he will one day let himself get closer. He pictures himself begging on his knees for forgiveness, though he is not entirely convinced he did anything wrong. He is angry with her for pinning him away and entirely too in love to let the anger set in. 

Earlier, he was told they must dance. A formality to show progress is being made, that Olympus will not enter another war. She is also aware of this, he’s told in reassurance. He’d hate to ask her for a dance and for her to think he’s lost his mind. 

Percy is tapped on the shoulder. It is time, so he steps into the ballroom. 

Annabeth’s body stills when she spots him. He sees the trained neutrality on her face, which he can still recognize, even after some additional years of practice on her end. They were never capable of hiding from one another. 

Each step he takes in her direction feels like a balloon inflating in his chest. Too close and it might pop, turn him into a splatter of gold on the marble ceiling. 

Blessedly, he survives the approach. Annabeth sucks in a breath that she does not release for several seconds. 

Percy nods and reaches out a hand. “Lieutenant.”

“My lord.” Unimpressed, mocking. She takes his hand.

Her touch elicits a surge of tingles that travels all the way up his arm. It feels hot and cold all at once. Percy freezes. Annabeth does not move, either. He does what he can to ignore the wave of wanting that threatens to swallow him whole, roars twice as loud when he meets her eyes.

There is nothing to be said, so they dance. She is more dexterous than he remembers, but so is he. One of the perks of being a god: one does not trip or step on other people’s feet.

“Have I gotten better since Westover Hall?” Percy asks. 

“You remember that?”

His head tilts in genuine confusion. “How could I forget?”

“I thought gods had better things to think about.”

Percy swallows a long silence and shakes his head. He thinks of little else but their time together. “I remember.”

She looks away, over his shoulder. They’re being watched, they both know it. Percy’s gaze roams the room to find a number of eyes on them. 

He allows himself a slightly tighter grip on her waist. This is a diplomatic dance, he reasons. What good will it do if they’re both stiff as boards?

However minute his movement, Annabeth feels it. She inches ever so slightly closer, probably unnoticeable to an outside observer, but it feels like a mile’s difference to Percy.

Slowly, her hand moves from his shoulder to the left side of his chest. She rests it there for a little while, eyebrows furrowed. 

“You don’t have a heartbeat,” she remarks. 

“You broke it,” Percy says. “Doesn’t work anymore.”

“Funny,” she says, though she doesn’t seem to think so at all. She doesn’t even roll her eyes.

“I like you without that jacket on,” he tells her. 

Her eyes roam over his body. “That suit looks like a Halloween costume.”

Percy smiles softly. “I got it at Party City.”

Annabeth runs a finger over the blue fabric, luxurious and decidedly not from Party City, but says nothing. Percy prays she will be kind enough to meet his eyes again. 

“I didn’t want to do this,” he says. 

“Dance?” she asks, looking back up at him. She’s being difficult, but he won’t back down. 

“This entire situation. I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.”

“Well,” Annabeth says, “you do.”

Percy chews on his cheek. “Do I?”

“Percy.”

“I mean, really? Do you really think so?”

Annabeth grips his shoulder and looks around. “Stop. People are looking.”

Percy lowers his voice. “Beth, I’m sorry about Thalia. I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole, but I hate that it pushed us away. I thought… well, after—”

Annabeth’s eyes widen slightly as he speaks. He stops himself too late—she’s already stepping back.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, holding onto her. “Please.”

“We can’t have this conversation in front of all these people.”

“We can go somewhere else.”

“Together?” Annabeth says. “You know we can’t.”

“So we don’t talk at all?” Percy says. “Why do you get to choose that for both of us? It’s not fair.”

“It’s not—that’s not what I meant.” Annabeth shuts her eyes tightly, releases a shaky breath. “It would be strange if we went somewhere alone.”

“It’s diplomacy. We’ll say we’re working things out.”

Annabeth looks around the room again, then back at him. A long silence. She seems to be assessing him, even though he’s never felt more transparent than he does now. He may as well scream it to the room. 

“After the song is over,” Annabeth says. “People will notice if we stop dancing before then.”

It’s then that Percy registers what is actually playing. His mind had had one singular objective up to that point: Annabeth. The lyres, aulos, and kithara strum a romantic tune, but one that feels hopeless. Perhaps lovers who know their time is limited. And still, they dance.

As the song comes to a close, Percy tries his luck and bends Annabeth in a dip. A small gasp elicits from her mouth, her hands tightening around him. When they resurface and the guests clap around them, Annabeth is looking at him with an air of incredulity, but—she looks like she’s recognizing him.

Her arms fall to her sides, and a world exists between them again. 

Nymphs, naiads, minor gods part like the sea for them. A magnet’s pull has Percy itching to take Annabeth’s hand as she leads them out of the room to darkened hallways. They stop far enough away from the main room that chatter and music still faintly echo. Percy spots a couple behind a pillar but finds no issue with it. Let them watch. There will be no show today.

Her eyes are low, but her posture is straight and chin pointed up. A worthy opponent to anyone on the sidelines who can’t see the tears gathering along her waterline, who can’t see the way she minutely twists her mouth to restrain a sob. 

Percy wants to snap the circlet wrapped around her skull, like a cursed amulet that is incapacitating her as Artemis’ statuesque right hand, and not his Annabeth.

“I miss you,” he tells her. It’s far from a confession at this point. Missing each other is a fact, a characteristic that is as simple and innate as the color of their eyes. “And don’t tell me you don’t feel the same. All your letters…” He tilts his head, trying to get a look at her. “Annabeth, we’re all that’s left. You and me. It was hard enough when we weren’t supposed to be talking, but this has been torture. Can you just be Annabeth right now? Not a lieutenant. Just… who we used to be.”

“We’re not,” she stresses miserably. “It’s been so long. That person doesn’t feel a part of me anymore.”

“You smell different.”

Her brows furrow deep. How could she feel so disconnected from herself when she was making the same faces at thirteen?

“I noticed back when my mom died,” he says. “There’s none of that lemon anymore. It’s just like every other Hunter.”

"Yes, well, you lost your streak."

"I can put it back," Percy answers uncertainly, feeling incredibly guilty at this particular grain of sand passing through the hourglass.

“Don't. This furthers my point,” Annabeth says in a strained, airy voice. Whispering so her voice won’t lodge in her throat.

“No, it doesn’t. That’s all external.” His eyes roam from the circlet to the bow strapped over her, the braid across her chest that holds her quiver. 

Her shoulders shake with her sobs. “I don’t even feel like a person anymore. I don’t know when the last time I did was.”

He pulls her close in a hug. In contact the smallest bit more than their embrace while dancing, but it’s a world’s difference of comfort. Stiffness melts with icicles in spring.

“What even are these medals?” Annabeth blubbers. “You didn’t earn shit.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Her arms wrap around his torso. Percy remembers something Silena had told him, back when he was fifteen and thought he knew her. She told him of a phenomenon in which heartbeats and breathing patterns sync when in close proximity to loved ones. Annabeth and him are one. Her heart beats for both of them.

She sniffles, and the tension that quickly builds in her body signals a separation. Distance is drawn between them, but Percy feels that he has just been allowed back into her orbit. 

Annabeth wipes her face with her thumbs. So beautiful, puffy eyes and all.

“Okay,” she says.

His shoulders drop in decades of relief. “Okay.” 

“You are also still my best friend, by the way.”

Percy smirks. “So you did get my letters.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Shut up.”

One hundred eighty-two years since the last letter

Believing in the gods is easy. Annabeth talks to one nearly every day. What is difficult is having faith in them.

An angel with her wings clipped. The Hunt, draped in silver, a glow surrounding them that instantly informs others of who they serve. Signs of their purity and devotion to their lady.

Dreams that leave her lightheaded and have blush prickling her cheekbones, igniting to fire when she catches someone looking at her. Can they tell?

Hundreds of years of gained knowledge and mental maturing, all to be stuck in a girl's body. She thinks of her insides as the ocean. Nerve endings are sea foam, bubbling to the surface, popping at the lightest touch. Little waves that start low in her stomach and build and build, gaining with the current to a fine sensation that crashes when it all gets to be too much. Fizzling away in aftershocks throughout her body.

She doesn't feel so pure or untouched anymore. She never has. Annabeth has tested these waters over time, little by little with no repercussions.

What difference would it make for Percy's hands to be the ones passing over her? Their souls are already bound. The physical equivalent doesn't come close.

Annabeth remembers touching him in ways she never has. Sometimes, when she's feeling daring and untouchable, she'll close her eyes and imagine all the things they could do. A private tent leads to exploration, and the vow is rather unclear on what personal pleasure is classified as.

Annabeth has no photos to mark their time together, just the distorted images of her dreams and an unrelenting memory. She thought memory to be a bucket that once overflowed, those times are lost forever. It seems that Annabeth's mind is a black hole, taking in everything and more, not letting her forget. The sacrifice of every bad memory plaguing her is worth it, to remember each moment she has shared with Percy.

When the sky is bright and mist covered, the sea is white. It's a haunting visual. The lighthouse is the most important thing here right now.

She spots a figure in the distance. The aura of a god is a magnet. Annabeth is drawn closer.

Her robes look to be made of sea foam and moonlight, shimmering silk that blends in with the sand. Her eyes are on the horizon line, watching the ships pass and guiding them to safety.

No doubt a goddess, though one Annabeth has never seen before.

“Lady Brizo?”

She turns to Annabeth. Her face shifts as if recognizing her from a dream, thinking now I know where you are from. “Yes.” 

If Annabeth were a goddess, where would her domain lie? She could ask Percy. His was never assigned, it just aligned. Who needed him most and who he wanted most to help. At this moment in time, Annabeth’s domain might exist in the realm of regret. Asphodelians would agree.

“My…” Annabeth takes a breath. "Someone I know, his father is a god. Before he knew that though, he was told that his father was lost at sea. Not dead—lost."

"It seems appealing, doesn't it? Entering a void above the water, your only hope resting on that light right there."

"Appealing?"

"You understand, Annabeth. Dreams have no rules or expectations. To be lost in this scene would be a dream actualized."

A step between living and non-living. If only she were a myth.

Brizo sets her palm atop Annabeth’s head, the pad of her thumb just above the circlet, and the world fades to white mist. She wakes.

Thirteen years since the last letter

The campfire has been restored at Camp Half-Blood, Percy's statue moved to the dining pavilion. He brings his trident when he visits to show them he cares, though none of the campers who welded it are alive anymore. The ones that are think him kind and merciful. He is Perseus, their savior. Sometimes it feels as though Percy Jackson is well and truly dead, excepting in the way that matters.

His story as a demigod hero shifted through the ages, changed until it became unrecognizable, then faded from memory. The Perseus that exists in the collective imaginary is the one depicted on the statue, and Percy finds himself trying to emulate that god when he comes here. Let the version of him on record be one greater and more honorable than reality.

The kids have something to show him today: a library. A research library, Briony calls it, dedicated to guarding the living memory of Camp Half-Blood and its inhabitants. It is an act of worship towards Percy, and he can feel his power grow greater as he steps through the doors, as though his senses have doubled in precision.

"Who designed this?" Percy asks.

"The building?" Briony asks. "I did."

Percy has to look away. A child of Athena, an architect. Briony was eleven when Percy led her here, and now she is sixteen, like Annabeth never got to be. He never understood, as a young boy, how gods in all their perfect glory could envy mortals. He understands now.

"Is it to your liking?" she asks, nervous. "If not, we can—"

"It's wonderful," Percy says. "You can keep going."

Briony leads him to an archive. Digital files document every quest on record. There is a protocol for recording statements from those who survive. Folders and folders of physical photos, categorized by year, dating back to before Percy was even born. Those used to just be kept at cardboard boxes in the attic, but now they are stored in a climate-controlled environment to prevent temperature and sun damage.

Percy retrieves the one labeled 2005, flips a few pages until he finds the photo he is looking for. It's him with his arms around Annabeth and Grover. He had a copy taped to his bedroom wall, though the Fates only know what happened to it. He wonders if his mother and Paul's children's children's children's children have saved it in a photo album in the back of a closet.

Once he steels himself, Percy shows Briony the photo. "That's me in the middle, there."

"Holy shit. Really?" She looks at the photo then back at Percy's face, eyes wide as though she cannot compute that he and the boy in the photo are the same person. "Are there any more?"

They go through the albums together. Briony takes notes furiously as Percy names the other faces he recognizes, lists their parentage and whatever else he deems helpful. He's happy to realize his knowledge does not stop at the year of his choice. The half-bloods he met as a god, the ones whose prayers he answered, he can also name.

Unsurprisingly, Briony is more interested in the earlier photos. She has a lot of questions about Percy's quests and the people he knew.

"Was this girl your friend? Annabeth?" Briony asks. "She's in a lot of photos with you."

"Yes. She is my friend."

"Is?"

"She's alive," Percy says. "She is Artemis's lieutenant."

Briony's eyes shine with wonder. "Wow! Do you think she'd come talk to us? Can you ask her?"

"That's not possible," Percy says. He supposes he could, but the words he writes for her are just for her. He is not willing to share. "Maybe the Hunters will stop by. They're great at capture the flag."

"I can't tell if you're joking."

"I'm not. It was the only time I didn't win."

They move onto a different section of the library, books on the classic stories about heroes and monsters that Annabeth knew by heart at age twelve. From what Briony describes, there is a lot more studying to being a camper now than there used to be some four hundred years ago.

Briony runs her pointer across the spines of the books. "This shelf is all on magical items. The Golden Fleece, Heracles's lionskin, Odysseus's cap of invisibility." Percy nods, wonders to himself if Annabeth still has her hat. Briony pulls out a book and continues, "We're working on the section on potions and enchantments. Like this one—there are some accounts of a type of magic so powerful it can burn out divinity, turn a god into a human."

Percy furrows his eyebrows. "What accounts?"

"We don't know if any of it's true," Briony admits. "It's hard to parse out truth from fiction. Over the years, a lot of people have been interested in writing about the gods and sometimes they take some creative liberties, but they don't always explain what they are."

"Maybe I can help," Percy presses. He doubts such magic even exists, aside from that coming from the hands of Zeus himself, but he has nothing but time to figure it out.

Briony flips a few pages. "There are stories about a witch. The specifics vary across the texts, but she's usually described as an immortal who was cursed forever, and she keeps trying to create a potion for herself so she can die and be free of her curse. It never works on herself, but other immortals seek her out for the same reason."

"A witch," Percy repeats. "Is there a name?"

"No. In some of the stories, she lives alone on an island. Does that ring a bell?"

Percy feels the air still around him. He remembers long weeks on an island with a very gifted potioneer. He remembers the hope in her eyes when she asked him to stay, after he'd shared how he felt there was nothing in the world for him but death, mere months after Annabeth took the vow.

He nearly stayed. She was angry when he told her he wouldn't. There is something yet in the world for a hero like you. I hope you never find it.

An immortal grudge is a powerful one. Percy knows this because Oreus's name still tastes like blood.

"No, it doesn't," he said. "Probably fiction."

He says it because it has to be. If it isn't, the only thing that could save him is at the hands of the only person who has good reason to refuse him.

Ten years since the last letter

Annabeth rolls the emerald between her thumb and forefinger. It’s the same color as his eyes. Had he taken that into consideration?

Nighttime has become a refuge for her independence. The exhaustion that comes with a lack of sleep is a small price to pay for solitude. The moon is a silent companion. When she isn't at the beach, it's at times like these that she feels closest to Percy.

He is the only person who knows her as Annabeth. That's what he asked for on Olympus. She tries for him, through their letters, but the remaining parts of herself are an idealized version. The Hunt is her family, but she is their lieutenant. There will always be a degree of separation between them.

Her authority bars any true humanization, but Annabeth is also separated from Artemis. The balance of her reality has tipped in favor of her love. She believes in Percy more than she believes in the gods, and it's agonizing.

The nightlife is loud. Crickets, critters, creatures come alive when darkness blankets the woods.

Annabeth's head snaps eastward. She's grown a sixth sense for detecting monsters in the vicinity. A disturbance in the air of something ancient. She pockets the emerald and grips her bow.

Twigs snap. A small humanoid figure, breathing tinily, dashes through branches.

Not a moment too soon. A Hellhound melts through the shadows, snarling, red eyes finding Annabeth's.

Her arrow lodges in the beast's coat, not enough to kill it. It lunges at her so quick that her bow must be abandoned, drawing her knife from her arm.

Find the chink in the armor. The hellhound makes a pass at her and she rolls beneath it, risking a minor trampling to lodge her dagger into its soft stomach. It lurches in pain, howling, and Annabeth draws enough distance to mount two arrows, draw the string back, and launch them into the dog's mouth. It dissolves into the forest floor.

Annabeth pants, coming down from the high of spilled dust. She grabs her knife and looks around for the little girl, spotting her hidden figure behind a tree.

"It's okay," Annabeth promises. "It won't come back." (For now, but she doesn't need to know that quite yet.)

She steps out of the shadows with ripped clothes and frizzy hair. She looks to be ten or so.

Annabeth sheaths her knife and approaches with caution, a cornered alley cat. "I'm Annabeth. What's your name?"

"Mari."

Annabeth looks around, straining her ears for any movement. Electrifying dread shoots through her gut for what she is about to do.

She realizes she's never summoned a nature spirit before. Dryads are everywhere, no? She places her palm against the bark of the nearest tree. "If this tree belongs to a dryad, could you please show yourself? I have a question."

"What are you doing?" Mari asks.

Committing treason is the truest answer. Illinois is too far west to stray east, but Annabeth cannot bear this little girl equipping herself with a bow and the silver glow of immortality.

"Having someone take you somewhere safe."

The spirit melts from the bark, painted in moss and dirt. She looks older, whatever that may be. Shifts her chlorophyll gaze from Annabeth to Mari.

"Hello," Annabeth says. "Are there any protectors nearby?"

"Atticus just crossed."

"Could you please call for him? It's urgent—this one here needs to get to Camp Half-Blood as soon as possible."

She appraises the decoration around Annabeth's head and tilts her chin. "He did seem bored…"

The dryad stalks away into the dark woods.

Annabeth kneels in front of Mari, though there's no reason to. Annabeth was much smaller when she was in this girl's situation. "When you get to Camp, you may or not be claimed by your godly parent. Pray to Perseus, and say that Annabeth sent you. He will take care of you."

"Okay," she says with a wobbly shake of her voice, tears frozen in her eyes. Annabeth herself might cry.

"Can you repeat that for me?"

"Pray to Perseus that Annabeth sent me."

Annabeth gently grasps her wrist. Skin and bones. "Good. It'll be okay, I promise. I know this is a lot, but this has been the hardest part. You aren't alone anymore."

The satyr soon arrives, giddy to be on a mission. Annabeth watches Mari disappear into the woods, and she makes her way back to camp with her feet dragging. It takes longer than she had thought, so lost in her head beforehand. She doubts anyone has the faintest clue of what had just so quickly transpired.

The camp is empty with a dying bonfire in the center. Upon entering the circle, one of the wolves approaches Annabeth. Her heart stutters to a rapid pace as she follows her to Artemis's tent.

Annabeth steels her nerves before pulling back the curtain to the spacious, dimly lit tent. The goddess sits in her usual spot, petting a pup on her lap.

Annabeth bows. "My Lady."

Artemis nods to the pillow across from her. "Sit."

She squares her shoulders and smooths her windbreaker as she criss-crosses over the woven pillow.

"You've strayed."

Oh, what Annabeth would give to see her own expression. In a split second, she weighs her options of admitting to her treason, being vague, or playing dumb. "Yes."

Artemis tilts her head. "This community feels separation from you, Annabeth. As do I."

"My lady, I swear my devotion is solely yours. I would be truly lost without the Hunt." She chooses to look remorseful, her head hung low. "Is it anything specific? I am aware that I've yet to live up to Thalia or Zoë's examples."

"Figure it out. You are not meant to 'live up' to them, it is you who sets your path. Is it Perseus?"

"No," she answers quickly, too quickly. "I just…" She looks at Artemis. A subordinate, yes, but the closest companion either of them have. A strange dynamic in which Annabeth must always submit. She can still speak freely when the opportunity is presented, however.

"I've always had someone," Annabeth says. "When I lost someone, there was always another who came along to fill that void. With losing Thalia, though, there's this gaping hole that has kept widening every day. I am unsure of anything that crosses my path."

"This family you have chosen goes beyond plain acceptance. If you embrace them, they will embrace you."

Annabeth nods. She believes Artemis, but this isn't the solution she seeks.

Eight years since the last letter

She is seldom absent when he closes his eyes, which is why Percy lingers in his godly privilege of sleeplessness for as long as he can.

Sometimes, it's a peaceful sight. The last moments he saw her as she used to be, before her hope turned to dread turned to dark resolution, replay in his mind like a faulty film reel. She was wearing a borrowed orange shirt over her silver dress, Percy's navy jacket thrown over her shoulders. The aftermath is a rude awakening.

Other times, the orange and blue give way to red. What good is her immortality if she still bleeds like any human? If her bones can still crack, dull like wet tree branches? It is surprising how many deaths his mind can conjure in great detail, all in portrait of the one he loves most.

There is, then, the bigger question: what good is his immortality if it does not get him what he so desperately needs? Him shut out in the palace, Annabeth, suffering in the prison of her responsibilities. His delusions that she might at least be happy with the Hunters have little to stand on at this point. He thinks of her last letter, the tear stains blurring the ink, and asks himself how much longer he will let her suffer.

Alas, his godhood is as useful as a bottomless cup.

His godly duties have been affected. Percy's repeated boldness in seeking her out means he is under increased surveillance in the palace, which makes his escapades less frequent. It is selfish and a sacrilege to the every ounce of worship he has ever received, but he prefers to seize his limited time out of the water to check on her. Percy has effectively abandoned his domain, his only source of power, and it weakens him every day.

As for Annabeth—here, too, he is useless. His words fall short of comforting her. He cannot safeguard her without breaking the rules, cannot bend these rules without threatening both of their lives, cannot change his condition in any way that would make him hers in practice in addition to principle. There should be a way to fold the Earth in half, bring together the faraway ends at which they stand.

There might be a way, of course. It sits on a boiling pot above a rustic fire kept alight by practiced magic, a liquid that smells like grass and sulfur and the aftermath of a bad dream. Had that been what she was making then? A cure for her sickness, the very same one from which Percy suffers?

If the stories are true, Calypso holds the solution to every one of his woes. If he could die again, he could ask Annabeth to leave the Hunt. They would finally be together in life and death. If she denied him, he would be free to release himself from the only thing—the ichor having burnt back to red—keeping him bound to the Overworld.

So he must salt the wound. Go back to Calypso only to ask her to help him leave her again. Ask her to clear his path to the one he has always preferred.

She could say no. What would Percy do? She is powerful, but ultimately harmless from her exile. She could hurt Percy, not kill him, nor could she hurt Annabeth. There must be some way to force her. Percy could harm her to the point where she has no choice but to oblige. He could send her traveler after traveler until she loses grasp of her own senses and does not know to disagree.

Percy sees himself in a children's tale, the punishment he devised turned into the moral of a story meant to turn mortals away from resentment and its poisons. He is as bad as every god that came before him.

The ichor floats in the water until it dissolves into nothing. Percy pokes each of his fingertips into the tip of his trident, waves his hands in the water and draws golden trails that shimmer in front of his face. He does not exactly remember what physical pain felt like, but it must not have been this boring.

Seven years since the last letter

It is a rare occurrence that the Hunt accompanies Artemis to Olympus, so Annabeth never sat in on her diplomatic pursuits before lieutenancy. However, the winter solstice calls for Artemis's right hand, and so Annabeth dutifully followed.

The question of the hour is this: will Percy be here? So far, no. He isn't on the same level she is in terms of proximity to Poseidon, so she didn't expect his presence. But she is disappointed and bored. Annabeth finds the most interesting thing in the room to be the way the light catches on her silver gown.

She mixes and mingles with the minor gods laying about, the nature spirits who are too tipsy to hold a real conversation. It's a failed experiment where she didn't even have a hypothesis in mind. Not much changes with immortality, especially not celebrations such as this.

These reunions do have her steering clear of gods who have likely forgotten of her existence. Spotting Aphrodite has her averting her gaze the second her irises melt into sea glass. Athena is a wound that never had the chance to heal.

Does she remember her? Annabeth hasn’t accomplished anything worthy of Athena’s attention. The most she could praise her for today would be that she has remained a maiden. Everything else belongs to Artemis. Annabeth hates how after all this time, just thinking of her mother has her shrinking in inadequacy. 

She hasn’t felt so unworthy since she could age. She has never built anything, she has not constructed a monument for the gods, she hasn’t even put pencil to paper this century. Can she still call herself her mother’s daughter? What would be the purpose?

She is no longer Athena's pride, she is just an unremarkable daughter of the past. Annabeth realizes there is nothing to say to her.

Minutes or hours later, she hears a silky laugh across the room and her eyes land on a Nereid. Her skin is tinted a pale green, shimmering with each shift or her translucent dress. She looks like a ghost. Annabeth's breathing grows shallow. If Siren spirits existed, she would surely be lured.

She quickly realizes three things: 1) This Nereid is acting as Poseidon's right hand tonight. 2) This Nereid is on Poseidon's court. 3) This Nereid has interacted with Percy.

Interacted… more than that, surely. Flirted, definitely. She is beautiful, and so is Percy. He is charming, kind, and attentive. Not to mention a god, the most desirable trait. What isn't to be tempted by?

And Percy, in his kindness, would be confused and then flattered by this flirtation. He wouldn't be able to refuse, would he? No. Why would he refuse?

They are almost equal in the power they wield within the court. Who else has joined the pool of Percy's companions? It could be anyone, everyone, while Annabeth is left dreaming of him.

What right does she have to be upset over this? Percy doesn't belong to her. But if he doesn't belong to her, then what does she have? She thought they had chosen each other now, even in different orbits. She thought that meant through every aspect, every category of connection with another being.

"I recognize you."

Annabeth stammers. "I am sorry, I must have forgotten where we've met before."

She stands straighter so as not to appear intimidated by the proximity, the Nereid's mythical beauty radiating so heavily. Her irises are completely black, same as her long flowing hair. It looks as though her skin is dotted with an algae-like texture. Smooth but bumpy, leaving millions of tiny, shining indents.

"We have not," she says. "You are Artemis's lieutenant, yes? You are the one Perseus waits for."

Her breath catches in her throat. “Sorry?”

“Our prince talks while he dreams.”

“Right,” Annabeth says below her breath. But the knife has already been lodged deep in her gut. She isn’t surprised to have her fears confirmed. There just wasn't the most amount of logic to her thoughts, she will admit.

“What will it take for him to open up, Lieutenant?” At Annabeth’s confusion, she furthers, “Is he always this rude, ignoring his admirers?”

Just like that, the wind gods have blown every particle of air away from Annabeth's direction. Has he waited, truly waited? Why? Does she trust the teasing comments of a Nereid over her own doubts? It's more so that this potential confirmation aligns with who Percy really is. How his letters have spoken of devotion in its highest, truest form. It's a bit ridiculous, the sense of victory she feels in this.

"If he's ignoring anyone's advancements," Annabeth says, dazed, "then I believe that's your answer."

The Nereid's head tilts, as if they are gossiping old friends. "I am reminded that he used to be mortal."

Annabeth huffs and mutters an excuse, making her way towards Artemis. She feels like a child asking her mother when they can go home, but she has had enough. She will stick silently by her lady's side for the rest of the evening, writing the script for announcing her retirement from lieutenancy.

Five years since the last letter

“Is it finished?” Percy asks when she meets him at the beach.

“Almost,” Calypso says without looking at him. "There is one more ingredient I need."

"What ingredient? I'll find it."

She huffs out a laugh. "Worry not. It will not be difficult to locate."

Percy chews on the inside of his cheeks. Calypso has been surprisingly easy to deal with, especially after the initial shock, which makes him regret all the ways he considered torturing her before materializing in her island for the second time. Fortunately, in addition to his sword, he came armed with a bargaining chip. Like the potion, no guarantees—she tries to solve his problem, he tries to solve hers in return.

"What is it?" Percy presses.

"Give me your hand."

Percy furrows his eyebrows. "Calypso…"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself." She puts out her open hand, impatient. "I need your blood."

"You couldn't just say that?"

Percy lets Calypso take his wrist and guide his hand over the broiling pot. She produces a bronze dagger, drags the blade over his palm and lets the ichor spill out. When it touches the potion, it sizzles to a boil, emitting a smoke that smells like lemons.

Hope and concern mixes in Percy's stomach. "Is that going to happen to me when I take it?"

"Probably not." She releases his hand, the cut is already healing.

Percy grumbles, but does not protest. If the potion burns him to a crisp, his problems will be solved all the same. It is Annabeth he would worry about. What would she do if he promised himself to her, only to dissolve into nothing?

"Does this mean it's done?" Percy asks, rubbing the last of the ichor against his shirt.

Calypso hesitates before she responds, "Yes."

“Then what’s the matter?”

Her lips twist nervously as she turns around to look at him. “It does not work in the way I promised.”

Percy tenses. “It won’t make me mortal?”

“It will.”

“I don’t understand.”

Calypso appraises him. Her golden hair blows in the wind. When he first saw her, Percy had found her flawless face enchanting. Her skin will never see a wrinkle, a sun mark. Perfect and spotless. Percy’s appreciation for this kind of beauty has faded now that he sees it in his own reflection.

He knows better. Perfection has a name and face.

“You asked me for magic to turn things back to the way they were before.” Calypso points to the cauldron. “This will not do that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It will burn away the god,” Calypso says. “All of it.”

Percy observes the liquid bubbling in the pot. The godly part of him is screaming: run. “If I take this, I won’t be a demigod anymore?”

“All human. No powers, no special strength, nothing.”

Percy nods slowly. Nothing.

“I still expect you to hold up your end of the bargain,” she says.

“Why wouldn’t I? You did what I asked.”

Calypso regards him. “I just don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. I’m speaking to my father about your case today, alright? It’s done.”

“And you’d give up everything that makes you important?”

“This is not what makes me important.”

"She makes you vulnerable, not important," she says. He never told Calypso the reason for his request, but he is not surprised that she already knows. Gossip in Olympus travels fast, or maybe she still recalls the things he said in his sleep all those centuries ago. Percy is not ashamed of his transparency, even when Calypso shakes her head. "It will kill you. Why do you want that?"

Percy looks away, bites his tongue. "You wouldn't understand."

Nobody does. Not anyone he knew while he was mortal, nor his father or any of his siblings, no immortal who loved thousands of times over thousands of years can grasp what it means to belong to someone this completely.

Only Annabeth does. She seems to, if her words are true to her heart. The ichor-burning poison would go down easier if he could read her mind, if he knew she wouldn't flee again.

It does not matter anymore. He has nothing else but the twin futures this potion can provide.

Calypso pours some of the liquid into a small flask. "This much is enough. Any more will kill you."

Percy nods, considers asking for an extra dose. "Thank you. I swear I will do what I can."

Calypso sighs and blinks slowly, lazy eyes looking away, as though nothing he says matters. "Yes. I know."

He pockets the flask. She turns around without a word and begins walking inland, only stops to look back to shoot him a look. Why are you still here?

Through the blur of the wave that consumes him as he retreats, Percy sees Calypso sink her bare hands into the boiling pot and bring them to her mouth.

Three years since the last letter

Silver jackets have been shed in the summer’s heat. Annabeth stands at the pier and watches a little boy chase seagulls as his mother stands by. Children fly kites, fluttering and gliding in the wind.

Their child would be long gone by now, and that child’s child, that child’s child, and so on.

Annabeth doesn't believe in much anymore. She tries to hide it, and she's put on a good show, but anyone with a decent memory knows Annabeth is not who she used to be.

The day drags on to nightfall. They make their way to Camp. She wonders when Percy last stepped foot here. Does he rise from the sea like any old tale of sea gods? Does he walk past Thalia's tree like any demigod camper?

Her eyes grow dry and irritable from staring at Percy's statue. A sense of pride washes in with the longing. Percy, who backed demigods over gods since she met him, is now the patron of that belief.

Everyone here knows Perseus as the god closest to them. He resents his duty to his father, but this, she knows he takes the upmost care towards.

Annabeth thought of sneaking into Cabin Three, but she could not bear the thought of someone else taking up the space that Percy left behind. There have been several demigod children of Poseidon since him.

The campfire is not the same as what she was raised on. Annabeth pokes the embers around with the tip of an arrow. Everyone else has long since gone to bed, with her Hunters cozy in their moonlit cabin. Most of them do not wish to be here, but it is in this location that Annabeth feels safest.

When she thinks of approaching Artemis, her head spins and her stomach seizes. What could she possibly say to her? How to phrase it? It has been so long of this life, so what's any longer? She isn't any other Hunter who stays within a safe distance, following orders and believing in things they don't understand.

Annabeth Chase is not someone who abandons her duties. It isn’t herself she’s looking after, it’s dozens of girls. Sisters, friends. She made a vow in Thalia’s honor.

Red eyes flicker through the fire’s faint ashes. Annabeth gasps. She has seen this goddess through the fires at Camp and on Olympus. Her cloak obscures most of her face, as do the shadows. Annabeth can see rounded cheeks of a young girl, and eyes that hold flaming warmth.

Annabeth kneels and bows her head. "My Lady."

"Annabeth." She pats her hand on the log. "Come sit."

She walks around the circle to sit beside Hestia with a few feet between them. Annabeth instantly feels warmer. Not externally, but in her chest.

Hestia waves her hand, and a small blanket appears at their feet with a few plates on it, the smells hitting Annabeth's senses and making her melt. Steaming potatoes and charred meat, a few piles of fruit, and oily sauces, among others that are too dark to see.

A home cooked meal, something she never truly had in her mortal life. She feels depleted of everything inside her.

"Go ahead," the goddess tells her.

Annabeth picks up a plate and walks over to the hot coals. She tosses a helping of meat in the fire, hesitating for a moment before dedicating it to Hestia. She walks back to her.

The warm flavors hit her tongue and make her feel soft, pliable. She can imagine Percy having made this with Sally. Annabeth feels like crying, but her chin doesn't tremble.

"You have been at war with yourself," Hestia says softly. It is not an accusation, but rather an acknowledgment.

Annabeth deems it unwise to say I know.

"You used to let your heart guide you," she continues. "And now you resent it."

"I've always resented it, I just let it override my head anyway."

"No. This is a resentment that you have decided to punish yourself for."

"Are you saying this as a fact?"

"You may trust your judgment. But my domain lies in guiding all people home. The path may become unclear and lead in false directions, but the final resting point remains. Why keep fighting it?"

Annabeth thinks of the floor plan in her mind of a house by the sea. She pictures Percy's additions. She wants to curl up by the fireplace and feel the heat dance along her skin as she fades away. When will this be enough? He said there was a way.

Hestia's eyes grow inquisitive. "Perhaps I should remind you."

"Please, I don't need any—"

Hestia's eyes glow, and Annabeth's vision becomes white.

A shared Oreo, a rumbling truck, a declaration of friendship. Emails and letters. Refuge underwater, a life saving hug, a muffled song of desperation. Sweaty palms, paper snowflakes, stepping on toes. His eyes are always the same. Kind and open, honest for her. In which Annabeth had never felt so seen and valued, not as what she could've been, but as what she was.

Heartbreak in its many forms: spirals of sand, encounters on the beach with suggestions of kisses, dances on Olympus that feel like coming home, but being restrained by surveillance.

Letters exchanged, running fingertips over ink, tattooing his words to her brain. Feeling his phantom touch on the parchment. Words that used to scare her, but now just sadden her at their impossibility. Is there a future for them? One that comes with coffins?

Annabeth jerks back. Her vision clears to see Hestia, as calm as before, the fire in her eyes having dimmed.

She can’t breathe. Annabeth unzips her jacket, allowing her chest to heave. The road always led to him, but they can't reach it together. Her throat is caught on fire, etched with blood. Air is a precious thing when it's coming in and out, rapid, racing against itself.

Annabeth is so tired of lying to herself and everyone around her. She wants to exist without boundaries and regulations. She wants to be far off where nobody can touch her, where her head can be clear without guilt for clearing it.

She will trade in her way of life for eighty or so fleeting years. With or without Percy, this will break them. She cannot wait any longer. It can't be worse than what they have been living through in the present.

It could also be something great.

Eight days since the last letter

Percy holds her last letter in one hand and the flask in the other. The liquid feels like it burns his fingertips, even through the glass.

I'm not sure what to do anymore, Annabeth wrote. Neither is he.

Percy is four hundred and twenty-nine years old. The length of time where he has been alive while not in love with Annabeth is statistically insignificant in relation to the totality of his lifetime. Through the turn of each century, his love for her alone has remained.

If she is not sure what to do, is there hope? Will she ever see fit to come back to him, even if she does truly love him? He has tried pushing, pulling, begging, waiting, and still she sits at the edge of him, close enough to see but too far to touch. She tells him of a home where they can rest together without opening the door to let him in.

Percy does not fault her. He would not choose a life with himself, were the roles reversed. She is good and kind, and he is a flood that rips root from Earth. He has the cure, a way to stop his tides from rising ever again in the palm of his hand, but Annabeth has to believe it will indeed cure him.

She may never believe it. Percy has stayed alive—or some version of it—all these years in hopes that she would, but there may never be enough time to bend the resolve in her heart. It is clear her guilt consumes her, no matter how clear he makes his forgiveness. Perhaps, then, his patience is what has kept her at bay, and only by going could he set her free.

He has one flask. He could go back, ask Calypso for another. Two to seal the deal. Or he could drink this one, take advantage of the frailty of the body he would be left with.

But he'd like to see her first. It would ease his mind or change it, because the sight of her always seems to shift his very axis back into balance. If he died, how long until he saw her again?

Percy wonders where she is. He thinks it unfair that he does not know, that his godliness does not grant him at least that one modicum of peace. It would take some time to go around the Earth until he found her, and time without her is time dead and mourned, but the search is always worth it when it ends.

Could he pray to her? He wishes. It would only be right. She is above him and the rest of the world, in every way he can imagine. It is her right to make him wait, to take her time. He is the one who should be more patient, but where his resolve weakens, his strength crumbles. Perhaps this is what cruel Zeus intended all along, giving Percy a blessing fashioned to become a curse, knowing all he ever wanted was her.

He whispers her name to himself. Remembers the time he saw her centuries ago, when she wrote to him on the sand and set off this cascade of longing. He'd hoped with every fiber of his being that she would call. He lives in the confines of Pandora's box, having slayed every monster but himself, sitting alone with silent Hope. She has a familiar smile.

"Annabeth," he whispers again, as though she can hear him. Even now, he believes in her, faithful. All she needs to do is call. Call. Please call.

Percy.

Annabeth walks into the sea, coming up to her thighs. Her pants swim in the water and sediment slots into her boots. She shakes in the cold.

The water spritzes over her face. She presses her lips together and tastes the stinging salt between them.

The emerald is clutched tight in her fist. Percy. Percy, please. She opens her fist, and it floats away. The sea is all around her, all encompassing. The fog eliminates the horizon. She will stay here until her bones fossilize, waiting for him.

Annabeth blinks, and Percy is six feet in front of her. He is looking at her like she is a ghost. Besides that, he appears pale and sickly. What has happened?

"Are you real?" he asks.

"Yes."

His mouth opens and closes a few times before halting out, “Where’s your…”

Her fingertips raise to brush over her naked forehead. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“I thought there’d be a tan line.”

A laugh tumbles out of her. “I guess there should be.”

He walks closer, an arm's length between them. “You dropped this.” The emerald, pressed between his fingers. 

“I did. Do you remember the first time I prayed to you?”

His head drops. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She raises her palm to cup the side of his face. Soft, freckled and scarred skin. How can there not be flesh, blood, and bone here?

He presses his forehead against hers. His hands have molded across her waist. "I figured it out, Beth. It'll work."

Her eyes open wide. She draws distance between their faces, keeping their bodies close. "You know for sure?"

She feels the movement of his hand twisting down her hair, and she knows it is where the gray is. "I'll be fully mortal, but yes."

Annabeth's heart drops. "Percy, no. That's too much to ask—"

He holds her face, a buzz worth millions of volts of electricity, fingertips on her neck and thumbs over her cheekbones. He is looking at her like she is his salvation. She is, as he is hers.

"I love you," Percy tells her. He means it. Annabeth could beg all she wants that he can't be willing to lose this part of himself, but she knows he will never concede. Everything he is is hers.

"I love you."

Percy inhales as if all life has been brought back into him. Gods only exist if they are believed in. If people have faith in them. With these three small words, Percy has never looked more human.

His nose nudges hers. The warmth that stirs in the space between them is enough to keep Annabeth sated until death.

“This is okay, you won’t turn into a jackalope or anything?”

She shakes her head.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” comes out quickly, under his breath, one last confirmation before Percy's lips are on hers, and the world does not implode. She is alive, he is alive, they are kissing, and Annabeth has never felt so human.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and
      brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

In T.S. Eliot, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’