Chapter Text
If you asked twenty-six-year-old Annabeth Chase what her main survival skill was, she wouldn’t say an expert dagger flip, or knowing when to drop her shoulder into an enemy’s oncoming attack, or even lightening her steps while invisible (though damn did she miss her cap right now).
No, after surviving voluntary child homelessness, life-threatening quests, and two Titan Wars, Annabeth would tell you that her most life-saving skill, time and again, was picking locks.
Picking locks meant new possibilities. There was no better balm for terror or hunger or exhaustion than the relief of a mechanism giving way under your fingers, creating another option, another chance as you went through a door that moments before had seemed permanently closed to you. Annabeth was no master thief, but the sons of Hermes had been her brothers-in-arms for almost twenty years now; with the right tools, pressure, and a bit of borrowed luck, there were few places in this world or the next that could keep her out.
And sure, in this particular case she could’ve probably just waited and walked through the front door when the place opened. But two hours of frantic research and late-night mission prep made it easy to draw the conclusion that while the temple in front of her was the best option on short notice, any offering made here was bound to be interrupted — by overbearing mothers, overeager salespeople, or, most bewilderingly, ever-present TV cameras — if she went during normal business hours.
Annabeth had casually coaxed Sally into re-explaining that last part this morning over very early cups of coffee after she was totally not caught trying to sneak out before sunrise.
Such measures were non-negotiable today. She needed to do this by herself, and there was simply no way she was getting away with that if any Jackson-Blofis was conscious of where she was headed.
As she disabled the alleyway security cameras and slipped through the loading dock to the back door, dressed in salesgirl black, Annabeth smiled in spite of herself at the thought of Percy tagging along. He would already be against the wall by the door, long and lean and casually checking their six, letting pen-Riptide pass back and forth across his fingers while offering commentary on the ridiculousness of her temple choice.
‘You look gorgeous, ‘Beth, but couldn’t you have picked a mission that didn’t require a full face of makeup at five a.m. on a Saturday?’
She would’ve rolled her eyes at that.
‘Do you think you could end someone with a stiletto heel if you lost your knives in there? Stupid question, of course you could.’
He would’ve at least coaxed a laugh there.
‘Honestly I should snag some good champagne while we’re here, that’s the main thing I was missing last night. Besides the ring. I can’t wait for you to see the ring.’
Annabeth would thank the gods she couldn’t blush at that. At the memory of him last night, drowsy and shirtless and bathed in moonlight as they sprawled across the too-small bed in his old room. Muttering ‘we should just get married’ sleepily into her shoulder, right in the middle of a whispered debate about the best venue for Sally’s birthday brunch and its rapidly-growing guest list. Like it was just another thing to add to their weekend plans while they were in town.
And then, as if returning to himself and the moment at hand, Percy had sat up suddenly, blue eyes meeting hers with a look so sweet and abashed and full of love that Annabeth doubted she would ever forget it.
‘I just meant, with all the party logistics… no, fuck it, I meant it. We should get married.’
When she’d simply stared back in shock, he’d asked again.
‘Marry me, Wise Girl,’ he’d murmured, resting his forehead against hers with a slow smile. ‘You’re a Jackson anyway. Let me make it official.’
Her own whispered ‘okay’ made her eyes blur with tears even now as she reached for the loading dock’s heavy door handle.
Focus, dammit.
Her answer — and the many ‘yeses’ given to him afterwards, as he kissed her back down to the mattress — was the whole reason she was here in the first place. The whole cause of her jerking awake in horror later in the night, desperate to appease the goddess that could tear their happiness apart with a wave of her hand. The one that had done it once not so very long ago, without a thought to the lives she was destroying —
Stop. Breathe. Focus.
What else would Percy say if he were here?
‘What form would The Mist even give monsters in a place like this?’ Percy’s voice asked idly, returning to her. ‘Judgy sales lady? Jealous maid-of-honor? Hater mother-in-law?’
They would both wince at that last one, and then he’d try to fix it with another joke, and then she wouldn’t be able to resist telling him to ‘take this seriously, godsdammit’, and then he would argue that they didn’t need to be here at all because last time he checked this goddess was not in fact her mother, and she would have to force him to wait outside because she was only attempting this particular divine discussion once, okay?
Annabeth let out a shaky laugh and shook her head — even in her imagination, they still ended up arguing — while thanking whatever god had sent her that scenario to calm her trembling hands and complete the task in front of her. There was no shame in admitting that underneath the frustration at feeling obligated to come at all was real fear; this new Juno-Hera hybrid scared the shit out of her. Despite her ongoing role as architect of Olympus, Annabeth had genuinely done her best to minimize godly encounters since the Olympians’ personae had merged after the last war; two mythologies to keep track of meant twice the opportunities to fuck things up, to be struck down before knowing the offense you had caused.
’Which is why,’ her mind-Percy breathed in her ear, ‘we never do something this crazy without backup.’
The lock finally released.
“Just wait for me,” she whispered to no one. “I’ll be out before you know it.”
Honestly, the offering had proven almost as challenging as deciding which awful dress to use as a fire-starter.
I should’ve come clean and asked Sally for a bit of that top slice in the freezer, Annabeth thought mournfully as she snagged a champagne glass from the stockroom. At least her old wedding cake might’ve brought me luck.
She brought her supplies to the middle of the showroom floor, stuffing a stolen Magnolia cupcake into the narrow glass, and lit the crumbled mess with a strip from a truly awful velvet bridesmaid’s dress, doused with a lifted bottle of Dom Perignon to cover her bases.
Annabeth drew a deep breath and sat before the tiny, sparkling pyre, facing the trifold mirror before closing her eyes.
Focus.
Research told her the cameras in here could only be down for seven minutes before the security system would trigger an automatic alert, and that countdown threatened to jumble the words in her head, making the prayer come together slowly at first.
“Most divine Hera,” she whispered. “Queen of heaven, goddess of marriage. I, a daughter of Athena, have chosen to pledge myself to — to join myself to another demigod, that asks for my hand.”
Okay apparently this should’ve been part of mission prep.
“Hear my prayer, and bind our hearts as one,” Annabeth said a little louder, trying again. The sheer number of supplicants here on a given weekend should raise her chance of being heard. “Hear my prayer, and bless this union.”
For several long moments, there was nothing but the hiss of flames and the crackle of buckling glass from the cheap flute in front of her. Then, as if in anticipation, all the surrounding mannequins — with their plunging necklines, sweeping skirts, and extravagant fabrics — squeaked and bent and cracked themselves into twisted, unnatural curtsies, headless necks bowed in reverence as they slid aside, waiting.
Annabeth took a practiced diver’s breath against the change in pressure and pivoted on her knees to face the worn chaise behind her. She trained her eyes on the floor, where a pair of delicate feet were now crossed in repose, clad in stilettos wrapped in fine silver chains, like a stack of necklaces fallen just so.
“Sit up, little girl, or I’ll plague you with a new affinity for mermaid gowns,” a dry, knowing voice called from somewhere in front of her.
Annabeth raised her gaze to take in the goddess before her. Despite the early hour, Hera had appeared to her red-carpet-ready, in a shimmering silver gown that showed toned legs and plenty of cleavage. She pushed wavy chestnut hair to one shoulder while using another elegant hand to grab the open bottle of Dom by the neck, fixing her supplicant with a smoky glare before taking a swig. Her lips twitched into a sardonic smile, one that had filled Annabeth with fear at sixteen and annoyance now at twenty-six. It was as if the goddess knew there were only minutes left before she was caught, and was playing with her food.
“Ah, you’re that daughter of Athena,” Hera rasped, hawkish gaze narrowing a little as she cocked her head to the side. “The little starchitect my husband admired so much.” She rose from the chaise in one fluid motion to breeze towards the veil display, bottle still in hand. “Nice job with the bathrooms.”
Annabeth fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“I thought you specialized in praying to virgins,” Hera sneered over her shoulder as she stepped on the seamstress platform to survey the merchandise, “like my sister, and Artemis, and that brilliant mother of yours. You tend to avoid goddess that …commit.” She pivoted on the center of the platform to face the room again, the triple mirrors only amplifying her brittle brilliance. “And you swore your little protection pact with my brother’s bastard years ago, which I suppose got even the god of the sea to honor a promise, since you’re still here. So what do you require of me? Besides tile preferences?”
Annabeth was stunned for a moment. All these years, she had always assumed that her hatred was one-sided — the anger of a lowly demigoddess against an uncaring queen. But seeing Hera here, glaring like she could split the room in two but very much present, told a different story.
A million questions formed on her tongue. But the clock was literally ticking, and she was here on business.
Keep your composure. Stay on message.
“I’m marrying Perseus Jackson,” Annabeth declared, surprised at the strength of her own voice, “and I need you to bless it.”
Hera advanced, slinking off the platform. “I doubt you’ll get that far,” she said dismissively, waving the bottle before pouring the last of it into a glass that appeared from nowhere. “And I hate repeating myself. You already have Poseidon’s blessing —“
“— that didn’t keep us together!”
Annabeth stopped herself from covering her own mouth in shock. It was as if her worst fears had just leapt from her, without her consent. Hera smiled without warmth at the opening, dark almond eyes fixing on her prey as she attacked.
”It kept you alive, little girl,” she drawled, necking the glass before waving it back into nothing. “It kept you sharp, fighting, killing those that should have killed you.” The goddess shook her head with a tsk, gaze almost pitying.
“Agàpi mou isn’t a magic spell — it isn’t even good Greek,” she continued. “Your little hero sticking around forever was never part of the deal. So stop hating me for being a daughter of Athena that couldn’t review a contract.”
A physical blow would’ve hit fewer weak spots. Annabeth sucked in a breath, dug nails into her palm to keep the tears that sprang forth from falling. She and Percy had never told anyone the details of that night by the fire with Poseidon, letting the depth of their bond speak for itself through loss and bloodshed and literal descents into hell.
For so long, she’d told herself that secret pledge was enough; that it was all she had the capacity to appreciate. To deserve. It was why her response to his proposal had shaken her — since when was she the girl that needed rings and a white dress to say ‘forever’?
Percy had always seen her, and their relationship, differently; Annabeth had always loved him for it. But now, as she stared down a more traditional path for them, it frightened her.
What else does he see that I don’t? What if, someday, it’s something he hates?
And Hera…she had seen it all, had heard their promises in the dark as she did the vows of countless lovers throughout the ages. She had seen, and heard, and taken him anyway —
“Listen, I’ve had a long night, little girl,” the goddess in question sighed, “and you’re starting to bore me.” The empty champagne bottle was melting, forming into a single blade of dark, deadly green.
“Shall I skip to the end of this story for you? To the wailing and the fury and the tragedy? Because I haven’t seen a relationship with this much drama go the distance in a very long time.”
Hera tested the glass sword’s balance on a still-kneeling mannequin before turning back to Annabeth.
“Maybe we just get it over with. Welcome the prophecy’s end. Smoke him out.”
The mannequin slid in half almost soundlessly, ballgown skirt splaying like a split head of lettuce.
“Maybe you’ve built the walls of Olympus high enough this time, and his waves won’t reach us. You’ve always have been such a…precise little girl, after all. Always fearful of making a mess.”
Hera’s grip on her makeshift sword was light, but her eyes were getting wilder. The glass caught the light, casting a sickly green shadow as it trailed the length of Annabeth’s body from foot, to knee, to heart, to throat.
“Maybe I’ll honor that, and cut clean enough that these poor pathetic sales ladies can still open on time.”
Somewhere beneath her fear, Annabeth found enough presence of mind to check the clock.
Three minutes.
She couldn’t catch the blade. But she could catch the mind wielding it.
“Why did you think I would never seek your blessing?” she blurted out, grasping onto the first question that came to mind.
Hera cocked her head mockingly. “Well, Athena sees marriage as the mind’s cage, to shrink and distract. And Poseidon…” she shrugged, humorless smirk returning, “…the sea does not consent to being contained. It fights through.”
The smile dropped as fast as it came.
“That protection pact granted you power, of a kind. But if you’d wanted stability, constancy, you’d have come to me. Because my sisters and I? We fix what the sea and the storm and the darkness would break into nothing. We restore balance.”
Hera’s aura was choking the room, making the very air spark and crackle with an ancient rage. The nightmare court of bowed mannequins were starting to smoke.
“We mend their mistakes.”
Annabeth could feel the impossible edge of the blade graze her throat, tried to separate the sensation of sweat on her skin from the first trickles of blood.
Two and a half.
“What if I promise to do the same?” she murmured, trying not to push into the blade that would steal her breath for good. Trying not to get lost in the terrible beauty of the goddess’ thwarted pride. “To keep the walls high. To keep the tide from washing your reign away to nothing.” She raised her chin, willingly exposing her throat in full.
Two minutes.
“What that pledge lacks in specificity, it makes up for in loyalty. When I call, the son of the sea answers. And I’ve kept his eyes trained away from heaven for the last ten years.”
Hera sneered at that, but the glass blade withdrew a fraction. Annabeth pressed on, filling the space with logic.
“You’ve blessed and arranged marriages for millennia, even between gods, despite your brothers making a mockery of it in your own home.”
Okay, filling it with risky logic.
“Show Olympus that the sea can be contained, if you bless it. Show them that love and logic aren’t in conflict, and that divine marriages can keep the peace. Can protect power, not take it away.”
Hera blinked long and slow at that, as something like anguish passed over her ageless face. Somewhere behind Annabeth, her little sacrificial pyre finally cracked and fell, dying flames licking the thick white carpet.
“Let us be your triumph, and you, its architect.”
Thirty seconds.
Hera huffed a ghost of a laugh at that and shook her head once, chasing some of the manic shadows from her face. She lowered the green glass blade at last, gazing at it for a long moment before snapping it in two.
“A little neat at the end there,” the goddess drawled, seemingly regaining her earlier detachment as the sword turned to dust in her hands, “but I’ll take it. I’ve heard worse, especially in this ridiculous place.” She glanced at the smoking showroom around her with a smirk, reforming the melted plastic brides with a wave of her hand. “I still say the whole thing collapses, but that keeps things interesting. And it’s been a while since I’ve properly riled that mother of yours.”
Now that the immediate threat was gone, Annabeth found the cheek to raise a dark brow. “Apologies, Your Grace. I’ve probably done better work with a knife to my throat, but it was a late night.”
Hera screwed up her beautiful face in disgust. “Don’t. Don’t become one of those couples that sound like one another,” her step-grandmother chided. “It’s unbecoming for the women of our family to lose their whole identity to their husbands.”
Annabeth wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration at the sheer hypocrisy. And your niece is literally goddess of Spring because she became Queen of the Underworld!
“Against her will, for half the year,” Hera replied blithely, as if it had been spoken aloud. The mannequins were creaking back into place, blackened dresses fading to gleaming cream and white, the ruined ball gown reassembling itself in a magical whirl in the corner. “A name change should suffice for you. I assume you’ll hyphenate…”
Annabeth jaw dropped. “So you’re really going to bl—“
“— though just like Persephone, you never get as much time as you need,” Hera said with an almost sympathetic shrug. The security alarms began to scream as she retreated through the mannequins, who slid back into place in her wake.
“I’d clean that up before they catch you,” she tossed over her shoulder. “If you get blacklisted, you may be stuck with that mermaid gown after all.”
Annabeth settled for smashing the smoking glass with her foot before bolting through the opening front doors, past a bewildered security guard.
“Hey, there’s a fire on the floor, I think we’re opening late today!”
Do your part, little girl. It’s only the end of the world if you fail.