The car door slams shut on the other side, rattling the entire vehicle more than it should. She resists the urge to look over and crack a smile at the unfamiliar face. Montauk was too clear ahead of her, but she had a feeling it had more to do with the person-being on her right. She flexes her hands over the steering wheel, feeling a little silly because most people didn’t even drive anymore and here she was riding around in a metal box more than a century old. But, she didn’t want to ever forget learning how to drive, considering who had taught her. This was their routine. Twice a year, when both their patrons were whisked away to Mount Olympus and wouldn’t look twice at their most faithful companions. She still couldn’t turn her head, but she was a little sick of the silence. Annabeth stretched forward, kicking the old radio on for the sake of something. She felt him smirk at her, and she could picture it so clearly even though she hadn’t
“So,” Percy started “Mushroom burger?”
She had been vegetarian for longer than she hadn’t at this point, the stench and heat of the Hunt causing her to gag at any creature's death now. No, better to stay away. Annabeth nodded, knowing damn well he was studying her more than he ever had the books from his moral high school so many years ago.
The god of heroes pulled out a pair of steaming twin baskets out of seemingly nowhere before passing it to his companion.
“Five Guys?” She smiled knowingly.
“For old time’s sake,” he said with mock-sincerity.
She didn’t giggle like she might have before. Because it was sobering, remembering they had old times now.
“This year’s our 80th.”
The roar in her ears reminded her of when they used to sit at the beach, glancing out across the Long-Island sound, putting seashells up to their ears. A deafening roar, but this time with none of the splashes and laughter. It was like she had punched the tender moment, and although she kept her gaze straight ahead, she could feel him thinking.
Nearly two minutes elapsed before he said anything. A small part of her pride, the hubris she had tried so hard to stamp out with arrows and beasts, wiggled, knowing that even divinity couldn’t keep him quiet for long.
“We should be 96,” he said, finally.
“We are 96.” She tossed back, confused.
“No,” He said, more emphatically than anything else, “We aren’t.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. It was her turn to go mute at his side. She glanced down from the ocean, the shimmering stillness a little too knowing, and instead focused on the two circular dents that she would never repair off the powder blue hood. As much as she hated to admit it, Annabeth knew what he meant. She hated that too. That despite 80 years she still knew how his mind worked. How his brain reacted.
For a moment, Annabeth could pretend they were in a different moment in time. Her mind helpfully conjured up the exact images she had been avoiding for weeks.
“Please,” whispered Thalia, “You have to, it’s the only way.”
Rocks, Boulders, Tiles.
Luke, gently taking her knife “I know what has to be done.”
Falling, falling, falling.
“Perseus Jackson. You must choose.”
The hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap.
Annabeth thinks that she hates choices. She bites, hard, into the magically procured mushroom burger.
“How was your birthday?” She said, itching to pretend this was normal.
He snorted, “Not much of a birthday. The campers had fun, I think, at least.”
She would never get used to that. The celebrations and feasts that the demigods would throw in his honor. All hail, Perseus, god of heroes and friend to all mortals. Never mind the fact that they rarely saw him, if ever. She wondered when the last time he had actually made an appearance at camp was.
Annabeth had been there just last month, for the first time in nearly twenty years. She knew her sisters hated it just as much as she did, but for entirely different reasons. Even though it had been just two days, she was pretty sure she had heard about fifty campers stories of the signs the great Perseus had left them. As if. About 90% of the miracles and signs they clung to religiously were definitely either A) not real, or B) complete accidents from Percy.
Knowing Percy was painful. The stories were painful. The questions were painful. But, she thought, it hurt so much less than being with him.
She spared the quickest glance to her right, drinking in the little glimpse she had. Oh. It was easier to pretend to not be in love with him when she didn’t have to see him. But if he was Cupid, then she was Psyche.
Tears welled up furiously, blurring the sea and her vision almost beautifully. Suddenly, she felt his hand slip into hers. It felt like the entire ground beneath them was shaking.
“Have you made any progress,” she whispered, humoring him anyways, hoping, hoping.
He squeezed her hand emphatically as she shifted their grip lower under the center console.
“I think we need an Oracle,” his tone equally as hushed.
Ok, woah. That had certainly not been the answer she’d been expecting.
“We aren’t heroes anymore, our quest-days are over, or are you having regrets?”
That was a low blow and she knew it. She imagined the glare he was wearing right now and waited for the quick snap-back. There was nothing.
“I’m serious.” He stressed, “The answer has to be in a prophecy.”
She breathed in, two, out, two.
“You don’t need some spirit from Delphi to tell you you’re immortal.”
“No, I need some spirit from Delphi to tell me how not to be immortal.”
Smart-ass. Seaweed Brain.
“You’re killing me,” she gasped out, shaking her head as if it would clear her mind like the Lethe.
“We’re not in combat,” he quipped back under his breath.
Whatever. He could have that one.
“This is it. This is the end of our road, you can’t undo the will of the King of the gods.”
Because it was silly, and unwise, to think that a grammatical loophole on Mount Olympus would mean they had a chance. The choices had been made. What’s done is done.
But, elpis piped up from deep in her chest, she wasn’t sure existed any more, the gods may be omnipotent but they surely were not omniscient. Her mind pulled up August 18th, 80 years prior like a file in a well-organized cabinet, the king of the gods words reverberating around her mind like she was standing there.
“So long as any demigod may celebrate your victory, you will guide them. You will make us all be better. Hail Perseus, god of heroes.”
He didn’t even give him a choice. For all the talk of being better, of not repeating their mistakes, the olympians egos were much like their physical form on Olympus, massive. She sealed that file and stocked it away before she could remember the look of absolute loss on Percy’s face, the way he had grabbed onto her as they pulled him away.
“I know I’ll figure it out, Annabeth.” He said, interrupting her from her sepia-stained photobook. “This can’t be my destiny. It’s wrong.”
“Don’t say that.” She said sharply, you never know who’s listening.
“They’re busy,” he muttered, just to be impertinent.
“Even if you break your chains, then what.” She demanded, “What about me?”
“We’ll figure it out! Like always!”
“No,” she mumbled, “Not like always.”
Always. It was a funny word. When she had been mortal she had been so obsessed with it. She always wanted a family, she always wanted to fight evil, she always wanted this and this and this. Fat load of good that did her, in the end. Now she had it. Always sixteen. Always on the run. Always alone. Not that that was true, either. She did get a family, in the end, and while she knew that she could never fully identify with her fellow huntresses, they were the only people on this earth to fulfill their promises to her.
“Not like always,” Percy agreed, and she dropped her hand.
“I’d do everything differently.” The words came out like a stream, so tiny you might miss it.
“Me too.”
Finally, as if they had been held back by a dam, the thoughts she tried so hard to keep away flooded her mind. Stolen moments preparing for the war. Promises made on the quiet of the beach after curfew. Being selfish, in his cabin, alone, during Capture the Flag, on solo missions. Her cheeks flared. Her own face, looking down at her, arms extended as if to lift someone out of a capsized canoe. Then, Oh. Not her own memories. Annabeth wondered if he knew he was even sending them to her anymore.
One final squeeze of her hand, hot breath over her cheek, a moment of hesitation, and then he was gone with the wind. She turned her head over fully, then. Annabeth sat, quietly observing the indent he had left of the weathered seats, and turned the car back on.
