This is my first one-shot for PJO, set between TLO and TLH. I'm all for constructive criticism, but please don't go too far! I hope you guys enjoy (:
Annabeth knew many brilliant stories.
Every myth and legend she would read, she would then analyse, learning both little and great things from them all.
The Odyssey was a common favourite read among children of Athena. The featured hero, after all, was cunning and quick, particularly liked by the Goddess of Wisdom. Annabeth's favourite character in that tale, however, didn't match her mother's. Actually, for once she found she held a deeper reverence for someone the Aphrodite campers more often looked up to: Penelope, Odysseus' patient wife.
She wasn't admired by the demigod so much for her patience, Annabeth had a lot of that, but more for her incredible faith, something Annabeth wished she had learned more about during her late reading hours.
Annabeth wouldn't be worrying if she knew he would return, because she could wait. She wouldn't be frightened if she knew he was kidnapped by some monster, because she would go out and rescue the stupid seaweed brain, and there was nothing they couldn't defeat together.
The problem was, Annabeth didn't know anything, and that worried and frightened her beyond all reason.
She loved him, of course she did. He was her best friend and her hero, drove her mad and kept her calm, they'd saved the world several times together. What more could she want from love? But she was still a girl, and just a little scared about how he might feel.
Annabeth hated herself for it, but she was beginning to question his reasons.
Why he'd left camp.
Why he'd left her.
She started to wonder if he'd ever loved her at all.
She was paranoid, she knew. Luke's betrayal had sparked similar wonderings, starting wildfires in her head.
Penelope would never think such thoughts. But Annabeth was no Penelope, and her logical mind kept whispering sensible nonsense to her. Reasonable, illogical, thoughtful, mindless ideas and it was causing his absence to drive her more insane than his presence ever had.
More and more often, she'd sit up in bed, pins of sorrow and confusion pricking behind her eyes, whilst she would hold her fingers to her temples to settle her spiralling thoughts. It was all very loud in her head sometimes, and other times too horribly quiet.
Many storms had happened in the abyss of her mind before they broke out, thundering in her eyes, her clouded irises brightened, shining with lightning tears, then submerged in waves of fatigue.
Penelope must have become tired too. Doubtful, fretful. It never mentioned that in the books. Her hero had been wise and clever. Why would she worry?
Annabeth's hero was strong and brave and loving and loyal, and to her, so much better then Odysseus.
But she still felt worried, and she was very unsettled about that feeling.
She continued best she could, the girl with steely flesh and fragile bones, shattered on the inside.
Strawberry-scented dawns and star-studded dusks rose and fell without him. She worked through as many as she could without him holding her in the only way that could lace her unfurling thoughts back together.
She knew she was failing herself as she lost her faith. Failing him.
The pages in her books were crumbling, and the inked words were spilling over the papery sides and dissolving with the rain in her storm heart.
For all this girl knew, he could never come back.
He might not even want to.
And that thought was enough to make her want to get lost in the dark and the thunder.
Thanks for reading! No hate, please, but I'd like to know what some of you think. Have a nice day,
- Catherine x