Annabeth loved books. She loved their weight in her hand. She loved their smell. And she loved the sound they made as she flipped their rustling pages. But most of all, she loved their content.
Annabeth's obsession with fantasy books especially began in the days after her first quest with Percy and Grover. Before, she had enjoyed nonfiction. She greatly preferred a biography to a dragon, and an encyclopedia to a wizard. She liked solid facts, not make believe ramblings.
But after that fateful quest, she had discovered how wonderful fiction truly was. With fantasy, the bad guys always lost and the good guys always won. That was just the way it worked.
Not so in her own life. If it was, her best friend would have been standing next to her. They would have conquered the world, the two of them together. Now she was all alone, with nothing but memories and a pine tree on a hill left.
The villains of these stories, too, were easily recognizable. They had twirly mustaches, French accents, and oozed on and off of the pages.
They were never someone you had trusted. Someone you had sworn would have given his life for you. Someone who had promised to protect you. Someone who was your family. Someone you had though to be the hero.
So Annabeth retreated into her world of fairyland, where dreams came true and everyone lived happily ever after. Because she wanted to believe in it. She was a princess in her stories, taking the arm of a handsome blonde prince. She was safe in her world of books. They were predictable, and fluffy, and did nothing to improve her brain cells. But she kept reading anyway.
Because as long as she was reading, all of her dreams came true.