I.

Annabeth Chase does not lose.

Before things at home got really bad, she would stand at the edge of the schoolyard—the lines were boys against girls, or if drama was needed there would be a solo match-up. The football belonged to Mahmoud, whose father had taught at Oxford back in the day. She was a small kid, nothing you'd put your money on even if asked, but she always had the lads down biting dust when she was finished with them.

"Anyone up for seconds?" She would shout; there was always that one taker who thought he could rise up, but she beat them down. Easily like mowing stalks. Easy like a summer's evening.

II.

She has spent five years here already and she knows the woods like the back of her hand, which is why her cabin always put her up to lead them in Capture the Flag. The rest of them might be older than she is, or better at battle, smarter, stronger—but she has experience.

Yet while she can turn the Camp inside out with her knowledge, she is a pariah from the methods of the Outside World and she longs for nothing more than to be out there. It's a challenge: how else would she know she can survive—how else would she know that she can beat everything else, that she can win?

So when Percy Jackson appears, she is ready. Her mother Athena is the goddess of wisdom, and also the goddess of war.

III.

Thalia's awakening is no small victory. Annabeth watches her eyes—those brilliant flickering eyes that she has so dearly missed—open as she lies in Percy's arms. The boy exchanges a quick, confused look with Annabeth, who feels her heart lurch.

"You're not Luke," Thalia says and she locks those eyes on Annabeth.

Do not cry. Whatever you do, do not cry.

But she cries, that night; after cups of hot chocolate with a disjointed Thalia (Luke would never do that—he must have a plan, some other plan—you remember don't you, the three of us? We're family, Annabeth.)

The rains make the cabins glow and she rests her head against the blank wooden boards that line the Big House, watching pools of water collect in nooks and crevices, smells the wet freshness of the cleansed Earth that rises from the soil. Her grief shames her, her vulnerability disgusts her, but she can do nothing but cry.

IV.

The daughter of Zeus glows with the radiance of determination as she embraces Annabeth—there is a fleeting memory of an abandoned barn-house, of three children gathered around a weak fire peeling soggy wax wrappers off day-old sandwiches—and even hugs Percy, winking with that patented Thalia droll.

She's happy for her friend—overjoyed, really—but there's a tinge of deep sadness that breaks the sea. She'd have been lying if she had said that a naïve, stupid little part of her did not still dream of the vision she had seen, blessed and cursed by the siren's song.

But then Percy makes a stupid joke while they're dancing—she is very sure that she is just a bit taller than him—and she spins around, though they do it consciously and mockingly to the music, and thinks for a fleeting second—maybe this one will stay.

V.

She is logical and laughs at the concept of fate or coincidence, but he does return, doesn't he? Calypso's island and death itself did not hold him.

VI.

She watches Luke die and her ribs collapse inside of her, a house of matchsticks splintering upon itself. This is the last link to her Old Life, the last farewell to barren streets that they went walking when she was a child, to the deep still dawns when the three of them curled up against each other for warmth.

We are family, she hears again and again—cyclic presence damning her skull—and she wonders why every goddamn family she has ever been a part of breaks apart.

VII.

On the water, the sun is warm. He kisses her once, slowly and self-consciously; she's not used to sentimentality and it is obvious that that's not his forte either, but she responds in kind. The mild awkwardness jolts them into bashful half-laughter and the easier territory of snarky remarks. She is—if not completely happy—at least contented.

VIII.

The cabin is quiet. Her siblings know that Annabeth's grief is more like a storm, and no one is willing to stand in her path. The door has been left slightly ajar—a thin strand of afternoon sun lighting up the dusty maps, the diagrams and clues…

A shadow passes over the light and Annabeth, hair hanging in wispy strands around her tired, tired eyes looks up. Malcolm, looking a little frightened, is standing at the doorway. His hands dart in and out of his pockets.

"Annabeth, you need to come down for dinner. You already missed lunch for this, and –"

"I'll come when I'm ready!" She snaps, frazzled, turning pages over each other so fast that they rip slightly at her skin.

Malcolm looks morose and uncomfortable as he approached. "Annabeth," he says softly, "I know that—I'm not saying that what I'm saying is, you know… concrete, but it's been months now. You've got to at least prepare yourself for the possibility…"

"Why does everyone say that?" Annabeth half-shouts, "I know Percy's still alive—Grover has his empathy link, for one thing. And I just know, it makes sense, it—"

"How does it make sense?"

"He's not gone!"

Recognising defeat, Malcolm raises his hands in surrender and walks out—casting a concerned look at Annabeth as he quietly shuts the door behind him. Once she's sure that he's left—she sees his figure recede, the shadow behind him long in the fading light—she finds herself wanting to collapse. Eyes streaked with hot, furious tears, she grips the table tightly and bites her lip; she repeats the mantra like a fervent prayer: do not cry, do not cry, you cannot cry, you will not cry. She can vaguely hear the ticking of the clock, the noise of the gathered campers at dinner in the distance. Her knuckles, tensed to their furthest, are white.

Gulping down the weight that threatened to escape her, Annabeth straightens her back and picks up her pencil, tracing faint lights across the map, sticking jewelled pins in places they have already gone over and tape in the places they need to go.

Determination courses again through her veins and she can feel the steady throb of a challenge echoing inside of her. She will not let Percy down. She will find him.

Annabeth Chase does not lose.