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She thought she had finally made a place for herself, where the unreal was not, and the future was in her dreams.
The place where myths were reality, and heroes went on quests that changed the course of history.
The place where everyone held unimaginable power, that is, everyone but her.
She thought she knew what power was- the ability to make people do your bidding at a moment's notice; to be able to have anything at the drop of a hat- and she wanted none of it. She didn't want anything to do with that; it just seemed wrong for her.
Then, everything she assumed that she knew was proven wrong, when she met the boy with sea green eyes and windswept black hair, first at the Hoover Dam, and second at Goode High School.
She learned what real power was. She was captivated entirely by the heroics, the journeys, the people.
And the reality came to her, that although she could have almost anything at the drop of a hat, that this wouldn't be hers, that this new, exciting world could never be hers.
Even with the Labyrinth, she didn't feel like she was part of it; It was more of their adventure than hers.
Then, she got her chance to join them. It should've been perfect. She would finally be a part of what she held in amazement: their lives, the life changing adventure, the chance to be greater than once before.
At the flagship of those adventures, some of which she imagined herself to be on, was Percy Jackson, demigod wonder-boy, Son of Poseidon, who she may have had the eensiest bit of a crush on, which should never be told to Annabeth.
His decision to turn down immortality puzzled her. Did he not feel the same about the Gods as she did about Demigods? Did he see something that she didn't, something that would've caused her to run as far as she could?
She felt so much more powerful once she finally became a part of this world. She could do what she had never thought was possible before- see what was previously invisible to her.
The Sight was a marvelous thing. It set her apart from what she once was, and it made her feel like she was making a difference, as opposed to being a spoiled heiress or a tree-hugging hippie.
Yet, she couldn't help but remember what she left behind: a carefree life, in blissful ignorance, away from the world-shattering problems that haunted her each time the Sight visited her.
But she ignored all of it, all of the death, destruction, and decimation, until the first time it hit home.
It was supposed to be an easy quest. It wasn't supposed to be a complete and utter massacre, with the loss of one of the most experienced demigods she had known.
They tried to comfort her. "It's not your fault," they all said, "it's not like you could have known this would have happened."
But she should have known it would happen, that was why she was there. She was the one who sent them on the quest; the one who sent them to an early grave.
Her living day-dream became an unending nightmare, always prefaced with one question: "Why?"
Why did it happen to them, why was it them, why did it have to be then, and most of all, why couldn't she stop them?
One failure became two; Two became three; Three became four, and onwards. The death count rose.
"It was bound to happen sooner or later," they said, "Heroes almost always die at an early age."
What happened to the "Happily Ever After?" What happened to riding off into the sunset? What happened to growing old and leaving a legacy that was more than just stories?
People hardly stopped by her cave anymore, and she didn't blame them. Anything could've triggered a prophecy; no wonder they kept her predecessor locked up in an attic.
She laughed bitterly to herself. If only prophecies were what she thought they were before she dragged herself into this world. She could just imagine herself reading palms, waving her hands over a crystal ball, mist that was most definitely not green, coming from all around.
As an artist, she had loved every color she could think up; even with the dark, and frankly, putrid shades, she had laughed and said, "All the better to finish a scene."
But, there was one color that she hated. She hated it more than the most violent of reds, the most melancholy of blues, the most shadowed of blacks, the most blinding of whites, and the most putrid of yellows- Mist Green, or as she had lovingly renamed it, Soul-Kidnapper Green.
The green was the root of her problems: the fear that she generated by saying a single word; she wasn't just the camper's worst nightmare, she was her own.
Her own fears, shortcomings and failures were bundled up with the Sight. There she was, entrusted with great power, and the ability to cause great change, and she would do nothing with it, for fear of sentencing another to death.
Percy wouldn't stop talking to her like the others, like she had hoped he would. It would've kept him safe from her, but it wasn't like she could stop him; loyalty was his fatal flaw, after all.
And as was expected, although not welcomed, he was issued his last quest. He died, slightly older than his comrades, as a father whose child would have very hazy memories of him.
She wished she would get to say one prophecy with her own choice of words, a prophecy that would say, "Your friends will be back. Everything will be OK from now on."
But, she couldn't. After all, even with all her abilities, gifts, and connections, she was still powerless.