Warning: Mentions of abuse, thoughts of suicide (a hint), swearing (Since this is set in ancient Greek and I have no idea what curses there were during that time, I'm just gonna put modern curses. You can pretend they're Greek if you like.)
Disclaimer: No own PJO
So, hi? I know, blah blah blah, I'm working on a new chapter to Happy and I've set up another account on FF, but I won't tell you who, BWAHAHA! So, updates/new stories will be slower than usual due to having to post on my other account too.
Story recommendation! If you haven't read Heart By Heart, you ought to read it. It's a long but awesome fic. Oh, and Genius of the Stocks. It deserves more credit than it gets! They're both Percabeth fics. Anyway, onward!
When she saw him for the first time she was six.
She had been sitting against a tree, trying to memorize Latin verbs, and then she saw him.
He just seemed like a poor stable boy, tending to the horses, but he looked so carefree and happy it made her wish that she was a servant too, if they all had this happiness. He seemed like he had an actual family, instead of her cold, uncaring family that only ate together to put up appearances and argued behind closed doors.
The king, her father, was too involved in royal matters to care much about her, and the queen saw her as a nuisance, as a reminder of a poor child the king had found one day. She didn't like poor people.
Even though she swore that she'd always treated Annabeth nicely, what happened behind closed doors stays behind closed doors. She knew. She heard what Helen, the queen, her mother, always complained. "Why'd we even adopt her as a princess anyway? She's just an orphan you found on the doorstep!"
And that hurt, more than any insult she ever threw at Annabeth, because the revelation hurt: she was an orphan that was taken in. She had no right to hope for a loving family. Instead, she should be grateful that she was the princess and had all the luxuries the other children didn't. According to Helen, at least.
But oh god, she wanted one, she wanted a family so, so badly. She wanted a father that would listen to her or talk about his day and fill the air with laughter and joy, instead of one that sat stoically at the head of the table. She wanted a mother who would listen to her troubles and make her warm milk and was willing to wake up in the middle of the night to listen to the nightmare she had.
She wanted it so desperately, she would trade her life as a princess for them to be poor and live in an old cottage, struggling to put dinner on the table if it would mean that they were a family. But they weren't. They were just a couple that hated each other and an orphan that belonged nowhere.
And she had ran back to her room and cried after seeing him, and wished she wouldn't see the happy, green eyed boy with the sparkling smile, so happy, so joyful, when she was crying deep inside.
When he saw her for the first time he was seven.
He was tending to the horses, patting Blackjack's mane comfortingly as he brushed the horse—then suddenly, he saw her. Walking through the fields, humming a soft song under her breath, and really, it was nothing special.
She just looked like a girl to him, a girl, much too young to be dragged into the political world. Just a simple, young, naïve girl that sought love and comfort, though there were none to give. So innocent, without even a chance to live out her childhood, before being thrust into a world full of politics and subtle threats, where everyone made sure to put on a mask before saying ` anything.
He'd wished that she had better luck than to be born into the royal family. Or more accurately, better luck than to be adopted by the royal family. Everyone knew why Helen had adopted her in the first place. She couldn't turn away a baby that was deliberately put on her doorstep, and it would certainly benefit how the kingdom saw them if they had adopted an orphan. And she, that young, naïve girl, just had the luck to be a part of that family.
He shook his head and wished that she would have a happy ending. Because people with her luck seldom did.
When she saw him again she was twelve.
She sat by the window, reading a book, but she just had this uncanny feeling that someone was watching her. She looked up.
She saw him, standing by the stables, watching her. And then his lips curved up into a brilliant smile, so full of happiness, so blindingly bright. She was reminded of the first time she had saw him all those years ago.
She smiled back—isn't that your first reaction when someone smiles at you? And instantly she flushed—why had she smiled at him? She doesn't know why, and doesn't care to know, not when his smile was so wonderful and made her feel like she was drowning. But she doesn't care. She'll just drown in his smile. It wouldn't matter. No one would miss her anyway.
I wonder if he would… She thought, but banished the thought immediately. Why would he care if she lived or died?
Then all too soon the moment was over as someone—his mother, she thought,—called for him and he turned. She watched him until he disappeared into the stables.
The memory of his smile made her feel warm all day.
When he sees her for the third time she's in a field, just lying there, not doing anything. Her clothes are muddied and dirtied, but she doesn't seem to care, and neither does he.
He's hesitant to approach her, not because she's a princess, but because she looks so happy and carefree. He hasn't seen her like this before, and he doesn't want to interrupt her. But his feet carry him forward—traitors!—and he plonks down right next to her.
She looks at him, and for a moment he is stunned by those shocking grey eyes. There's a spark in them, proof that being in a royal family hadn't taken away who she is.
"Hi," he says.
She looks at him calculatingly, and he shivers. "Hi," she finally responds. "I've seen you before."
"You have," he confirms, and mentally berates himself for not saying anything that might catch her interest.
She turns away from him to lie on her back again. He didn't even notice that she'd flip over in the first place. She doesn't say anything else, and neither does he. They just lie there and watch the clouds go by.
By the end of the day, he knows her name. Marie Annabeth Chase. She goes by Annabeth.
And she knows his. Percy Achilles Jackson. He goes by Percy.
He feels warm, knowing that she now has a name. Annabeth.
When she stays in the same house as him for the first time she is fourteen.
Helen hadn't been very happy with her after she refused to learn how to flirt using a serving boy as an example. 'How will you get married if you don't learn how to attract men?' 'You mean how to flirt with them shamelessly?' 'How dare you, Marie! We adopted you! You are so much more fortunate than any other girl in this village! Ungrateful brat!'
Annabeth is thrown out of the mansion with a 'Don't come back till you're ready to apologize!' She wanders the streets, and cries. The biting, cold rain and her tears merge as one.
She doesn't want to learn how to lure men. She wants a man to love her for who she is, and not because she's a princess and young. She wants a marriage full of love to its brim, and not an arranged, loveless, one.
She won't go back, not till they send serving boys out to search for her. Till then she'll have to make do with a loaf of bread she stole from the kitchen as Helen ordered her out.
She huddles under the shelter from a bridge, and starts to break the bread up into smaller pieces. This will have to last her till tomorrow.
She chuckles bitterly. This is ironic. The evil stepmother casts the poor heroine out and then a miracle comes along and saves her. Or a fairy godmother. Annabeth didn't know if she had a godmother, let alone a fairy godmother. But Annabeth wouldn't be the heroine of anything.
She's just a girl. A princess, whose fate has been planned out by the gods long, long ago. Just a person, who must seem incredibly small compared to the rest of the world. Sometimes she wondered why people cared. Cared about their reputation, cared for others. They would all die anyway, so why would anything they say or do even change the world? Because the hard truth was, nobody cared if you lived or died. If she died as someone pushed her off the cliff, on the other side of the world a family would still celebrate their youngest son's birthday. If she drank herself into oblivion, people would still laugh and cry and continue about their daily lives.
She didn't matter.
She pulls up her sleeve to reveal creamy white skin, and traces her finger across her pulse. How easy would it be to just slice this open?
"Hey, you there!" A voice—boyish and young, she notes—calls out. Her head snaps around, wide eyes zeroing on the blurry figure that stands about five meters away from her. She tenses—why hadn't she noticed him? She usually prided herself on her sharp reflexes.
He steps closer gingerly, as though he's scared she might bolt. She might, this could be another serving boy to catch her. Oh yeah—didn't Helen mention something about a dinner with the neighboring country's royal couple? She must have forgotten about it and thrown her out, then remembered and ordered the serving boys to search the streets.
She studies him. He's tall and lean, though without any muscle. He's scrawny, and she reassures herself that she would be able to beat him if the opportunity comes. Though he might still try to lure her out. They always did. Helen didn't want to risk getting seen by anybody.
Instead he does the opposite and comes closer. She almost gets up and runs but she knows that she would get caught—his legs are long. The rain comes down harder, little droplets spraying her arms and legs, and she shivers. She still can't see him clearly—just his blurry figure in the rain.
"Stay away!" She tries to yell, but her voice comes out a pathetic whimper that the rain drowns out. He comes closer. She tries again, and a sound slips out of her throat—a shriek, which isn't any better than the whimper and she gives up. Folds herself beneath her cloak and allows him to capture her.
She doesn't want to give up so easily but he has her cornered, backed into the wall of the bridge. She doesn't want to run out into the rain because she doesn't know this part of town very well, and if she slips and falls nobody would care. So she'd rather go back to the castle and have Helen scold and hit her because she'd know that she matters. That Helen will probably mourn her if she dies—mourn the loss of the girl who could have brought the kingdom prosperity by marrying some brainless idiot.
Why'd she even run this far and convince herself that maybe, possibly, she could escape and this time no serving boy would find her in the first place? It all seemed hopeless now. Why did she even bother running? Because she was just a pawn after all, a pawn in the hands of her mother. She didn't matter. Why?
She folds herself back into the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible because she is tired; tired of this game of hide-and-seek she's playing with Helen.
Then he walks under the shelter of the bridge and Annabeth sees him clearly for the first time, and registers his high cheekbones and that messy mop of black hair and those startling sea green eyes before she even realizes that he isn't a serving boy after all.
He's Percy Achilles Jackson, the boy she had met in that sunny field two years ago.
She gasps, "What are you doing here?" His face registers shock for a moment, before he seems to calm down. He moves towards her and she tenses, but he only relaxes against the wall, right next to Annabeth, certain she wouldn't bolt now.
He retorts, "I think I should be asking that question. What are you doing here?"
She gapes. "Okay, you're definitely not that polite boy I met like, two years ago."
He shrugs, and she's stunned, for a moment, at the amount of pain she sees in his eyes, and in contrast, the light-hearted tone he has. "People change."
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the soothing sound of rain. She finally musters up her courage and looks up at him, only to see him looking down at her too. She can see the demand in his eyes—'Why are you here? Tell me.'
She gives in and admits, "Helen threw me out."
He looks more interested now, sliding down the wall to sit next to her. Her ears feel hot. "The queen?" He's closer now, inching forward towards her. "So is she the evil stepmother or something?"
She finds her voice. "Yeah," she laughs. Helen, evil stepmother? A perfect description. Then her voice drops lower, so soft till it almost goes unheard, drowned out by the rain. "I don't want to talk about it."
He leans forward, though not towards her, but to the side, watching as raindrops splatter on the ground. "I see."
Her curiosity is piqued by Percy Achilles Jackson. He suddenly seems like a mystery, and she's overwhelmed with the sudden urge to know more about this boy who had just come out of the rain. "You're not gonna pry?"
"Why should I? You said you didn't want to talk about it, and that's that."
She shakes her head. Most people would. But he doesn't. Somehow, this boy is something unique and new and interesting.
They sit in silence again, the steady splattering of raindrops a background sound as they lose themselves in their worries. "Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?" He asks.
She tells him, "No. I'll just stay here till the serving boys they send out to catch me every time bring me back."
He looks thoughtful for a moment, and for the first time, she sees the beauty he holds. The way his tousled black hair drips with water, the way his long eyelashes fan out over his cheeks as he blinks—she finds him fascinating. "Come home with me. I'll let you stay for the night."
She blinks. This is a boy she'd only met for—like what, four times?—offers for her to come home and stay with him and his mother and go back the next day.
She blinks again, and leans against the wall, considering.
She doesn't know why, but she agrees.
That night, the wind rattles through the cottage and she shivers under thin blankets and tries to relax against a hard mattress. But she hears Percy flop about in his sleep and somehow, she has the best night's sleep she'd ever had.
_LINES BREAK_
They part early in the morning, when the sun starts to paint the sky mesmerizing shades of gold and pink.
"Why'd you do this for me?" She asks him, cheeks flushing.
"Why shouldn't I? After all, we're friends."
They are? Annabeth feels surprised, but her surprise gives way to this gradual warmth that seems to lift her sprits, and the icy, cold wind that makes her shiver seems less cold. She smiles. "Then I'm honored to call you a friend, Perseus Jackson."
"So am I."
She leaves him behind, his back to the sunrise and she thinks it's the most mesmerizing sight she'd ever seen.
That morning, Helen scolds and hits her—her ribs, so no one can see, she had missed that dinner—but she doesn't regret what she did at all.
The memory of him is a constant in her thoughts all day long.
When he holds her for the first time in his arms he's fourteen.
She just comes into his life so abruptly it doesn't seem right to think of her that often, especially when they've only met several times, he muses as he brushes a horse's mane. He has just resolved to try not to think of her that often—he might be developing a slight obsession with her—when she returns back into his life.
She sprints into the stables, all of a sudden, and throws herself at him. He barely manages to stable the two of them when he realizes that she's sobbing into his shoulder. Any word that he wants to say dies on his tongue.
He puts his arms around her waist tentatively, unsure if she allows him to do this, but she just burrows deeper into his arms and he takes that as an 'I don't mind' and hugs her tighter. "What's wrong?" He asks softly, and noses her hair. She smells of lemons and strawberries.
She looks up at him with teary eyes. "I can't tell you, but just…" His heart clenches. What can she not tell him? Why? "Just hold me," she continues, hiding her face in his chest. He can see the tip of her ears burn red. "Not like that," she mumbles. "You know what I mean."
He chuckles. "I do. Just cry and let it all out," He says, patting her back comfortingly. She snuggles into him and continues her sobbing till she's just whimpering pathetically. He hugs her tight and tells her that she can always come to him if she needs him.
That instant, as he looks down at her puffy red eyes and the tear streaked face, he promises to himself that he wouldn't let anyone hurt this girl.
When she kisses him for the first time she's fifteen.
She had been just sobbing in his arms while he held her, without even knowing why, but still comforting her; she's filled with this sudden urge to look at him. And so she does. Her eyes trace the curve and dip of his cheekbones, the way his messy black hair flops into his eyes, and she feels love filling her, lifting her up, and she feels incredibly light, like a huge stone had been lifted off her chest.
Before she knows what she's doing his lips are on hers and those wonderful eyes are filled with surprise.
He tastes like salt, like the ocean, like freedom because she supposes that's her way of rebelling. She's shocked when she discovers a burning coil of want, of need in her that just demands for more and more and more. She needs him.
They part long enough for air and for him to stutter, "W-what? A-a-an-na—" She doesn't want to hear his stuttering, so she shuts him up by kissing him again and she feels like she wouldn't mind if the whole world turned against her if she had him by her side.
He realizes he loves her when he's a month from sixteen.
He's thinking of her more often then what should be healthy, and he wonders what they're doing. Is this an affair, or just friends with benefits? Or is it—he dares not think of that four letter word, because it just seems to far from reality to him. That beautiful, brilliant girl loving him? The boy who had been abused when he was thirteen till fifteen? He's dirty. He doesn't deserve her.
But oh gods, there's this burning spark inside that longs—demands—for more, more of her, more of her scent, more of her lips, more. He needs more.
But she'll never love him. Perhaps she's just doing this because—well, he has no idea why'd she do this but she must have a reason. Other than her loving him. Because he doesn't deserve her. He never did.
When he finds out that she's being abused they are sixteen.
He sees a bruise on her ribs as her shirt rides up while they make out. "What the fuck is that?" He demands, those eyes full of the promise of pain to the person who had dared to do this to her. And instantly she realizes that she loves this boy. Before it had just been a crush but these feelings just can't be a measly crush. This tingling sensation, this sense of rightness she got when she's with him, just how she felt when he was nearby—no, this was real, true love.
"Marie Annabeth Chase, answer me."
She chuckles weakly. "Damn, I shouldn't have told you my full name."
She looks at him and for the first time, this boy seems dangerous to her, eyes like a raging storm that tosses sailors about like they're nothing—she's never seen him like this before and it makes her heart ache to know that this boy is being like that for her.
His voice is dangerous and low and warning. "Annabeth."
She lowers her head. She doesn't want him to find out the truth. She doesn't want this boy to think of her as impure or dirty or as someone not worthy of his love. But she still tells him, because she knows he'll never stop till he gets answers. "Helen," She says by way of explanation.
She doesn't look up at him, afraid of what he would think of her now that he knows what she's kept from him all these years. She feels a hand cup her chin and looks up. His voice is surprisingly gentle and holds none of the anger she thought he'll have. "Oh, Annabeth," He breathes, gentle fingers tracing the bruise. His fingers are cold on the bruise and she doesn't mind, leaning into the touch. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"
"Well, because I love you and thought that you'll think I'm dirty and impure and I want you to love me so I didn't tell you because if you left me, I'll have nothing to live for anymore and I'll probably wither away to nothing if you left me," She rushes everything out in one breath.
Her breath hitches as his fingers stop tracing circles on her bruise and moves down lower. It's an almost unconscious action, but it still makes her heart rate speed up. "You love me?" His voice holds disbelief.
She clamps a hand to her mouth. "Oh shit, I didn't mean to say that—mhmh." That last part's because he had swept her into a kiss, muffling whatever she was about to say.
"What 'shit', Annie? Holy fuck, I love you." He whispers into their kiss, and her lips curve upwards.
When he suggests they run away she's a day from eighteen.
Sixteen is the legal age to marry, but she's two years late. No surprise there, because she was being defiant and refused to marry Luke Castellan. The royal couple was forced to postpone the date of the arranged marriage, much to their displeasure.
Eighteen. When she's getting married to Luke. Don't get her wrong, Luke is good looking—sandy blond hair, ice blue eyes, slight stubble—many females consider him the man of their dreams. But no. She can't marry Luke. Every fiber of her being screams for someone else, someone she loves with all her heart and will never be able to let go. Perseus Achilles Jackson.
She—they, she had no doubts Percy knew it too—know that their affair—their love—isn't even supposed to exist. He, a stable boy. She, the princess of Athens. They aren't ever supposed to have that spark. But they had it, and nothing could change that. They can't ever shy away from what their body screams for. Each other. And they both knew that, but they tried to put it aside, to pretend that one day, they weren't going to get married to someone else, and they indulged in that ignorance.
But now, the time for pretending is past, and tomorrow looms overhead.
"So…" Percy speaks first, breaking the silence. "You're getting married tomorrow to a certain Luke Castellan."
She freezes. "I am."
"And we'll have to stop this—" He waves his hand vaguely in the air. "Whatever this is."
"Love," she says softly. "It's love."
He sits up and glares at her. "What good would love do, Annie? Love. Ha. Love. What good is it going to do if we love each other, Annabeth, but can't even allow anyone to know that a 'we' exists? What good will that do?"
She keeps silent. She has no response to that.
"Tell me, Annabeth. Tell me what you think." His voice is soft again.
"I don't know," she admits, voice raw with emotion. "I don't know. I love you, and I'm gonna get married to Luke, and we both know this marriage is loveless, but what can I do, Percy? What can I do? I'll do it with him someday—" she winces, and continues, "I'll carry his child, I'll grow old with him someday, what can I do, Percy?"
He's silent, and tomorrow weighs heavily on them both. He reaches over and wraps an arm around her waist. "Let's run away," he whispers into her hair. "Let's go at dawn, when everyone else isn't awake yet. Let us be together. Let's live."
She gasps. "Percy—"
"Do you agree?" He asks, nosing her hair. She arches into him.
"Percy—"
He repeats, more firmly this time, "Do you?"
It's barely audible even in the silent room. "Yes."
When the general public are ablaze with rumors about the princess Marie who ran away—'With a stable boy! What a scandal!'—and a certain royal couple is bombarded with questions, a couple hidden deep in the woods smile to themselves and exchange a sweet kiss.
When they die together, their hands are entwined, unwilling to let go even in death.
When they meet again it'll be decades later, and they would still be the same—he with sea green eyes and messy black hair, she with blond curls and startling grey eyes. And this time, they'll be demigods. They'll meet and fall in love all over again—but that's a story for another day.
When they meet again, their love would be blinding and brilliant and wonderful.
When they meet again, they will love each other with a love that has lasted centuries.
When they meet again.
5000+ words! *gasps and faints* That was totally not planned when I started writing this. It was originally meant to be around 2000 words—*faints again*
You know the drill: Read, review!
Oh yes, I also wanted to write this at first then I realized this doesn't fit into the story's context. So I put it here. Enjoy~
When she kisses him for the first time he's off to war.
The surrounding countries were being invaded one by one and all boys or men between fifteen and sixty had to go.
Percy turned fifteen yesterday.
They walk together, side by side, through the streets—back alleys, so she can't be recognized and they're silent. Walking with Percy has never felt so sad in her life. Step by step, he seems to be slipping away from her—through her fingertips.
She doesn't even know if he'll come back.
Maybe he'll die. Maybe his body will lie among the rest. Maybe she'll never see him again.
She wishes the walk will never come to an end, but it does.
She sees the truck ahead that will steal dozens of fathers and sons and lovers away from them, and she'd never hated anything more. This truck will steal the boy she loves away too.
He turns to face her. "So this is it, I guess."
She feels like she's about to cry, and blinks the tears away. "I'll miss you." He's always been able to tell when she's upset, even if she puts on a picture perfect poker face, and hugs her. She rests her head on his shoulder and enjoys the comforting scent of the sea he always has around him, and wishes with all her might he'll come back.
"I'll never be able to taste salt again without thinking of you," she mutters lowly into his ear, and he chuckles. The sound is soothing and calms her frayed nerves slightly. She burrows into his arms and says softly, "Come back. Come back to me."
"I'll be fine. I promise." He lifts her chin up and gazes into her eyes. Green and gray lock together. He wipes away a tear dribbling down her cheek. "Hey, I'll survive."
"Always making promises you can't keep." She says bitterly.
He looks deep into her eyes. "I'll keep this one for sure."
The truck honks behind him and she feels like screaming. No! She still hasn't told him her feelings yet. "There's something I need to tell you."
"Tell me when I get back." He turns to plant a kiss on her cheek, but she grabs his arm.
"Please. Listen. If you don't come back, I want you to know this, at least."
"I will, Annabeth. Believe in me."
The truck honks more impatiently behind him and he whirls around.
Annabeth's grip is tight. "Let go, Annie." He turns back to her. People are starting to leave, weeping and wailing goodbyes to loved ones.
"Wait." Then she kisses him. Their kiss tastes of foolish, young hope and promises and ashes and destruction that have yet to come. It tastes of finality, and she lets him go and turns to leave. She knows he's gaping at her back.
She does her best not to look back, but she fails and looks back just in time to see a truck vanish into a narrow alley. "I'll be waiting," she whispers softly to the receding silhouette of the truck that stole the boy she loves. "Come back."
Her words are lost to the wind.