in·tel·li·gence

inˈteləjəns/

noun

the ability to acquire and apply knowledge and skills.

"I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing."

-Socrates


It didn't help that she knew she was smart, had been complimented on her intelligence since the day she was born. She was proud; much too proud.

She believed that if she were in charge of the world, all problems would be solved.

She was wise. Wise enough to know hubris when she saw it.

But looking in the mirror like that- stripping yourself until you are nothing more than thoughts and words, wins and losses- does something to a person.

And so it did to Annabeth.

Logic told her that Percy was living a lie, that Sophia was never going to live. But to be a parent, to be Annabeth Chase, and to not be able to anything about it... that hurt her more than most.

Annabeth Chase was an architect, a builder, a creator.

She didn't sit in hospital chairs waiting for things to be destroyed, anticipating it, almost.


And the day after Sophia died, Annabeth realized that she wasn't as intelligent as she once thought.

She was just a girl who was too proud; too proud to sit with her baby as their tiny chest ceased to rise and fall. Too proud to even look Percy in the eye.

(She was too proud, too proud to believe in Sophia like Percy did. Proud enough to order the gravestone before the event.)

Annabeth fell down a long, dark hole that seemed like it was without an ending.

Because, after all, the higher you go,

The harder you fall.

And she fell hard.

But who is the true monster?

The one called monster,

Or the one who created him?


A/N: Thank you for the reviews.