A Crown of Golden Leaves
By xXTheDragonRiderXx
January 2015

Title: A Crown of Golden Leaves
Category: Het (Canon AU)
Characters/Pairings: Percy/Annabeth
Ratings/Warnings: T+/angst, major character death, violence, language, Romans, fluff, historical inaccuracies,
Tags: soulmates, good vs. evil, AU, Greco-Roman AU, omg what has this fic turned into?, truth and lies, light and darkness, right and wrong, destiny, arranged marriages, FLUFF, feelings, relationships,
Summary: Annabeth, a princess from the declining polis called Athens, must marry the Heir Apparent of Rome, Perseus, in order to save her country and the rapidly expanding world from a threat even the gods couldn't foresee.

PART I OF II: Where the Light Is

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger." – Friedrich Nietzsche

Caput XI: Crossing the Threshold

"ANNABETH?"

Annabeth looked over her shoulder and met Piper's multi-colored gaze. Unconsciously, she sat up straighter, unsure as to whether or not her best friend would blame her as well. She still didn't know what she had done . . . other than letting Bianca die.

A pang of guilt made her stomach clench and she wrung her hands together. Nico, she understood. The others, however, she did not. Why didn't they rescue Bianca themselves? She knew they would if they wanted to badly enough.

"What is it, Piper?"

"I just wanted to say "thank you.'"

She didn't expect her to say that.

"What? Why would you thank me?"

"You stopped Nico and the others from doing something stupid. If they had gone through with their foolhardy plan, the Caesar would have punished them." Piper sat on the edge of the bed, by Percy's feet. Their gazes fell on his pale, drawn face. "Perhaps worse than he punished Lord Perseus. How is he?"

"Worse," she answered. "He woke up that night, but hasn't since. He's running a fever, but Meg said that's normal. Something about fighting infection."

"I'm sorry we caused you to choose like that."

Annabeth shrugged. "What I don't understand is why everyone has alienated me. Well, Nico, I do. But not Luke or Thalia."

Piper's eyes caught hers, and they seemed to cut into her like a knife. "Really?" She shook her head. "Sometimes, you can be absolutely brilliant one moment, Annabeth . . . and then the next your naivety astounds me." Before she could ask what that meant, Piper went on. "Luke's not use to taking orders from a woman, especially you, and Thalia is used to tradition. Two sunrises ago, you took charge like an emperor would, or a general; and in that moment, you weren't Greek, but you weren't Roman either. Don't worry, they'll come around eventually. All of them."

Annabeth stared at her hands. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How come you're not . . . I don't know, scared or something?"

She risked a peak at Piper's face, which had split into a wide smile. "Because I know you. You've never been one to stick to the rules; bend them, yes, but never adhere to them. You're not a regular mortal; you're a child of Athena. That's why I'm not scared of you, or even surprised."

She smiled a little. "Thanks, Piper."

Evidentially satisfied that their conversation was complete, Piper stood and placed the tray of food —porridge, was it?— on the table.

"Eat some food and get some rest, Annabeth. His condition is stable and he's not going to recover overnight."

"Annabeth?"

A light hand touched her shoulder, rousing her from her state of fitful rest. The woman praetor, who she didn't recognize for a moment as Reyna, stood in front of her with a concerned expression etched so deeply into her face that it physically made her chest tighten.

"What?" She frowned; her voice was raspy for some reason. Reyna grabbed the pitcher of water and poured the clear liquid into a glass, which Annabeth took gratefully. There was a horrible pounding in her temples, and her body ached.

"You're burning up, Annabeth. You shouldn't be here if you're this sick."

"Percy . . ." she began, and Reyna's lips twitched.

"Don't worry about him. Jason and I'll keep vigil over him while you get better."

Now that she realized it, she felt hot, and yet Goosebumps had broken out all over her arms. She was shivering too, and her throat felt like it was on fire. Reyna leaned forward and took her elbow, gently guiding her somewhere.

But she had to stay with Percy. She needed to be close to him, if only for her own peace of mind. There was a horrible, churning feeling in her stomach . . .

"Not alone. Stay."

Reyna's expression seemed to soften a little and she nodded. "Fine." And she guided her out the door and pushed her down on something soft. Annabeth protested; she had to stay with him, she had to make sure he was safe. It was her fault he was in this mess, her fault and the Caesar's. Everything was her fault.

"Don't worry, Annabeth. Just rest."

Too tired to say anything else, she let out a sigh and relaxed into the softness.

"Wake me . . ." she mumbled.

"I'll wake you if anything drastic happens." Reyna's voice was disjointed, but oddly soothing. And she let go.

Annabeth dreamt of Helen and her father, but when she woke, their faces were blurred and she couldn't remember the words behind their harsh, angry voices. She stood and walked into the opening covered by drapes into Percy's—hers—their chambers. She simply watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and his heavy breathing, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders slowly ebb away. She was alone, as far as she could tell, and she found herself walking over to his side.

Up . . . down . . . up . . . down . . . alive, alive, alive, alivealivealive, safe, safe, safe, safe safe safe safesafesafe . . . She rested her hand on his chest, feeling his odd warmth seep through the thin covers. Wondering if he had a fever . . . but no, she was pretty sure he had been this warm that first night they met, with the Cyclops. Who was watching him?

She poured herself a glass of water and took a deep gulp, unable to stifle a soft moan of relief as it soothed the back of her throat and seemed to cool her overheated body. Maybe she was the one who was running a fever. Her hands were shaking.

She looked back at him—safe, safe, safe, safesafesafe—how did he not blame her? She should have watched her tongue better, keep it in check. Seventeen years of living under the harsh conditions of Athenian-Roman life, and still she couldn't watch her words.

"Words are a weapon as sharp and double edged as a sword. Use them well, Annabeth." Her stepmother, Helen's, voice bounced and echoed inside her skull, leaving a ringing sound behind it. Your fault, your fault, your fault your fault yourfaultyourfaultyourfault. Her fault Bianca died—was murdered. Her fault Luke and Thalia alienated her. Her fault Nico hated her. Why couldn't she be content with being normal? Why couldn't she be like those other ladies? Why couldn't she be content with not having an education? Why did that guard attempt to . . . to . . . it, that—why did that guard try to hurt her? Was there something wrong with her? She'd never been normal . . .

Why me? She asked herself piteously.

Why not? Her subconscious responded mercilessly. Stop sulking, Annabeth! You're a Champion of Olympus and a daughter of Athena!

She flipped her hand over, so that her wrist was up, and stared at her currently bare skin.

"Revealio," she said aloud. I reveal. Like magic, almost, the small tattoo formed right there, under her palm and on top of her wrist. The medallion of laurels stood there, her death sentence, laughing at her.

". . . Many Champions die before it is their time . . . "

". . . destined for greatness . . ."

". . . destined to be a hero . . ."

She was only human: not a hero. She was only human; mortal. She didn't want this. She couldn't be this, what they—Athena, Zeus, Hera, the gods—wanted her to be. She didn't want to die. She didn't want any type of expectation on her.

"I expect great things from you, daughter."

Great expectations. She was almost sad she would never be able to live up to them.

Help me. I need help. I can't do this alone. Why is it me? Why? Help. Help me, please . . .

"Annabeth?" A soft, hoarse voice woke her from her light slumber and she raised her head. Whose bed was this? Oh, right. Roma. Percy. Gladiators. Flogging. Bianca. Her eyes locked on slightly glazed over green—deep, deep, green, fathomless, like the ocean—and she tried unsuccessfully to control a shiver. What was it about this man that was so different?

"You're awake." She whispered. You're okay, she meant. Percy's lips twitched up, but he didn't smile. "How are you feeling?" She sat up.

"Like I just went to Tartarus and back," he murmured, keeping his voice low. No doubt. He probably wasn't exaggerating.

"Do you want something to eat? Drink?"

His eyes were half-lidded, like all his strength had been drained and he was rapidly approaching exhaustion.

"Water, please."

She poured a glass and lifted his head up, so he could sip at it. When he shook his head, she let his head fall back on the pillows. Immediately, he fell back asleep.

She smiled slightly and placed the glass on the table.

Improvement was improvement, after all.

Percy can be remarkably childish at times, Annabeth decided as she stared at her husband, propped up against many pillows, with his arms crossed and a petulant scowl on his face.

"You know Meg only wants what is best for you." She reminded him, dropping the crochet into her lap. She pressed her hand against her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But it doesn't make it any better." He grumbled. She dropped her gaze.

"Sorry," she said quietly. Her insides flipped over. She hated this feeling, this guilt. She'd never felt this before.

"It's . . ." he paused, "It'll be all alright."

Your fault, your fault, your fault your fault yourfaultyourfaultyourfault . . .

She placed her hand against the scrolls in the library. The papyrus was rough and creviced, and dry.

Maybe. She thought. But I doubt it.

Hands pinning her down. Her clothes being ripped off.

"NO!" Annabeth woke with a jerk, her heart in her throat, her mouth dry. She took several deep breaths and roughly brushed the back of her hand against her cheek, trying to get rid of the stickiness. Fine. She was fine.

Wasn't she? She was safe.

~…~

Annabeth watched Percy out of the corner of her eye as he walked around the chambers, his pace painfully slow and hesitating. It was obvious by the way he kept clenching his teeth that he was in pain, but he wouldn't admit to it.

"Nico?" She called out. Nico paused in his gait and looked over his shoulder. His eyes and face were unreadable. And that worried her more than anything else. "Are you ever going to forgive me?" she asked quietly, sadly. He turned his head . . .

"I don't know."

. . . And walked away.

"Silly girl. You do not realize I know what is best for you."

"No . . ."

A sigh, almost as if she were sad. "One day, you will realize the truth in my statement. You will realize you're meant to turn to us, the Protogenoi."

"Stop . . ."

"Run away, if you must, silly girl. You and your hero complexes. But you will come to us, and you won't be able to stop."

"NO!"

"Annabeth!"

Percy didn't have time to pull away from her. Annabeth latched onto the first warm thing that was in her general vicinity, her shoulders shaking as the remains of the night terror bounced in her skull, the woman's words repeating like a horrid mantra of doom and misery.

"I won't, I won't, I won't join them . . . I'm not . . . get out of my head."

A hand lightly touched her shoulder, and she shook her head. "Annabeth, you're fine. It was just a bad dream. You're fine."

She pulled away from him, ignoring the strange urge to wrap her arms around his torso again, and shook her head. "No, it's not a bad dream. It . . . that was far too real. It felt just like that time when I dreamt of you . . . years ago, before we met. It's real."

"What? You too?"

She nodded. His eyes fell back out to the window and he crossed his arms over his chest, like he was cold suddenly.

"Well, there's not much we can do about it now. Just keep it in mind, that way you know about it in the future. It may give you," he hesitated, "An edge."

She nodded.

An edge? What does that mean? Rome isn't at war.

She hated feeling this way. Hated it. Hated looking over her shoulder every few seconds, hated feeling like someone was going to trap her . . .

It had to stop. This had to stop. She had to do something about this feeling, and trying to pretend it hadn't happened was obviously not working. She had to do something, like learn how to defend herself . . .