The first time Percy really thinks about his mark, he decides that people who obsess over them are silly. The marks are beautiful, but there are many more important things-like math homework and moms and going to the cabin on the beach.

He asks his mom about the mark on his shoulder, and she tells him that it's for his most important person-that the mark will change and grow as they do. When he asks why his mark looks boring, why it's small and gray and unassuming next to the girls in his preschool have marks that float down their arms and wander up their necks. She says that they have expectations for their soulmates, that Percy doesn't, and that "Really, Percy, the way you think about this is beautiful."

Then she shows him the blue that creeps up and down her leg and the silver and green that cap the crashing waves of her mark. She whispers that it's his, and Percy feels invincible. He suddenly wants to do something for his mom, so when he gets home from school the next day, he quietly sits at the kitchen table and does his homework for the first time in months.

(he never stops)

The next time he looks at his mark, he's twelve, and he realizes that it's not the same. The mark's a shimmering silver, like the seafoam on his mom's, and it's not a blobby, pitiful thing anymore. Now it's curving and twisty and, if he's honest, looks more complicated than he'd like it to be-although when he looks from a different angle, it seems incredibly simple. Percy runs a finger along a silver twist, feels it throb in time with his heart, and, eventually, decides that he'll figure out this mess later. He's too busy to worry about soulmates right now.

(later, he can't sleep until he runs his fingers along that twist)

When he's fourteen, he realizes that his mark has grown. It loops down his elbow and sprawls across his bicep, and the twists are sharper and yet somehow, they seem softer and even more elegant then they were the last time he looked at them. Stormy gray has begun to creep around the jagged cracks that curl up and around the white dots he can see if he looks closely. He wonders who his mark is for. He wonders about what his most important person is like.

(Percy doesn't know why, but the cracks look just as beautiful)

The day Percy turns sixteen, he looks at his mark and sees that while some of the cracks now run deeper, wider, not so beautiful, the white has budded, and his heart feels like it's going to explode and fly and collapse into itself all at once. He watches it grow as battles rage on, sees the mark begin to fade, and, when he's most worried, looks on as the silver begins to shimmer softly again.

As Luke dies, Percy stares at the silver dripping down his wrist. It wraps around his forearm, and the white buds from earlier have grown tiny green leaves.

(it's beautiful like this, and he almost hopes it stays)

When he tells Annabeth that he loves her, she blinks, as if taken aback. His hands are on her cheek, and he's worried she might slap them off of her. Then, her eyes soften and a corner of her mouth pulls up, and she's saying, "Love you too, Seaweed Brain," like it was never a question, never an issue she had to think about-and Percy's mark explodes into bloom.

Annabeth, he thinks in the back of his mind. It's always been Annabeth. He shows her his mark, and they look at the way it twines around his fingers. White flowers grow out of the beautiful cracks, and when she touches them, their petals are edged with gold.

(he didn't think he could love her more, but his heart was clearly trying)

Percy runs a finger down Annabeth's mark, and he is awed by the way it ripples at his touch. He stares at where it flows under her shirt and gazes at the clouds that wisp over her shoulders. Her mark is beautiful, she says, but Annabeth tells Percy his sunrise is radiant. He disagrees. As beautiful as the sunrise is, there is something brilliantly eye-catching about the loops and cracks and the flowers Annabeth brought to him. Nobody will side with either of them.

(They never end up agreeing, but they don't need to)

Sometimes when they fight, Percy hates the marks. He hates watching the cracks grow wider and not being able to kiss them closed. He hates watching clouds roll over the sun on Annabeth's back and he hates stewing in an angry silence until his friends drag him out of his thoughts. But he doesn't hate making up. He doesn't hate holding her in his arms and telling her he loves her until the cracks shrink in on themselves, for all that he loves them too. He loves watching the sun on her back rise and the clouds disappear. It's beautiful.

(she's beautiful, and she should know it)

Years later, when his ring comes off for the first time, his mark doesn't seem to want to. It thrashes and squeezes, and the ring clings too. When the ring comes off, his mark contorts into a silver band where it used to be.

Annabeth cries. She hasn't taken off her ring, as if she isn't ready to let go. He understands. He's not sure that he's ready either. "Percy," she sobs as she buries her face in her hands. "Percy, you can't. We're only thirty." She cries, and he gives in and cries too, arms around her waist and head on her shoulder. When she wipes the tears from her face, they leave dark marks on her clothes. His tears roll down her collar, but they can't stain-not anymore, at least.

"Annabeth," the smile on his dead face seems to say, "I love you. I'll miss you." He never thought it would be this way, but controlling the Fates was not something he could do. All he could do was gone-now, he was just another shade. Percy leaves, coin heavy on his tongue and thoughts of Annabeth heavy on his heart.

(he knows they'll meet again, but he hopes she can keep watching the sunrise)