A/N: Second to last chapter, y'all, excluding the epilogue.

I think you will very much like some parts of this chapter. Also, as promised a while back, the first section is written entirely in flashbacks of Nico's childhood w Percy and Luke and all of them, just the cherry on top of this depressing sundae. Nostalgia, my old friend. Just a reminder, Percy is the oldest, then Luke, then Nico, all spaced apart by a year each. Also, each of these scenes is going backward in time, and then jumping to when they're older.

(PS You should guys should pray for more snow days for me. I got another one and subsequently wrote this.)

Disclaimer: All rights remain.

Nico

"Tell me about him."

Nico glanced up from his bed, not entirely surprised to see a worn-out blonde standing in his doorway, blocking what little light the small lamp in the outside hallway provided.

"It'll only hurt more," Nico told her, sitting back against his pillows. He had always been a man of few words, but Percy's death only made him quieter.

"I don't care," Annabeth breathed. "Tell me about him. I want to know."

She missed him an awful lot more than she wanted the world to know. Nico puffed out a bit of smoke, letting the ash fall into a porcelain ashtray from Hades's cupboard. It had been untouched, and now it was used by none other than his son.

"I thought Will told you to kick the habit," Annabeth gently berated.

Nico shrugged a little. "It's not a habit if I only do it when I need to."

Annabeth pursed her lips, but she didn't say anything. It wasn't her place. Besides, she looked a little worse for the wear herself. "Pass me the lighter."

Nico wordlessly handed over a small flame that he had covered. It still burned, however dim. Annabeth took a cigar from his smooth box, holding it over the fire and covering it with her hand so the lazy breeze from the open window wouldn't put it out. She sat back against the closed door behind them, her hair falling into her face. It was shiny with wet, still damp from a shower. Smoking at six in the morning was probably pathetic, but it was just where Nico had found himself at this point in his life.

Nico inhaled again, thinking. "He was a shitty tree-climber…"

Percy squinted up at the tall Elm tree. Nico was already perched atop one of the higher branches, his black hair and clothes—somehow untouched by a speck of dirt even after scaling a goddamn tree—a dark blob in the sea of green leaves.

"I don't want to," he decided right then and there, visibly swallowing hard.

Nico rolled his eyes. "Don't be a baby."

"I'm not!" Percy's face flushed red with indignation.

"You are. You really are," Nico muttered. Even as the youngest, only eight, he was still the most fearless. It was funny, actually, considering Percy to him was the bravest, that he couldn't even climb up branches.

"I'll fall, though," Percy protested.

Perhaps it was the fear in his eyes—a dead giveaway of Percy's severe acrophobia—but Nico jumped from the middle branches, taking pity on his friend.

"You'll never know if you never try," Nico pointed out, his feet planted firmly on the ground.

Percy's mouth twisted into a frown. "Sometimes you just know," he insisted.

"That's a lie." Nico sat under the shade of the clumped leaves, using it as a shield from the hot sun. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and at the base of his neck, leaving his pale skin shiny. "You'll always be afraid if you never try it."

…

"You're going to be a pilot?" Nico raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I have to." Percy's eyes darkened in determination. "If I'm going to be the best general of all time, then I have to kick ass with wings."

Percy had started cursing by now, even though he was only twelve. The army training had done something to him that Nico could not quite place his finger on. Nico could only imagine that Percy's days had gotten a little bit longer, his nights a little bit lonelier.

Nico blinked, choosing not to address it. "Luke's getting lemonade from the kitchen. Do you want some?"

As if on cue, Percy's little brother strolled into the Jirot courtyard, a servant obediently following him with a tray of clear drinks, clinking with ice in tall, frosted glasses. A young woman, perhaps in her twenties, was holding a glass that Luke occasionally sipped from.

"Thank you," Luke articulated, his voice strong for an ten-year-old boy. He had already learned to manipulate the world around him, not that Nico could complain much. There were definite perks to being acquaintances with the Calbourne brothers. Luke could quick-talk their way into more brownies than Persephone had deemed acceptable in under three minutes. Nico had even timed him.

"It's so hot," Nico quietly complained, fanning his face. They were sitting under an umbrella, but Nico was particularly drawn to the cooler winters, not the scorching summers of Jirot.

Percy made a voice low in his throat, quietly agreeing. He quickly switched the topic, as if he hadn;t admitting his soul to Nico only moments before.

…

"This is Perseus."

Nico blinked up at Hades before scowling in front of the boy in front of him. He was much taller than him, tanner too, and athletic. He couldn't have been much older than seven.

"And this, son, is Nico," Poseidon coolly gestured to Nico.

"You can call me Percy," he said, shrugging off Poseidon's hand on his shoulder.

Nico blinked at him. His parents had thought he was mute, simply because he refused to waste his breath on words that didn't mean anything. He had watched his mother go through the danced with plenty of other ladies too many times. Bianca too.

Nico shrugged a little, awkward.

"You boys behave," Persephone's sweet voice ringing through the air. Nico found himself shying towards her, subconsciously drawn to his familiar mother. "We'll be in the dining room if you need us."

Nico didn't say anything, uncomfortable to be left alone with this stranger. He glanced over to where his sister was, desperate, but she was sitting in a pretty dress with two blond children, a boy and a girl, and three other girls, two with black hair and one brunette. They were sisters, no doubt, and equally beautiful in a way Nico had only seen his mother fuss about when picking out dresses for Bianca. The two golden-haired children had similar eyes too, and Nico quickly deduced they too were siblings. They were all politely sitting in a circle, the boy saying something, his sister chiming in momentarily.

"Do you not talk or something?" Percy's blunt words brought Nico back to his senses.

"Not to stupid kids," Nico hissed before he could filter himself.

Percy's eyes went wide-eyed. "I'm just going to go find my brother, then…" he trailed off, scooting away, glancing behind him periodically, probably weirded out by him. Percy stood obediently next to a blond boy who was about a head shorter than him. He was hiding next to his mother, but Percy easily stood out, his chin tipped upwards as women of the royal courts laughed and told Poseidon his boy had beautiful eyes. Percy beamed at the praise, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness.

Nico looked away, disinterested after a few minutes. There were dark-purple filled crystal wine stems, filled with what Persephone called wine, and what Hades said he could not drink. Nico blinked owlishly at the table, before reaching on his tiptoes to grab one. He was careful not to spill, and his expression soured at the taste. Why did adults even enjoy this poison?

"I think you might like cookies more," Percy said, coming back to his side. Nico impassively watched as Percy grabbed two cookies, offering one to him. Nico gingerly accepted the treat, sitting next to Percy as he talked his ear off. Percy, Nico quickly realized, had a lot to say.

…

"Prince Pevanshire," Malcolm's kind voice broke into the place Nico disappeared to at these functions of artifice and people he wished he didn't know.

"Prince Ashington," he politely greeted in return, if not a little stunned. He hadn't seen Malcolm in at least five years. "I had thought you were in China, dealing with financials."

Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, his expression hardening momentarily before looking back down at him. "I came back about four days ago," he explained.

"Ah." Nico sipped the bubbly champagne in his hand, his eyes flitting around to see what Malcolm was looking for. "I saw your sister slip upstairs, if that's who you're searching for."

Malcolm guiltily looked at him. "Sorry. I just worry…it's part of my job description—"

Nico waved away his concerns. "Don't worry about it, rea—"

"If it isn't China's savior," a familiar voice called behind. Nico froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up from being startled.

Malcolm's mouth curved up slightly into a charming smile. "Perseus," he greeted coolly. His glass fell to his waist as he nodded in polite recognition.

Percy's own hand was holding a glass too, but his crystal was entirely empty, almost as if he hated champagne or something.

"And Nico too," Percy realized, startled.

Nico was taken aback. How long had it been? It had been at least t—

"When I last saw you, you barely came up to my chin," Percy calmly retorted, making Nico feel warm all over. What was this alien feeling?

"When I last saw you, you were clinging to an oak tree," Nico lied.

Percy laughed. "And you haven't changed a stitch." Malcolm excused himself, pulled aside by his own father who wanted him to greet someone. "I'm glad to see you've still retained that sense of humor."

"Wouldn't want to disappoint," Nico dryly agreed, and Percy smiled to himself, a shy sort of smile Nico hadn't seen since he was just a boy. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. "I heard you led the battle of Manhattan a few years back."

Percy's demeanor changed into something cold. "I did."

Nico took a step back, wary. "Congratulations."

Percy's eyes were devoid of all emotion, except for something that perhaps resembled… anger, was that? He had this brooding look Nico remembered from when he was younger and serious, but now it was infinitely more terrifying, and he was a spitting image of Poseidon, and Nico's heart throbbed, pained by whatever had pained this boy he absolutely wished he could despise, but he couldn't and—

"I shall see you later. Please pardon me," Percy softly mentioned, making a quick getaway and leaving Nico to contemplate where he had gone wrong.

And when his heart had gotten more involved than it should've.

…

"You saw something in him that day," Annabeth guessed. The smoke curled around her ears and neck and mouth, making her like a figment of Nico's imagination, lost in the haze.

"I suppose," Nico agreed, albeit softly.

"I would have liked to know him then," Annabeth said out of the blue. "I would have liked to watch him grow up. I'm sure he was quite the charmer, even then."

"He was," Nico agreed. His heart still remembered what it meant to love a hero, to love a man like Percy Jackson, and he could only bend with sympathy for Annabeth. Loving Percy Jackson was like waiting for rain in a drought. He would always be lost in a world of his own, no matter how one tried, and there were some things even time could not change.

"I have to go," Annabeth said abruptly, interrupting the serenity.

Nico glanced up at her, startled by her sudden movement. There were reluctant tears in his eyes, and Nico looked out the window, unable to watch her pain.

"Thank you," she called behind her, only too hasty to leave. She brandished her heart like one brandished a tattoo. Nico's mouth still went sour every time he saw the 'L' on her collarbone, reminded of the quick-talking Luke he remembered from their childhoods, or lack thereof he supposed. Looking back, it had been so obvious their lives would've changed to this.

Nico nodded at her once, but she only shook her head, a tear running down her cheek.

"Thank you," Annabeth repeated once more, her voice cracking, and then she had disappeared in a flurry of curls and tears, leaving Nico entirely puzzled by the manners of humanity. Not that he cared enough to decipher it. In moments like these, it was just him and his smoke, and his lungs that failed him, and his heart that had never been rawer than now.

Nico closed his eyes, the sun warm on his face. He would see Percy Jackson again someday over the divide of heaven and hell, and Percy would be smirking like an idiot, and all would be okay. They would stand on opposite ends, bridged together by an old oak tree.

He allowed himself to remember for perhaps the first time in forever what it meant to love Perseus, remembering the suffering and hope and everything in between, and when Percy's faded to Will's, he found himself brushing off the last of the ash from his slacks, reaching for his black button down for Percy's funeral later.

Annabeth

"Please, have more tea."

The last time she had been here, she had come with Percy. It was a punch to the gut.

Annabeth hesitantly poured herself more of the pale, leafy tea. It was strangely sweet, given that there was no sugar in it—there was no sugar here, in the outskirts of civilization—but that didn't mean that Annabeth necessarily enjoyed it. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't dare be rude to this man, this man who alone possessed the last pieces of information she so desperately sought.

A handmade alarm clock, sculpted presumably by the inhibitor of this place, went off, ringing obnoxiously. Grover jumped up from his seat on a large boulder, his new glassware, etched with dainty green leaves—a present from Annabeth herself—teetering precariously on the edge of his saucer. Annabeth watched blankly as Grover tended to his "oven," which was really just a metal plate designed to trap in heat and placed out in the sun. Perhaps she would gift him a miniature oven next.

"Scone?" Grover offered politely, holding out the plate to her.

Much to her surprise, the pastries seemed fairly normal. She carefully took one, pleasantly astonished by the undeniable sweet notes enveloping her tongue. "How…?" she trailed off, peering at Grover with intrigue.

"I extract maple syrup myself," Grover proudly stated and gestured to the forest outside of his humble, sauna-like cave.

"Fascinating," Annabeth murmured. She didn't mean to sound dry—she really did find Grover's abilities incredible—but she was hardly in the state of mind to be a decent teatime guest. "Thank you," she said, though she shook her head when offered a second treat. Everything tasted like chalk these days anyways.

Grover brushed crumbs off his hands before beaming at her. "No, thank you. I can't possibly express how grateful I am for you killing all those monsters around my house."

Annabeth smiled warmly at him, her lips stretched tight across her face, but it only hurt. "It was no problem." It had in actuality been quite the problem. She'd had to modify the recipe Malcolm had originally recreated of her antidote, turning it into a liquid with the least possible viscosity, simply so it could easily be sprayed across plants and environments, so the monsters could consume the herbs, only to keel over dead and revert to their corpse form, and finally ash, and then nothingness.

"Will you be moving back to the cities then?" Annabeth queried, sipping at the rim of her teacup.

Grover was thoughtful. "Perhaps," he brightly admitted. "I had not even allowed myself to consider the possibility!" He was absolutely ecstatic, giddy like a little boy. "But where to? Everywhere is demolished, is it not?"

Annabeth wanly smiled. "Oh, no, sir. I'm afraid you are mistaken. Epresh, Sumisu, Canada, and Jirot are all perfectly peaceful and lovely now. It's only Thasite that's still in the midst of war. I can personally find you a pleasant home anywhere you'd like." She set down the glass, a soft clink echoing from the china. "As a thanks for all you've done for me. If you hadn't told my… my friend and I about Octavian so long ago, we never could have nipped his tyrannical, madman methods at the bud."

Her chest felt heavy. Percy wasn't a friend; he was more. And he wasn't here.

Grover nervously smiled to himself. "Well, I suppose…" he trailed off.

"Where were you thinking?" she asked, all business now. Annabeth delicately crossed her ankles, prim like a Princess. Some habits never changed, she supposed.

"I quite love Sumisu," Grover conceded. "I'd heard when I was just a boy they have such beautiful plants…"

Annabeth nodded to herself; this was not new information. If only the Rayas had been nearly as pleasant as their luscious gardens. "Heard?" she pursued. "Have you never been?"

"I have not," Grover dejectedly confirmed, "but I have always wished to, and if what you say is true, and the war in Sumisu has concluded, then… then perhaps I may finally realize that dream."

"I assume you'll prefer the Eastern tip?" she guessed. "They have the world-famous, largest botanical garden there, still preserved as it has been for centuries."

Grover's warm brown eyes lit up a cognac gold. "Oh, could I?"

"Of course." Annabeth fiddled with her fingers. "I'll let the Queen of the Amazons know. She grew up there, after all." She felt hollow inside, thinking of Piper. She hadn't seen her dear friend in at least a few days. Piper was much too busy now, but she always, always made time for her. It made Annabeth guilty, however, eating away at Piper's time, so she tried to avoid it whenever possible. For Grover, though, she would make an exception.

"Ah!" Grover nodded. "That must have been wonderful," he wistfully gushed.

Annabeth resisted the urge to tell him how fucked all of their childhoods had been. Beautiful gardens had most certainly been the furthest thing from their minds. "Yes," she agreed instead. "Now… as for what I came here for. I'm sure you saw my message…"

Grover's expression sobered. "Yes, yes. I'm sorry for your loss, my dear."

Annabeth's face hardened. "Me too," was all she said. "But that wasn't all—"

"—former Queen Sally Jackson Calbourne," Grover interrupted, finishing for her. Annabeth bit her bottom lip, nodding hastily. "You want to know about her, about why she faked her own death, and you believe I know."

Annabeth shrugged half-heartedly. "Besides Tiresias, that old fool," even his name in her mouth tasted sour, "you know the most I have ever known, sir."

Grover's pale cheeks flushed a sweet pink at her praise. "Oh, you're too kind." He waved a hand, dismissing her flattery, even if it was genuine. "But you are not wrong in that I do indeed know some of Ms. Jackson's unfortunate past."

Annabeth's heart beat wildly in her chest. "Oh, please," she pleaded. "I've gone through the archives more times than I can count, and yet there is absolutely nothing about why she faked her death the way she did. I remember being told she was hunted, but that was all. I'd like to understand."

Grover was quiet, studying her with a small smile on his face. "You are certainly your mother's daughter," he murmured after a beat.

The hairs on the back of Annabeth's neck stood up. People didn't mention her mother anymore, who Annabeth had so wisely advised to leave before Malcolm turned over to democracy. It had kept her name out of their mouths in the end, just as Annabeth had hoped.

"My mother?" she echoed, her blonde eyebrows knitting together on their own accord.

"Queen Athena," Grover confirmed.

"You know about her?" She was bewildered.

"I don't live under a rock, dear."

Annabeth pointedly glanced around the cave.

"Well, I didn't always," Grover fixed. "She was only a Princess when I was growing up. A beautiful, radiant Princess. She looked an awful lot like you, save for the darker hair. And everyone loved her too, and feared her too, not unlike you."

Annabeth felt strange all over. She had never heard stories of either of her parents from when they were younger. They were mere memories she would never have. She had only seen paintings with her grandparents and her parents, but that was it.

"I see."

"And you are both the apple of the kingdoms' eyes," Grover nostalgically whispered, taking another scone for himself before mourning chewing on the flaky delight. "Nevertheless, she was always seeking knowledge. I spoke to her once too. She spoke like you, the same tone, the same manner of holding herself."

Annabeth found herself feeling rather self-conscious, Grover's intruding gaze on her. He looked away, smiling to himself, lost in a daydream.

"I'm not surprised you figured out how to reverse Duke Octavian's testy science. It's only natural you would be as curious and knowledgeable as her." He sighed in resignation, and she found herself wondering once more how old Grover really was. Sometimes he looked barely thirty, and others he spoke as if he was seventy-five. "Back to your inquiry, though," Grover acknowledged, his tangent concluding.

Annabeth tensed all over again. "They hunted her," she repeated, reminding him.

Grover frowned. "They did, didn't they?"

"Who?" Annabeth had so many questions. "And why?"

Grover settled against a warm water spring, making himself comfortable. "It all started in the spring before her birth…"

…

Annabeth rapped her knuckles against the wooden door. It swung open only seconds after, revealing a familiar face she had not seen that day.

"Paul," Annabeth breathed.

"Your Highness," Paul choked, not expecting her presence. That would make sense, considering she had not sent a message forewarning of her arrival.

She emptily acknowledged, more emotional that she had anticipated to see his face. He didn't even look like Percy for goodness sake—they weren't related by blood at all—but it didn't keep her shoulders from feeling heavy. He had saved Percy, after all, after the hydra attack. He had promised his devotion to her, the runaway Princess of Epresh, when she had been bloody, and terrified, and alone, and dirty, and sick.

"I'd like to see the Queen, if you don't mind," she articulated, her voice soft.

Paul unfroze from his stunned state. "Of course! Please, come in." He gestured for her to enter.

Annabeth stepped in from the porch, the nostalgic scent of fresh baked goods enveloping her senses. She inhaled deeply. She imagined this was what it must have felt like to grow up normal, to grow up with a kind mother who understood, and a loving father, and an adorable baby sister—she eyed the strewn children's book, no doubt prized possessions of Estelle. Estelle would be nearly three now, grown much older than the last Annabeth had seen her. The thought was vaguely depressing.

"Would you like some gin? Or tea?" Paul kindly offered. "I'm afraid we don't have any ports or sherry, seeing as my wife hasn't stepped foot in a castle in over a decade." The tips of his ears were pink with embarrassment, but Annabeth wasn't bothered in the slightest. Paul was an honest, hard-working man, and she would not shame him for his medium income. She was not that haughty, not in the slightest. In fact, she quite preferred him and his humble wife to the artificial laughs and pointy teeths of the people she had grown up next to.

"Some tea would be mighty fine, Mr. Blofis." Annabeth didn't feel like drinking. She had a bad feeling she'd already be emotional enough without the alcohol coursing through her veins.

"Please, sit." Paul gestured to the wooden dining table, hastily bustling about to prepare her some tea. "If you don't mind my asking, Princess, where on earth is Sally's son?" He chuckled to himself, carefully setting down a teacup in front of her. Annabeth wrapped her long fingers around the chipped china, allowing the warmth to seep into her skin and fight the early-October cold. "Last I saw him, he had passed out and then was understandably upset while picking at Sally's pancakes." Paul stood above her, mirth dancing in his eyes as he reached for the teapot in the center of the table. He poured another two cups, presumably for himself and Sally.

Annabeth's stomach twisted at his words. Before she could reply, he was calling for Sally, seemingly forgetting his question at the reminder of Annabeth's initial reason for visiting.

"Annabeth?" It was Sally, and Annabeth's heart sank the second the ex-Queen's eyes scoured her home for a sign of her son. Some delusional part of her had hoped Sally would have seen the news all over the broadcasting systems, but their house wasn't equipped with one, seeing as they lived near the edge of the woods. Sally had initially gone into hiding, after all.

"Lady Jackson," she softly greeted.

"I hadn't expected to see your face until the wars had finished," Sally cheerily noted, taking a seat next to her husband. They held hands for a moment, both optimistic and happy. It only made Annabeth feel worse. Sally blew on her tea before sipping. "What brings you to my humble abode?" she inquired, her entire face lit up.

Annabeth swallowed hard. "I had been trying to track down why you were hunted so many years ago."

"Oh." Sally's expression scrunched up in confusion and something akin to old distress surfacing now. "But why?"

Annabeth shrugged lightly. "I had wondered, as I'm sure you did."

"I had," Sally agreed. "I never knew who it was after me, only that I had to flee so long ago. Did you… did you realize who?" she hesitantly asked.

"I did. I spoke to the man in the woods you had warned me of so long ago. His name is Grover," Annabeth found herself blabbing to stall for time. She didn't want to address Percy at all. "He's quite nice, actually, and he only hid out because of the monsters which… which is another headache for me to explain to you another time."

Sally patiently smiled at her. "And?"

"Queen Medusa's parents," Annabeth revealed.

Sally paled slightly. "But… but I was only a young girl. How did they already have a personal vendetta against me?"

Annabeth shook her head. "I don't think it was personal, ma'am. They simply wanted to marry into the Calbourne family—Medusa's father Phorcys had had a thing for Rhea, late King Poseidon's mother. The easiest way they found fittest to enter your bloodline was to eliminate you. This was decided even before you were born, as soon as your mother announced she was pregnant."

"I see," Sally choked out. She sipped on the tea, Paul's palm rubbing small circles into her back reassuringly.

"It's awful, I know," Annabeth admitted, "but you and I both know how coldblooded these Houses can be."

Sally's eyes concealed a lifetime of hurt, and Annabeth had no doubt Sally, a mere peasant girl with whom Poseidon had caught eye of once, fancied, and promptly fallen in love with, had suffered the brunt of the pain, thrown into a life she had never really wanted.

"It's quite alright," Sally kindly decided. "It's all over and done with now. I heard of Queen Medusa's demise," she tartly stated. The victory didn't seem as triumphant to Annabeth anymore, not after all that had happened after Piper's brutal murder of the snake Queen. Her smile was tacit too, implying years upon years of healing. "I simply haven't returned to town because Paul and I love it here. It's a beautiful place to raise Estelle." Paul smiled into his cup, silently in agreement of his wife's words.

"Indeed it is," Annabeth emptily voiced. It was a beautiful place, and it was untouched by the world's cruelty. She felt uncharacteristically jealous for a life of blissful ignorance.

"Speaking of Estelle, where's my other child?" Sally teased, but her blue eyes revealed her very real concern. "I thought he might still be trailing after you like a puppy. He's quite grown now, isn't he?" Sally ventured delicately, smiling involuntarily of her mental image of her son. "He'd never say it out, stubborn like his father, but I'm positive he's absolutely smitten with you," Sally revealed, laughing. It sounded like bells.

Annabeth felt like she was drowning once more in her despair.

"Annabeth? Oh, was it something I said?" Sally's hands reached out, comfortingly holding the shattering girl in front of her. It was then that Annabeth realized she was crying. "I'm so sorry. Did you have an argument? That was awfully insensitive of me. Or did Percy say something? I'll yell at him."

Annabeth held up a hand, praying for Ms. Jackson to stop talking. Paul stood to give her a hug. Sally stopped talking, comforting her with her husband. Annabeth leaned against them, grateful for their support.

"He's… he's…" Annabeth spread her arms, unable to say it. It hadn't even been a full week since Percy had died, but the wounds were as fresh as his had been. He haunted her every dream. Well, nightmares really. A life without Percy hardly felt like a world worth living in, Annabeth had come to realize.

Paul had not understood, but Sally was a mother, and she could understand grief better than anyone else in that room. Tears pricked at her once joyous blue orbs.

"I'm so sorry," Annabeth sobbed. She had not cried this hard since the day he had died. "I came to invite you to his funeral later today," she admitted.

Sally cried with her and Paul too, misty-eyed.

"I should've shoved him out of the way—he was fighting, and they tried to take him—I couldn't get the body; there were too many—" Annabeth's sobs cut her off. Her hands flung up to stifle her cries, muffling her weeping. Sally freely wept with her, and it was oddly absolving to have another grieve as deeply as she did. "It's all my fault." Annabeth wasn't even really making sense anymore, but she was past logic.

She was here alone at Sally's home, and she wasn't alone, not really, surrounded by friends and her brother always, but she would always be alone to a certain extent. She liked to lean on Piper in this rough time. They had both lost the loves of their lives, but all Annabeth found herself thinking of was the sheer number of times Percy had countlessly saved her, time and time again, and this time he had given his body and his last breath for her. Again.

"It's not," Sally assured her, tears dripping down her face. "It's okay," she promised, but with her crying, it was hard to believe her. Together, the three of them cried and mourned for a boy, not a hero. The armies and people could weep a Prince, a King-to-be, a soldier, a general, a hero, but to Sally, that would always be her little boy, and to Annabeth he'd always be her world. Nothing more, nothing less. He had pulled her out from drowning so many times before, her lifeboat in the bleakest of storms, and now she had drowned in him himself. Fate was as cruel as it got.

…

Annabeth had spent so long trying to forget but now, watching his raft flow out into the roaring ocean at Thasite's border—the only safe border in the war as of now, the East border where Poseidon had been buried, she allowed herself to remember. He really had loved his father despite their combined flaws, and it was only fitting Perseus was freed her where his father had been absolved only months before.

"Ave atque vale," they chimed together, the hundreds of voices. Sally squeezed her hand, but let go in the end, allowing Annabeth to push to his raft out into the gentle current. The ocean was calm that evening, as if it knew it had to carry its Prince to somewhere beautiful, somewhere with no swords and no violence on its shores. Somewhere with a great big lake for Percy to spend his days in. Somewhere with the best blue cookies in the universe.

"Et liberabo te," Annabeth whispered, watching with painfully dry eyes as he drifted peacefully. I free you. They had not gotten his body back, but they had made a small shrine of all his things for him in his place. Piper hugged her side, watching with her as he bobbed, the tiniest hope in the biggest, baddest of waters.

She allowed herself to remember the best of times and the worst too.

"My apologies, Princess; it was not my intention to startle you." The first words he'd ever said to her at that ball were still fresh in her mind. She'd glanced up, inexplicably nervous. He had beautiful sea-green eyes; that had been the first thing she'd noticed. And then he'd called her pale after accidentally letting her know about her betrothal to his brother, making her hate him more than she'd ever hated anyone else before. Funny that she'd end up in his arms alone only months later in a cold, abandoned castle room, his lips pressed to hers after her outburst in her father's council room. Some might've called her simply tsundere.

He'd called Drew a parrot for squawking over her ruined dress at that party, making the most cynical of girls fall hopelessly in love with him, even if she hadn't known her tiniest inkling of affection would blossom into the electrifying, unquestionable passion she'd have for him even after he'd died. He'd called her stunning even whilst angry with her, making butterflies shoot up her stomach. It was perhaps then that she had realized she was completely and totally fucked. She had called him a pig at that breakfast, making Malcolm mad, and he'd laughed it off, that crooked, signature smile of his overtaking his face. After her and Luke had turned the ballroom to hell, Luke assassinating more at Medusa's orders she'd found out only later, she had been bleeding all over the marble floors.

"Annabeth, stay with me," he'd told her, scared for her, as she laid in his arms, dying of blood loss and self-loathing.

Annabeth's eyes flew shut, quietly terrified to this day of the image of Percy torturing Reyna and the others in that cellar after capturing them. He had been one of the wolves that day, reminding her of why she couldn't dare to love him, no matter how her heart protested otherwise. Then she'd dressed up for him at the other ball, hoping to distract him while the Amazons took down his father and the entire court.

"I can hear you, you know," he'd said, scaring the fuck out of her after determinedly following him for some time. "You don't do subtle do you?" She had thought she was doing really well. "Hardly. In that bright blue dress? Good one?" She'd frustratedly demanded to know why he hadn't called her out for it sooner. Percy shrugged. "I wanted to see how far you'd follow me. Curiosity." It had been at that very moment that she realized she wasn't exactly entirely pretending to be in love with him. "Are you okay?" his voice cut through her revelation.

"Fine," she wheezed, half-wincing as her skin brushed against the cold stone.

"People aren't usually fine when they're draped all over a building like a pathetic noodle."

She blinked. "You're such an asshole."

And then he'd told her he liked her dress, as if it meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, as if it was nothing to compliment a girl he'd kissed only days before, even when she was promised to someone else. Annabeth felt nostalgic for those times, when her biggest issues had been trying to lie to the world that she wasn't an Amazon. When she had thought Luke loved her. But nostalgia was dangerous like that: it painted average, almost painful memories in gold, making it more beautiful than it was. She would never dare return to such ignorance and naivety, not even if she was forced to. And then Medusa had locked them both up. She asked if she could break them out, would he come with her? His answer haunted her, even to this day.

"Why would you even want to help me?" he smiled, but there was no humor in it. It was terrifying, so unlike his usual demeanor. She had done this to him; she was the cause of this whole mess. Of course he fucking hated her. Annabeth bit her lip. "I'm just a thing for you to use."

Then he'd fought the hydra with her, nearly died, exposed his vulnerability in front of his mother, and Annabeth had kissed him over and over and over again because she could. He had raced in Octavian's hospital with her, falling to his knees when he couldn't save her. And he fell for her again when she returned, when he saved her from that hell, worshipping her and her body like no other. She could still feel traces of his fingers on her skin, and Annabeth feared the day she would forget the exact shade of his green eyes, what it was like for his calloused fingers to touch her, what it was like for his lips, fervent and demanding, to feverishly press up against her own, claiming her in that way he did, in the way that had made her face erupt in pink hues.

Then Nico had fallen ill after Octavian's attack, and Percy had wavered for perhaps the first time she had ever known. He fell sick with his little brother in all but blood, mentally and physically weakened. They had yelled at each other, and his words still stung her to this day, more painful than anyone else. She had cried for him then too, sobbing pathetically, telling him all he did was hurt her. But he healed her too, more times than she could keep track of. She'd forced him to feel angry for the first time, to admit he felt things too.

"Look, you don't want to be here if I erupt, so get the hell away from me before I hurt you more than I already have, before I regret saying or doing more things than I already do."

"No." Annabeth chewed her bottom lip, balking in the silence she'd devised. "If you hate me, then show me. If you regret things, then tell me. If you're hurting, then let me heal you. If you want to hurt someone, then hurt me only." She blinked back tears. "But don't leave me alone again. I've been numb for so long, and I can't do it anymore," she prayed. This time when she cupped his face in her hands, he didn't pull away.

His painful words still scarred her. "And you'll always choose him," he choked out. "But I want you to choose me, but I wouldn't pick me either if I was you because I'm just like you said: a fucked-up son of a bitch. The corner of his mouth quirked up, but his eyes were blank. He squeezed her hand so hard that it hurt, but it was better than not feeling at all. Annabeth winced, but she relished his touch. It reminded her she was still alive, however uncertain this life was and however barbarous.

"Tell me you love me," Annabeth let out before she could stop herself, this wild, reckless abandon to be cherished overtaking her. "Tell me you're better than him, or my father, or everyone who's ever let me down, and I'll believe you."

He had made love to her then, treating her like glass until she'd yelled at him to stop treating her as fragile. And then he'd given her his all, even then, even when he was broken himself, reaching for her like she was a drug, and he was hopefully addicted. Annabeth could still see his face in her mind, flushed with embarrassment the next morning when she, satiated, had proclaimed angry sex to be the best kind. He had boyishly grinned then, ashamed of her words, but proud as he always was. But he would never be as proud as her, much more morally sound. The angel out of them two. Her better half, then and now, and forever.

And there, only hours before his death, she had promised she'd never go back to Luke, not for anyone. He'd smiled then too, ashamed of his reaction, but she had revelled in that expression, a face she'd never see again.

If he had asked her now to love him, to kiss him in the middle of a battlefield, to hold him before he went off to war like in those old, sexist fairy tales Annabeth despised, she would have done so without another complaint. She would have loved him enough to make up for a lifetime of hurt. She did now too, even if he wasn't there to feel it.

And if he had asked her now, his eyes rimmed red from unshed tears, his face slack from exhaustion, to choose him as he had chose her over his crown, to choose him despite his many appalling faults, she would not have thought twice about throwing away the rest of the world for him, only she had realized too late the extent of her fondness for him. But she would have thrown it away nonetheless. It couldn't possibly be a choice, not when he had always been number one in her eyes, in every aspect and meaning of what it meant to be human.

And when Annabeth touched the water one last time, the cool liquid sliding through her fingers with ease, she hoped he was watching her from wherever he was now. In the water, ankles deep, she felt him, all of him. His strengths and his weaknesses too.

Malcolm squeezed her side in encouragement. She was mildly aware of everyone's eyes on her, these people she had known for so long. Annabeth clung to her brother now, leaning on him as she had as a child.

Forgetting Percy would let his death be in vain, and so she promised she never would, no matter how it hurt to remember. He was worth every bit of pain, and he always would.

The waves crashed together, echoing like the three words she missed from him most. He'd always be there, in her heart if not by her side.

Annabeth closed her eyes and breathed in the sea water, and for the first time in forever she did not fear the vast ocean before her.

…

Annabeth had promised her Prince she would never return to Luke, not for anyone. She had failed to mention she would go back a thousand times, each time more painful than the last, for Percy himself.

It had been a month since the attack in the heart of the war. The war still waged on, dwindling, dimming, but still fighting on. Wars lasted years, and this too would take time, but she had come for one reason, and one reason alone.

Anyone's fingers around her wrists made her sick these days after Luke's manacles, and now she had nothing but burning hatred for the Boy King, and an inkling of regret, regret because sometimes she really believed she could have saved him, and other times she knew he had been a lost cause from the start. She loved him, Annabeth had long acknowledged, but not anymore. Now she only pitied him, pitied him for ever believing she could be his. She belonged completely to Percy, even dead. He was her soulmate, despite his many, many flaws, and she would never feel any differently. She had finally come to peace with this, and it was liberating. (She liked to think she was the flawed one out of them both, anyways, liked to think he was the real Perseus—the one from the Greek myths, and she was Andromeda, and perhaps of all the tragedies, theirs would be a happy ending.)

Nico knew and no one else. He had seen the maps of Thasite splayed haphazardly across her desk, and he had known she would've found herself here, but he did not tell, faithful to her. This time, Annabeth would return alive, the corpse of the Boy King in her hand. She had no doubt about it.

"Seize her!" The first voices came from in front of her, loyal guards of King Luke, but Annabeth didn't blink, raggedly ripping open the neck of the first man until he fell to the ground and then stabbing the other man in the heart, hilt deep. They were dead before anyone could know she was there, just as she'd always intended.

…

"Who was it?" was the first thing to leave her mouth as she stormed the throne room. Her voice was hoarse at first, but she felt strong. Her heart was in her mouth. Nobody messed with the people she loved.

"Who was it?" she asked again, balling her fists up at her sides. She glared up at Kronos. "His life. Who destroyed him?!" Kronos was a dirty player; she would not be surprised if it had been to kill his own cousin.

Kronos matched her expression with equal fervor. "You'd do well to watch your mouth, Ashington. I've done nothing wrong."

"Was it you? Did you kill him?!"

Two guards surged forward to restrain her, but Annabeth wrestled her wrists out of their grips. She wasn't scared of them, not after all she'd been through.

She had to know. Who killed Percy Jackson? Who turned her life upside down? Who left her to suffer and lean on Malcolm for support? Who destroyed the life of the greatest man to ever live?

She had spent days and nights together, reading, making a suspects list, trying to come to some understanding. Malcolm had watched her, his eyebrows knitting together in concern, and she knew without a doubt she indeed seemed as crazy to onlookers as she felt. She couldn't let it go. She had become obsessed, obsessed with figuring out who ended Percy, how she could avenge him. His death would not go in vain, not with her heart still kicking.

She glanced to Luke, but infuriatingly she couldn't read his face. Fuck him. Fuck him so much. She bared her teeth. She wanted to chew him up and spit him out in acid. His expression was impassive, but she could see right through his lies. He was not as composed as he wished to seem. He was watching her with hawk eyes, stalking her every move, calculating what to do with her unprecedented arrival.

"Get a hold on your Princess!" Kronos demanded, wheeling on Luke, who said nothing.

"I'm not his Princess!" Annabeth argued.

"Get out," Luke coolly demanded. He rolled his eyes as if he was bored, but his fingers tightly clasped onto the arms of his throne chair. He was deeply afraid, Annabeth realized with some sort of sadistic satisfaction. He was terrified of little Annie and all she could do, was terrified for his prisoner to break out of his grasp, have the audacity to return, and wear his brand like a reminder of her resilience. She was out for fucking blood, and he could burn with the rest of them for all she cared. She would take his head, maybe keep it as a souvenir. Despite herself, Annabeth's stomach twisted at the idea of murdering Luke, but her face hardened. She had always led with her head, not her heart, and this was no different. If no one else had the guts to kill him, then she would.

All of a sudden, Luke blanched, turning whiter than Annabeth had thought possible.

"Ah!" Kronos backed up in terror as if he'd seen a ghost.

She frowned in confusion, but then a voice behind her left her just as white as the youngest Calbourne, as pale as a sheet, frozen like the snow that would come after this November ended.

"Hey, hey. 'Destroyed?' That's an exaggeration."

Annabeth whirled around, and her mouth fell open when she realized exactly who—

He was standing in the doorway, his hair sticking up every which way as usual. He was dressed in a clean, crisp, white button-down and Calbourne military coat, and he had finally cut his hair too. The dark tie around his neck was sitting awry, like he hadn't bothered to straighten it. His face was clean, freshly scrubbed like he was still living in the Thasite castle, and his sea-green eyes were sparkling with thinly-veiled amusement, a hint of his signature mischievous smirk peeking at the corner of his mouth. His hands were neatly folded in front of him, and she could see a gleaming blue diamond of the family ring, heavy on his right index finger. He probably hadn't worn that since the first ball. His skin was glowing and healthy, healthier and happier than she had seen him in so long, and his teeth gleamed white.

Annabeth was at a loss for words, her knees going weak. She nearly collapsed right then and there; despite the faces all around them, he looked only at her, as if she was the only one in existence.

Perseus Jackson tilted his head to one side, offering a sort of half-smile. "My life is not such a bad one, don't you think?"

A/N: I really think I might have a problem. (Not that that's new lmao).

Somebody was making fun of me for locking Annie up with both Octavian and Luke a while ago (I think it might've been my homie BethnPercy?), and I embarrassedly explained that it was because I couldn't decide who would capture her while outlining, so I just decided to do both.

The other issue while outlining was I couldn't decide if I wanted Sally to die and come back or Percy, and so I just kind of… did both? Like I said, I have a problem lol. It's really strange. For most aspects of my life, I'm super decisive, but when it comes to writing, I'm so lost? Pls don't kill me.

Also, I figured y'all would figure out he didn't really die in like .5 seconds after the last chapter, simply because Annabeth never saw his body, only saw him get stabbed and then helplessly watched as people swarmed around him, shielding him from her view and touch. I guess I killed him, made it seem like he was dead, just as a reminder that nobody is exempt from death in war. No one is ever safe, not even the main characters. In case you were wondering what the purpose of his faux death was.

Obviously, I couldn't just leave him dead, though. Man's still got to finish his arc. He just jumped aboard Annabeth's train of democratic ideals when he was out of options. He's explicitly expressed that he just really loves her, and he doesn't really agree with anything happening around him: not Luke, not the Amazons, maybe the Canadians (he's most positive about them). He can't just fight a war alongside Annabeth and then be done. He doesn't even know who he is anymore. I couldn't possibly leave him dead.

Another thing is, I was very much second guessing if I should go through with his death prior to last chapter, and one of the reasons I decided to was because I'd already written the scene for the end of this chapter, and I didn't want to toss it out.

I'm deceased. I'm always so stubborn to part w my words lmao. But idk I just rly liked the way the end of this chapter sounds, and I couldn't bear to get rid of it, so I went through with the plot twist. Like I have this random scene document, which was like 30 pages straight of font 10 scenes, and it's slowly gotten shorter and shorter as I've used up all the scenes in the story, but I had about one page left two days ago, and I was looking through it, seeing what I could use, and I am depressed to announce I had to delete a 2,000 word dramatic reunion scene between Percabeth, with all the angst and feels, and all the heartthrob one liners from Percy, bc it didn't fit in anymore. (I can see y'all holding me to gunpoint, forcing me to release it lol). It was so sad. Alexa play despacito.

I will say, though, the ending of the story (next chapter is the last chapter) is definitely bittersweet. There'll be one death next chapter, and then that's that for the death count (14 total, excluding Percy, I believe). When you guys feel inevitably empty after the ending (I have no doubt you will), remember I'm going to post a brief epilogue in its own separate chapter afterwards. But I really do think the ending I've chosen is far more realistic.

Until next time~

Kit xx

AnnabethChase-Wisdom'sDaughter: Well, I'm glad you refused to believe it, considering it ended up just being a lie. I hope the end of this chapter rectified some of that pain. :)

BethnPercy: Let's just change that to 90% right, not wrong lol. No, no fancy serum. And Annabeth didn't imagine the sword going through him, but he must've managed to survive. So where was he for like a month when everyone was holding a funeral and grieving him? It'll all be explained in the next chapter.

I'm sad too tbh. It's strange. After I finished Angels Fly Above, I was just purely relieved ngl. I had grown so tired of that basic ass plot. But this story… and these dedicated, lovable readers… idk. It's something really special, ya know? I think it's a hard pill for me to swallow too, but I think it's time this plot wraps up. I do hope I'll be inspired to start a new multi chap soon, and I hope you'll love it as much as you love this story. And if not, I'll probably still be dropping oneshots until I start a new multi. I don't think I'm at the point in my life to leave fanfic behind yet. It's coming, but not quite yet. :) Well, you better have not cried bc Perce's v much alive and okay, so it's all good. Thank you so much. *insert a thousand hearts* For everything, my dude. You're a real MVP, and I love getting the notifs from y'all just as much as you like my updating notifs.

Guest: That's literally one of the nicest things I've ever heard. I like to think of myself as a very humor-centric person (to the point where I laugh in inappropriate situations :P), but sometimes I feel like others don't get it, or they're bothered by it. You're way too sweet; thank you so much. :) hA yES. I live for paczkis, and I will not hesitate to wave it in your face. XP I'd miss it it too. Thanks for reviewing and being so nice, just in general!

Lilly: Ah, fellow army member! I'm not gonna lie—I'm really new to army—but they're ridiculously talented, and I can't fathom why people hate on K-Pop so much. Like tbh, they're better dancers than any boy band in the US—so in synch, way more attractive (though that doesn't have anything to do w talent), they're literally the most adorable, non-troublesome dudes (those personalities send me into a kawaii heart attack), their aesthetics are goals, and their vocals are equally as good, if not better than any other group thus far. They've got that it factor even with a language barrier! It's wild, man. *sips tea* So, yeah. BRO THE NEW ALMBUM WAS STRAIGHT FIRE. I've gotta say, We are Bulletproof: the Eternal is just the most timeless, nostalgic track on the entire album, and it will always take the cake for me, but a close runner up is Zero O'Clock for sure. I also really, really enjoyed Outro: Ego (especially the last bits), Moon, Friends, Inner Child, Jamais Vu, Filter, and then On of course, bc those are all fucking bops (not that the others aren't). Pretty much, the second half of the album is the best part.

Shauna Kullden: IKR. I'm such a ho for stupid tropes sometimes; it's actually sad. But the sexual tension gets me every time, and when there's unforeseen bedsharing, and inner turmoil about having real feelings in fake relationships, I'm actually on fire. Like why do I do this. Why do I need to die over and over and over again by watching this low-budget humor. O.o Should I be afraid? Lol. Ig you're relieved then that he survived.