The Green Shroud

Thinking of how she'd found Percy strangely made Annabeth think of the only time she had ever believed she had lost him. Only the once, had she ever believed he was dead. Once was enough.

She yanked on the loom in frustration. The sound echoed through the empty crafts cabin. It had been full, before she walked in with an armful of green silk and silver thread. There was no need to say what she was going to do. One by one, the other campers set their projects aside and filed out. By the time she'd begun to thread the heddles, she was alone.

She wished some of her brothers and sisters had stayed. Being alone only made it feel more real. But, she'd shoved them all away (sometimes literally), in the first few days after she made it back to camp. When Silena had tried to talk to her, when Malcolm offered to lead their cabin through activities, when countless other campers reached out in sympathy, she'd shut them down. She had put on a cold mask and simply refused. He's not dead. She'd insisted. But it had been two weeks.

This morning, Chiron when had called her to the big house and told her they would be burning his shroud this afternoon, she'd exploded. He'd waited out the storm of her fury and fear, until she slumped in a chair at the ping pong table, defeated and empty. Without a word, he began to show her the images of the mountain. The mortals displaced. The smoke. The crown of Typhon's head.

Annabeth was forced to bow to logic. Her mother would be proud. She'd told Annabeth many times that she believed her friendship with Percy was unwise. Annabeth knew better than to argue with her mom, but she could no more not be friends with Percy than eat her own elbow. Somehow, her mom seemed to understand that, even if Annabeth didn't.

Percy. It was hard to say exactly what Annabeth felt about Percy. He flirted with mortals, he was stubborn and prideful. Some days she worried that his brain actually was full of seaweed, he made such stupid decisions. Stupid, but brave. He was painfully, ridiculously brave, and he had saved her life.

And he was dead.

A tear traced down her cheek and she choked down a sob. He was dead.

She'd been prepared for this for years, really since the day she met him and heard the story of how he killed the minotaur. He was reckless, he'd do anything to save a friend. Anything, including sacrifice his life. Another tear raced down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily trying to avoid getting it on the cloth. What gave him the right? Who was she supposed to quest with now? They'd spent four years fighting side-by-side for better or worse and he just blows himself to bits over some Telekhines and weapons?

Her shoulders shook as she wove in a line of silver. Yes, they lived in a world where it wasn't surprising that Percy was dead at 15. She had been mentally preparing for this to happen, or at least she had told herself that she had. It didn't make it any easier, make the pain any less. The feeling that half of her heart was worse than gone. She'd never been this sad and this furious at the same time before, and as a runaway demigod, it was a familiar combination.

She focused on the fury and wove faster. The quicker she finished this horrid project the better. Chiron told her he would have one of her siblings do it, but she'd insisted. For awhile, hours maybe, she was lulled by the rhythm of the loom and the rolling agony of the hot, wordless grief in her chest. The shroud grew until it spilled over Annabeth's lap and onto the floor. She held her breath and forced herself to tie the knots that would close off the threads and complete the cloth that symbolized her best friend's passing into the underworld.

There is was.

She straightened her back and stretched. But she froze when caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked, at 15, indescribably older, aged.

Like a woman.

Like a widow.

The thought hit her like a ton of bricks. Of course she wasn't. She and Percy weren't even dating. But the kiss... Annabeth did not do things that were unwise. The look on his face had been priceless. You would have thought that she'd punched him- of course, that wouldn't have surprised him. She smiled, but the smile caught on the corners of her mouth. She would never punch him again. She would never kiss him again.

Those thoughts made the anger and despair boil up anew in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she might actually throw up. That would be just perfect. She fought the feeling back for as long as she could, and it came out as a sob, instead. For a long time, all she could do was clutch at the cloth and weep. She didn't have the strength for anything else.