"Wounded, cursed, embattled — alive nonetheless."
~Son of a Witch by Gregory Maguire
:::
Annabeth used to run the pad of her finger feather-light over the edge of her bronze dagger. Then harder, then harder, then harder again. She used to hiss every time when her skin split, surprised to see the blood on the blade.
A smear of nectar and the thin slice would heal with not a mark to show it had ever been there. The next night, hidden in the far corner of her top bunk, she would do it again.
It's been years since then, about five, now she thinks about it. She stopped around the same time as her first quest. She rarely thought about that odd habit of her childhood, and when she did it was with condescension and no small bit of embarrassment.
What a little fool that child had been, so fascinated by something so dangerous. So sure of her own mastery. So surprised when the same action yielded the same result. Definition of insanity. What a pitiable child. Annabeth knew better. She was smarter. Wiser. Or so she thought.
Tartarus is nothing like her top bunk at camp and Percy is no bronze dagger. Annabeth is seventeen and smarter than ever.
Still, she watches a goddess choke on her tears and mucus, hopping this way and that, trying to keep a poison lake from burning her feet, and Annabeth thinks of the edge of her lost bronze dagger.
"Percy," she presses, feather-light, testing.
He turns to her without hesitation.
"That's poison," she says, "not water." Another press.
Percy blinks at her, eyes hazy and fevered, face indistinct with the death mist.
"Ichor isn't water either." Last chance to pull back, to stop before the dagger does what it was made for. "Try that."
Annabeth is not twelve, Percy is not a dagger, and goddesses do not bleed red.
Instead, they crack apart, screams gurgling from filled orifices, feet smoking, until they burst into a million burning bits of glittering ash.
Goddesses do not die proudly, with dignity. They die pathetically, messily, beautifully.
The bits of Akhlys dissipate before they have a chance to settle on the surface of the now stagnant poison. Percy doesn't move.
"Percy," Annabeth calls.
He turns to her without hesitation.
She holds her hand palm down for him to take.
Percy blinks at her, eyes hazy and fevered, face blank with shock or confusion.
He walks to her and takes her hand. Annabeth tugs him into place before her, a ghost's breath of space between their bodies. There is blood on the dagger, and it is time for the nectar. Annabeth brings her free hand to Percy's cheek.
"No one can know about this," she says. Her thumb passes gently over his lips. His forehead puckers, still confused, not understanding what they have just done.
Annabeth's grip changes. Her broken nails bite into his hollow cheek, the flesh of his jaw gives under the pressure of her thumb. She shakes him.
"No one can ever know."
Percy swallows, roughly.
"Promise me."
Percy nods. It's not enough.
"Promise me!" She shakes him again.
"I promise."
Percy's voice is cracked. Parched and thick. He doesn't understand why she's acting this way. He isn't like her. His mind doesn't work in the same twisted, conniving, paranoid way hers does. But he trusts her at her word, and she loves it. Loves him.
Her touch gentles on his face, running over the pink marks she's left in his skin. She runs her hand down his throat to the divot between his collar bones, fingers light over his pulse.
Annabeth no longer misses her bronze dagger
Percy is alive and Percy is hers and Percy is magnificent.
Annabeth keeps her hand on the delicate, vulnerable skin of his windpipe, his arteries, his blood and breath. Revels in the ease with which she could kill him in a moment like this.
She releases his hand to hold the back of his head, fingers gripping in his too long hair. She pulls him down to her level, kissing him.
It barely counts as a kiss, brief and crushing.
Annabeth tugs his face away from her by the hair
Percy's eyes are still hazy and fevered and his pupils are now blown wide. He's dirty and haggard, and he smells of sweat and blood and the death mist that clings to them both makes him fuzzy around the edges.
He is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen, and he belongs to her.
"We need to keep going," Annabeth says.
Percy nods.
Annabeth takes his hand and leads them away.
Annabeth used to run the pad of her finger feather-light over the edge of her bronze dagger. Then harder, then harder, then harder again. She used to hiss every time when her skin split, surprised to see the blood on the blade.
Annabeth is seventeen, not twelve. Percy is not a dagger. Annabeth has not grown up as much as she would like to believe.
:::
"They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. The only thing that makes them listen is power."
~Circe by Madeline Miller