The Path Of Glory (Annabeth Chase x Male Reader)

92. A Storm On Olympus

The Three Fates themselves took Luke's body.

They were scary, these three ghoulish grandmothers with bags of knitting needles and yarn. One of them looked at Y/N, and even though she didn't say anything, his life flashed before his eyes. Suddenly he was twenty. Then he was a middle-aged man. Then he turned old and withered. All the strength left his body, and he saw his own tombstone and an open grave, a coffin being lowered into the ground. All this happened in less than a heartbeat.

It is done, she said.

The Fate held up a snippet of blue yarn, and he figured it was Luke's lifeline. It was the life that had been sacrificed to set things right.

They gathered up Luke's body, now wrapped in a white-and-green shroud, and began carrying it out of the throne room.

"Wait," Hermes said.

The messenger god was dressed in his classic outfit of white Greek robes, sandals, and helmet. The wings of his helm fluttered as he walked. The snakes George and Martha curled around his caduceus, murmuring, Luke, poor Luke.

YN thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come home.

Hermes unwrapped Luke's face and kissed his forehead. He murmured some words in Ancient Greek—a final blessing.

"Farewell," he whispered. Then he nodded and allowed the Fates to carry away his son's body.

As they left, Y/N thought about the Great Prophecy. The lines now made sense. A hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap. The hero was Luke. The cursed blade was the knife he'd given Annabeth long ago—cursed because Luke had broken his promise and betrayed his friends. A single choice shall end his days. Percy's choice, to give him the knife, and to believe that he was still capable of setting things right. Olympus to preserve or raze. By sacrificing himself, he had saved Olympus. Rachel was right. In the end, Percy wasn't really the hero. Luke was.

What would've happened if Percy hadn't taken the knife from Y/N's hands? Better not to think about it too much. Better that he didn't have any role in that prophecy either. Y/N was sure that if he'd had one, it wouldn't have ended so well.

Next to him, Annabeth's knees buckled. He caught her, careful not to grab her broken arm.

"Oh gods," he said. "Annabeth, are you okay?"

"It's all right," she said as she passed out in his arms.

"She needs help!" he yelled.

"I've got this." Apollo stepped forward. His fiery armor was so bright it was hard to look at, and his matching Ray-Bans and perfect smile made him look like a male model for battle gear. "God of Medicine, at your service."

He passed his hand over Annabeth's face and spoke an incantation. Immediately the bruises faded. Her cuts and scars disappeared. Her arm straightened, and she sighed in her sleep.

Apollo grinned. "She'll be fine in a few minutes. Just enough time for me to compose a poem about our victory: 'Apollo and his friends save Olympus.' Good, eh?"

"Thanks, Apollo," Y/N said. "I'll let you handle the poetry."

The next few hours were a blur. Percy asked Zeus to send a blue signal to warn his mother that he was alive. The Lord of the Sky didn't even blink an eye at the strange request. He snapped his fingers and informed them that a bright blue flag fifty feet wide was now flying from the top of the Empire State Building. The mortals would just have to wonder what it meant, but Ms. Jackson—Sally, Y/N corrected—would know: her son had survived. Olympus was saved.