The Path Of Glory (Annabeth Chase x Male Reader)

93. The Oracle Of Delphi

Annabeth's cries rang in the palace's corridors: "Y/N, wait!"

But he ran—along the murals, under the arches, in front of the statues. He ran away from the palace.

No. It was impossible. It couldn't be happening, not to him. It was utter nonsense. Either you're a god or a demigod. Either immortal or mortal. There's no say to have in the matter, same as you don't nitpick with the difference between dry and wet, between light and dark. Being less than a god and more than a demigod . . . that was impossible. It was like imagining stairs with a place between two steps to put your foot on, where there was nothing! No, it just couldn't be.

Yet he ran.

He burst out of the palace, rushing down the stairs two by two and downhill toward the elevator. For a second he thought about simply jumping into the sky above New York; he would turn into an eagle and fly far, far away, before crashing somewhere as he got too tired. But he stayed on track toward the elevator.

A kind of fever had taken hold of him. Things flashed before his eyes. The world was collapsing, and Mount Olympus, despite the clearing the gods had done to put somewhat of order in the mess, seemed even more damaged than when Kronos had been there. His foot hit the arm of a broken marble statue laying on the side of the road, and he fell flat on his face. Next second he was back on his feet, hurtling toward the elevator.

He tried to focus—tried and failed. His mind leaped from one image to another but couldn't fix on any of them, preventing him from thinking straight. Zeus's face as he spoke irrevocable words; the paintings with gods and goddesses celebrating; the three Fates, flying away with Luke's body; Hades bellowing; New York sleeping . . .

Y/N was crossing a plaza in pitiful condition. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, straight as a ramrod.

His mother, Hera, stood on the other side. He felt as if she were there to stand in his way, and figured he was right.

For an instant, he hesitated. A cascade of emotions crashed on him. He felt dazed, not knowing what to say; relieved, with the hope that his mother would comfort him; sad, because his world was falling apart; angry, because she was his mother and yet had hidden and probably still hid so many things away from him. These emotions intertwined without stopping.

Finally he stepped forward and pointed at her. "You knew. You knew and told me nothing!"

"I did know your future, yes." He could almost have believed there was a touch of sadness in her voice. Almost. "It was for the best I didn't tell you. It was for your own safety. When a demigod realizes what he is, his scent reaches its peak. He becomes more powerful, yes, but monsters can smell him more easily. I would only have put you in more danger than you already were in by telling you what you really are. But now, you know. You know that you are a god. You must understand why I acted as I did."

"I am not a god!" he cried.

Y/N realized he was closing and opening his fists spasmodically and forced himself to keep them still. He had to strain, but at least they stopped moving.

"You had no right to do that to me," he said, his voice sounding more like a moan than anything else. "Because of you—because you wanted to annoy your husband—I'm going to die. . . . You can't do that. . . . It isn't fair!"

Hera stared at him. Each time he'd seen her, he'd seen a touch of affection in her eyes. Now, though, she was stone-faced, calm and emotionless. He couldn't figure out the smallest detail of what could be going on in her mind.

"I do owe you an apology." There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. "But what is done, is done. I can't change the past—no one can do such a thing, Y/N. Everything I can do, is help you in the future."