Funky little scraps of stories I will never write

If Percy and Annabeth were gods

Percy Jackson and The Last Olympian AU

Percy Jackson is sixteen and in the middle of a war. Annabeth fights beside him as they battle an inordinate amount of monsters. Ethan tries to stab Percy. Ethan fails.

Ethan stabs Annabeth.

Annabeth goes down, and Percy doesn't realize, he doesn't see that the girl he loves is collapsed on the ground. By the time he does, Ethan is gone. Annabeth is fading.

In Pandora's box, Hope lays silent.

He abandons the fight. Let the others slay the monsters, he's more than done his share. He carries Annabeth across the battlefield, across the city, up the Empire State Building. He's crying, he's talking to himself, his face is dripping with blood, both his and Annabeth's.

Grover Underwood is thirty-two. He's organizing the woodlands for war when he feels it. Agony, panic, and worry. The sound of a breaking heart. Too much for anyone to feel all at once, too much for anyone to feel at all. Grover collapses.

Percy Jackson is sixteen when he brings the body of Annabeth Chase to Mount Olympus. He is tired and weak and broken. He collapses at Hestia's feet by the hearth. No words are exchanged, no vows made. Hestia cradles Annabeth's body.

In the pithos nearby, Hope shudders.

Hestia is ancient when she meets Percy's eyes. There's a subtle shake of her head, and she ages several centuries when she sees the light fade from Percy's eyes. His love is gone.

"I could make her a god." Barely a whisper, but it's all Percy needs to force his head up, force his eyes to look at Hestia instead of at Annabeth.

"She could not be yours," Hestia continues in her soft voice. "But she would be alive."

Percy doesn't hesitate. "Do it."

Hestia bows her head, and for a few heartbeats nothing happens at all. But then Annabeth opens her eyes and takes a breath, and Hestia stoops slightly lower.

She wouldn't be Percy's. What might've happened before had no chance of happening anymore. But that wasn't what Percy cared about now. Because Annabeth was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Annabeth Chase is sixteen. She will forever be sixteen.

Grover wakes up. Juniper is standing over him, fingers on his forehead and concern on her face. He is fine, he tells her, just shaken up. And indeed, the worry and panic and agony is gone from his head. He stands up and leads his army.

Percy Jackson goes back to fighting. He takes no prisoners, kills all who cross his path. He's more reckless than he was before. He doesn't have an Annabeth to protect or a friend to stay alive for. The fate of the world may hang in the balance, but Percy had never cared much for the fate of the world. It was the fate of his friends that he valued.

Percy Jackson isn't the hero of Olympus. Annabeth isn't there to stop Luke, but Thalia is, and Kronos falls by his own blade. He mourns the dead. He makes a shroud for Luke. He also makes one for Annabeth. Maybe there's no body to cover, but she's gone all the same.

Percy Jackson gets called before the gods. They offer him anything he could ever want. He should think of the camp. That's what a better person would have done. But Percy Jackson, for the first time in his life, chooses himself.

Percy Jackson is sixteen when Zeus offers to make him a god. He accepts.

Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase are sixteen. They will always be sixteen. But they are together, and that's enough for them.

Hope beats softly in Pandora's box.