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They landed at Crissy Field after nightfall.
As soon as Dr. Chase stepped out of his Sopwith Camel, Annabeth ran to him and gave him a huge hug. Percy stayed close.
Rory helped Artemis and Thalia carry Zoë out of the chariot. They laid her down gently onto the grass, adjusting her so that she was comfortable.
Well as comfortable as she could be.
Thalia began rifling through her bag for bandages or ambrosia and nectar — anything that could help Artemis heal the huntress' wounds. They didn't have much. Rory sat by Zoë's side, holding her hand.
"Rory," Zoë croaked, but Rory shushed her, stroking her arm.
"Save your energy."
Tears welled up in her eyes. The smell had only gotten stronger, and her ears were practically buzzing.
Zoë was dying. It was undeniable.
"Annabeth, Percy," Thalia called. Her voice was urgent.
The two ran over to help, but there wasn't much anyone could do. No regular medicine would help. Zoë didn't look good. She was shivering, and the faint glow that usually hung around her was fading.
"Can't you heal her with magic?" Percy asked Artemis. "I mean... you're a goddess."
Artemis looked troubled. "Life is a fragile thing, Percy. If the Fates will the string to be cut, there is little I can do. But I can try."
She tried to set her hand on Zoë's side, but Zoë gripped her wrist. She looked into the goddess' eyes, and some kind of understanding passed between them.
"Have I... served thee well?" Zoë whispered.
Tears began to fall down Rory's cheeks.
"With great honor," Artemis said softly. "The finest of my attendants."
Zoë's face relaxed. "Rest. At last."
"I can try to heal the poison, my brave one."
But in that moment, it wasn't just the poison that was killing her. It was her father's final blow. Zoë had known all along that the Oracle's prophecy was about her — she would die by a parent's hand. And yet she had taken the quest anyway. She had chosen to save them, and Atlas' fury had broken her inside.
She saw Thalia, and took her hand.
"I am sorry we argued," Zoë said. "We could have been sisters."
"It's my fault," Thalia said, blinking hard. "You were right about Luke, about heroes, men — everything."
"Perhaps not all men," Zoë murmured. She smiled weakly at Percy. "Do you still have the sword?"
He couldn't speak, but he brought out Riptide and put the pen in her hand. She grasped it contentedly. "You spoke the truth, Percy Jackson. You are nothing like...like Heracles. I am honored that you carry this sword."
