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𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕
┏━━━━ ★ ━━━━┓ 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓬𝔂 𝓙 ┗━━━━ ★ ━━━━┛
The Three Fates themselves took Luke's body.
Percy hadn't seen the old ladies since he'd witnessed them snip a life thread at a roadside fruit stand when he was thirteen. They'd scared him then, and they scared him now—three ghoulish grandmothers with bags of knitting needles and yarn.
One of them looked at him, and even though she didn't say anything, his life literally flashed before his eyes.
He was twenty. Then a middle-aged man. Then old and withered. All his strength left his body, as he saw his own tombstone and an open grave, a coffin being lowered into the ground.
All in less than a second.
It is done, she said.
The Fate held up the snippet of blue yarn. It was the same one he'd seen four years ago. The lifeline he'd seen them snip, thinking it was his. Now, he realized, it was Luke's. They'd show him the life that would have to be 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.
Percy 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, he truly thought about the Great Prophecy. The lines now made sense.
The 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.
