The Arranged Marriage (Percy Jackson Fanfiction)

Seventeen

Percy washed the blood from his face, his hands shaking; the blood was not his own. The blood mixed with the clear water, warping it, and Percy could still hear the gurgling sound Luke made before he died, before the life drained from his eyes, before his breathing slowed to nothing. Shuddering, Percy tried to push the memory away but it persisted—Luke clawed his way back into his brain, tearing him apart from the inside.

The dull and emotionless look that Annabeth had when she slumped into him, after throwing the fated knife, haunted Percy still. Annabeth had saved Percy's life, he knew that, but at what cost? Could she ever forgive herself? Did she even feel remorse at all? Percy figured he didn't really want to know the answer to either question.

As if he had summoned her, Annabeth swept into their room, all flourish and smiles; Percy's heart plummeted. Was he the only one effected by what had transpired just a mere hour ago? Annabeth flounced down next to him, and that was when he saw that her smile had not reached her eyes. "Are you – "

"I'm fine," Annabeth said firmly, "but you're obviously not."

Percy bit his lip and looked away, blinking quickly. Percy knew that Death himself, Thanatos, claimed many souls every day, dragging them into the Underworld, but it was different all together to see the moment in which it happened—the very moment that Death came to take Luke to the Underworld, the very moment that his eyes dimmed, his warm blood soaking Percy, as he choked on his own guts –

Percy cut the thought off abruptly. "You don't feel – "

"I feel," Annabeth snapped, "like if I talked about it, I would start cry and I would never be able to stop. So I'm not going to talk about it and I'm going to be fine. I'm fine," she repeated, though her eyes were teeming with liquid.

Percy shut his mouth but silently held out his hand and Annabeth deigned to take it, plopping down next to him, her smiles folded up neatly inside her, her frown pushing the edges of her lips down. Percy turned to her and, without a word, pulled her into him in a tight embrace. The salty tang of tears filled Percy's nostrils and the wetness on his shoulder could only be attributed to Annabeth's tears. Percy hugged her close, sliding his fingers gently down her back, tangling into her soft hair. She quietly sobbed and Percy let her.

Percy was no fool. He had told Annabeth to run, to find help, knowing that she would not get back in time to help him. He knew that Luke would overpower him; Percy simply had been too surprised, too horrified, too tired to do much else than fend Luke off. And even then, his energy being sapped from him, he had accepted his fate. He would die for his kingdom and for his betrothed and for everyone that Luke had killed. In that moment, Percy was wholly sure he would die. Yet, he hadn't.

Percy had dodged a slice to his stomach that would have opened his skin, spilled his guts when a brush on his shoulder, barely there, a gentle warning had shaken him from his fighting. Percy had inclined his head to see behind him for the briefest of moments, only to see nothing, but hear the sharp twang of metal meeting flesh. Luke dropped like a sack of potatoes and Percy had glanced behind him once again in disbelief.

Annabeth stood, wreathed in the soft golden rays of sunlight, gray eyes glowing with fury and fear and determination, a sort of crown haloing her head by the gleam of what could only be a goddess's blessing. She looked like a goddess herself, a goddess that had risen from humanhood to ascend to holiness in all her glory. A goddess that has fought through the Underworld to claim her place on Olympus. Annabeth looked fiercely around, eyes stormy and unreadable, looked up and up and met eyes with Percy —

And collapsed into his arms. The only thought that pushed through his mind at that moment was that she had saved him. She could have fled, she could have run, she could have left with no blood on her hands — she could have left with a kingdom resting in her open palms — but she hadn't; Annabeth had saved his life and he was indebted to her.