𐌙/𐌍 Ᏽ𐌵𐌀𐌋𐌄 & 𐌕𐋅𐌄 Ᏽ𐌐𐌄𐌀𐌕 𐌌𐌙𐌕𐋅𐌔 ¹

Chapter 20

Twenty
ꕤ

Getting Some Gifts

The Three Fates themselves took Luke's body.

  I hadn't seen the old ladies in all of my years in Camp Half-Blood, when I was twelve. They would've scared me then, and they scared me now—three ghoulish grandmothers with
bags of knitting needles and yarn.

  One of them looked at me, and even though she didn't say anything, my life literally flashed before my eyes. Suddenly I was twenty. Then I was a middle-aged man. Then I turned old and withered. All the strength left my body, and I saw my own tombstone and an open grave, a coffin being lowered into the ground. All this happened in less than a second.

  It is done, she said.

  The Fate held up the snippet of blue yarn—and I knew it was the same one seen four years ago, the lifeline Percy had watched them snip. I had thought it was his life. Now I realized it was Luke's. They'd been showing 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.

  I 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, I thought about the Great Prophecy. The lines now made sense to me. 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. A single choice shall end his days. My choice, to give him the knife, and to believe, as Annabeth had, that he was still capable of setting things right. Olympus to preserve or raze. By sacrificing himself, he had saved Olympus. Rachel was right. In the end, Percy wasn't really the hero. I wasn't. Luke was.

  And I understood something else: When Luke had descended into the River Styx, he would've had to focus on something important that would hold him to his mortal life. Otherwise he would've dissolved. I had seen Annabeth, and I had a feeling he had too. He had pictured that scene Hestia showed me—of himself in the good old days with Thalia and Annabeth, when he promised they would be a family. Hurting Annabeth in battle had shocked him into remembering that promise. It had allowed his mortal conscience to take over again, and defeat Kronos. His weak spot—his Achilles heel—had saved us all.

  Next to me, Annabeth's knees buckled. I caught her, but she cried out in pain, and I realized I'd grabbed her broken arm.

  "Oh gods," I said. "Annabeth, I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," she said as she passed out in my arms.

  "She needs help!" I yelled.

  "I've got this." Apollo stepped forward. His fiery armor was so bright it was hard to look at, and his matching Ray-Bans and perfect smile made him look like a male model for battle gear. "God of medicine, at your service."

  He passed his hand over Annabeth's face and spoke an incantation. Immediately the bruises faded. Her cuts and scars disappeared. Her arm straightened, and she sighed in her sleep.