Disclaimer: No, I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, much as I would like to. Donations, anyone?

Elysium

"Hmm … hmm … hmm …"

She drags her feet along the shoreline. The sand is gritty under her feet, waves spill over her toes.

The tip of the sun is visible over the edge of the horizon, burning crimson in all of its fiery splendor, tongues of red lapping at an amethyst sky.

Her hair whips around her head like a halo, as gold as the sun. Her arms come up, wrapping around her torso, her tear-filled gray eyes sweeping the ocean. She breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with salty sea-air, (his green eyes burn in his tanned face … his teeth gleam white against the brown of his skin … his black hair cascades over his forehead) and a tear trickles down her cheek, even as a smile plays with the corners of her mouth.

She is flying; his hands are warm at her waist when he holds her aloft, spinning her around. Raindrops bombard his upturned face as he grins up at her, green eyes sparkling. His dark, rain-sodden hair still manages to stick up defiantly. Her own locks smite her face, spattering tiny droplets of moisture over her skin, and the wind snatches her laughter from her lips …

I've come so far … I've lost so much …

She slips a hand into her shorts pocket, fingers lovingly stroking the flat handle, the narrow blade.

Her legs are slick with sea water; her feet sink into the soft sand below. Curious fish nibble at her toes, and a strand of seaweed drapes itself around her ankle, its leaves askew, forming a crude anklet.

His eyes are shining, love and suppressed excitement gleaming in their depths as he leads her to the water's edge. "Close your eyes," he whispers, and she obediently does so, with a playful, "Don't you dare try to drown me, Seaweed Brain." He takes hold of her shoulders, turns her to face him, and she feels something settle around her neck; he fastens the clasp and says, "Open them."

Her eyes flicker open – he is holding a mirror up in front of her. Her hand travels inadvertently to where a delicate necklace of silver leaves rests on her collarbones. Her burnished hair catches the first rays of sunlight; his breath catches as she raises her eyes to his. "Thank you," she says softly. "It's beautiful –" The last word is smothered in his chest as he gathers her into an embrace …

I'm coming … I'm coming …

She closes her eyes, lifting her face to the sky. Her eyelids flutter; the wind ruffles her hair, chills her to the bone. She shivers involuntarily, but her hand does not waver. Her lips part, trembling slightly. Water lazily caresses her heels, her toes, the tops of her feet…

He lies, broken and bloodied on the ground. His grimy, sweat sodden hair is plastered to his pale, drawn face. Blood oozes from reopened scars, and his eyes, once so lively, gaze, sightless, at a sky flush with victory. No … no…

Grass scintillates around her, enveloping her waist, tickling her cheeks. Her eyes flicker open. The sun still hangs over the edge of the horizon, but it is lower now, blazing molten red-gold. The earth is damp underfoot. She is standing on a dirt path, in the midst of a sea of vivid, gently waving green. Ahead of her, a pair of wrought-iron, vine-covered gates spread their arms welcomingly gleaming in the setting sun.

She can see him waiting, his hand on the gate, his silhouette glowing faintly at the edges. She can sense his smile, feel his gaze on her face as his lights up, sea-green eyes radiant. Behind him, buildings of marble rise, glistening white, and olive trees sway in the breeze.

She trails her arms through the ocean of grass as she walks towards the gates, the wind in her hair and a smile on her lips, her head thrown back. No need to hurry, not now … not anymore.

His green eyes burn in his tanned face … his teeth gleam white against the brown of his skin … his hair cascades over his forehead, brushing his collar … he is perfect. No scars mar his countenance – they have been erased. No pain lurks in his eyes – it has been removed.

I've come … I've come …

The gates clang softly shut, leaving grass tips hovering in its wake.

Twilight has fallen when the dryads find her, limbs splayed, a cloud of gold floating around her head. Her lashes brush her cheeks, and her lips curve upwards, and a rivulet of red flows from her wrist, mingling with the ocean.

I'm here.

Fin.

A/N: I realize this may seem out of character for Annabeth … but it was just a thought that came to me in those little moments between consciousness and sleep … what if she lost everyone she loved in the war? Would she, perhaps, wish to hurry her path to Elysium? Would she feel that she's done her part?

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