Dedicated: to bookluva98, who is all sorts of amazing and who inspired me to start writing again. Girl, you are glorious. I can't thank you enough.

Watch.

The story begins on a small, grassy hill. Strawberries clamber over the ground. Green-leafed girls sleep in green-leafed trees. Over the clouds, words walk hand in hand with the barbecued-smoke of dreams.

On this hill, a girl is dying.

Yes, a girl is dying. And a boy is crying. His kindling eyes burst into flame. Confessions and three small words tumble through his teeth and over his tongue, to land in the rough, scarred hands of a sun-lit girl.

Looking upon this, you, with your matchmaking minds, must immediately think, they love each other, these two. This boy. This girl. You, with your Valentined hearts, must immediately think, what a tragic love story. You, with your candy-striped souks, must immediately think, how sweet, how beautiful, how dear.

You, with your sugar-filled lives, are right. And also, you are wrong.

They loved each other. And you are right—it is, indeed, rather tragic.

But it is not sweet. It is not beautiful. It is bitter, and broken, and worn. So it has become.

A girl. A boy.

And me.

It all ties together so beautifully, you sometimes wonder if the Fates didn't have a hand in it.

Or maybe they did.

We mess things up, either way.

In case you might be wondering, the above-mentioned girl is not the one who slept for five years on a grassy strawberry hill. That's not to say she isn't important, of course. In fact, if there's one thing I've come to realise over the years, it's that everyone has their own little importance. Their own role to play. And that may sound cheesy, something that you find on those self-help books mortals like so much, but I promise you it's true. Is that why those books sell so well? I don't know. I have worked and bargained with mortals since Kronos barfed up Kelp Shorts and co., but that—among others—is one of the things I never, and will never, understand.

It's not like I've ever visited the Fates or wanted to, but I get how this happens. You have people. You have the gods. And then you have me.

It's like baking. Put in the right ingredients, vanilla, sugar, apples, you might get something happy. Overdose with the yeast or mistake cement for cream, and I've got a lot more work to do over the week-end.

Is this getting too depressing? I apologise. Do you wish to take a break and reflect on the meaning of life while I make sure to twist my facts to suit your happiness-loving needs?

Yes, a break would be nice. I'd like that. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody.

My apologies. You don't need to hear me whining. Naturally, you have other things on mind.

For example—the girl.

The girl who slept for five strawberried years.

And the boy with kindling eyes.

Yes.

Let's return to them.

Or rather, let us backtrack to a moment on that same strawberry hill, when a boy with kindling eyes and burned driftwood-type hair came staggering up the grass with his heart in his arms.

The boy was crying. Silvered tears streamed down his face like shards of mirror. There was war, defiance, and heartbreak.

"I won't let Death take her," he vowed. Chapped words escaped from whispered lips. "I'll fight him before he takes her." A crack in his voice, like quicksilver. "Do you hear me, Death? Do you hear me, Thanatos? When you come for her, you will feel my sword in your face!"

You see that?

That's bravery.

That's foolishness.

That's love.

Personally, I quite like that. Such stupid gallantry.

Yes.

I like that very much.

His lips landed on hers just as I flew down and carried her still-warm soul in my cold, marble arms. In many ways, it was a pity. Taking a girl like that? It was nothing short of robbery. So full of energy, so bright, so vibrant—she had her whole life in front of her, and now there was nothing but her death. But at least she wasn't alone.

Their frozen silver kiss lasted for many moments after her death.

At her funeral, the boy stood with crescent moons shining red on his palms. Sadness wrote itself over his tongue. Guilt rode on his eyelashes and choked him slowly.

Besides him was the strawberried girl.

* * * A FEW NOTEWORTHY FACTS * * *

The girl had midnight fingers
and immortal eyes. Her hair,
coal-black, hung down over her forehead.
The girl's name was Thalia Grace.

A shadow-fringed boy sat behind them with clenched thoughts. Slowly, unconsciously, his pained soul reached out and joined hands with an artist's paint-splattered mind. The satyr, his eyes brown and screaming, wept, and his green-leafed tears fell into the lap of a green-leafed girl. Many others were there, too. A warrior girl, with hands so much harder than her heart—a brilliant, crying man wearing glasses that still contained the laughter of a sun-lit girl—even the memory of that scarred, brave, foolish boy with hair the colour of lemons came and stood at the back of the crowd, half of him watching, half of him waiting to greet the girl as she came and met him through the high-arched doors.

Yes, the girl had been loved. And it was beautiful to see. Their faithful love circled and danced together above the cold, wooden coffin, and it warmed the sky better than any sun.

But the lips of the boy who'd last kissed her remained cold, and he looked for comfort in a comfortless earth.

I must confess—I had not been there. I had no business being there, due to very obvious reasons. I did not see the echo of the coffin's scream spiralling into the air, nor the burning imprint of nothingness as it accused the dryness of the driftwood-haired boy's eyes, nor the impulsive seizing of a bloodied hand, once trying to keep the redness within a sun-lit girl's skin, by the girl with midnight fingers and immortality swimming in her veins.

I did not hear the detonation of a professor's broken voice when the earth fell on top of his daughter, nor the thunderous fall of her brothers' tears on the damp, grassy ground. I did not hear the sombre words of a god who had finally gotten a girl's name right, I did not hear him mutter without drink in his hand, "Crying shame, a damn shame…"

I did not see a proud mother's cold, frozen face in the clouds, her eyes dark with forbidden despair. No, I didn't discover any of that until I came back a few months later and stole a few sheets of cramped writing as a favour to that tight-lipped goddess with the intelligence to remain silent. It was explained to me that just as the girl was buried another girl's mind woke up with a thousand condemned thoughts, and that in the future she would hate herself more than any god could.

* * * A SMALL BUT NOTEWORTHY NOTE * * *

When people die, I see it.
I see everything.
Their life, their death, their loves.
I read it in their secret
palms. I hear it in their guilt-choked
throats.
Branded names. Burning shadows.
'Thalia Grace' was written in the many-tired
heart of Luke Castellan, just as the footsteps of
'Annabeth Chase' walked
across the soul of Perseus Jackson.

Something I've discovered—humans reveal themselves so much more when they are caught off guard.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

When the funeral was over, Percy Jackson returned to his Manhattan apartment with the ghost of his fiancée leading him by the hand. (I apologise, if it had not been clear up till now that this was the boy in question—drift-wood haired and kindling-eyed.) Thalia Grace went with him.

I think the memories of a sun-lit girl had accompanied them their entire lives, and at this point her comforting palms would rest gently on their hair, and their lips would taste the sweet, dusty comfort of her forgiveness.

Well.

Not quite yet.

How would you feel if someone you loved died in front of your eyes, and it was her blood that haunted your too-slow hands?

Reading what Thalia had written, I see that the boy blamed himself for that death. And that's understandable, if not true.

Let me tell you something:

His heart was tired.

It needed a rest.

But at that moment, the heart did just what the boy did often—pushed him beyond boundaries that didn't need to be pushed. It believed it could, that it should last for longer than it had the ability to.

Yes.

That's what he thought.

That's what his heart thought.

The emptiness gnawed at him. It gnawed at him as he walked on smoke-coloured streets, bag in hand, and thought, why? Why couldn't he feel anything? She was dead—he watched her die—Annabeth was dead—yet there was nothing but emptiness, and dryness, and the deep, accusing lack of tears.

He did not cry until many days later, when he found the ingredients for tears and a blue cupcake in a cupboard he'd forgotten to clean out.

Humans, it seems, are most capable of destroying themselves than anything else.

At this point I was somewhere on the other side of the world. Something about a car crash. Ten people dead, fourteen injured.

I collected them all, like stamps. Some I flung over my shoulder. It was only the children I carried in my arms.

Something you should know: I don't deal with only one type. I'm not picky. My jobs have many variegated personalities. No, most of the time I handle much more mundane things than the consequences of a car crash. It's lucky I get around so quickly.

Anyway.

The boy.

The girl leaned against the boy as they stepped out of the cab and onto a Manhattan-smogged street. Something she could not name propelled herself to walk with him all the way up to his apartment, where his mother stood waiting with open arms. Sally had not made it to the funeral; possibly because she had not found out until it was too late, possibly because the arrival of a young daughter had distracted her from much else in the late hours of a cold, frosted morning. In any case she had not been there, and now she was waiting to take her son in her arms and stroke his driftwood-hair as he struggled to make tears come out of dry, empty eyes.

As I said: Sally Jackson was a better woman than most, and she loved her son more than anything else in the world.

"Should I come up?" Thalia asked, leaning awkwardly against the wall. She had not cried, either. Tears do not represent pain, you know, and an absence of one does not mean an absence of the other. "That is—I mean—well, if you want me there."

Percy looked at her.

"Okay."

Together, they faced a world.

As ungainly as she was with her still-bloated, newly-empty stomach, Sally Jackson appeared the loveliest figure in the world as she ran to Percy carrying in her arms the swampy comfort of an oncoming hug. Percy's stepfather, Paul, came around with a small pink bundle, and the three of them—mother, father, child—squashed the boy in compassion and understanding, and they did not take the emptiness away from Percy Jackson's eyes.

One mustn't think too harshly of them. They'd tried, after all, and their love was genuine.

What they did not know was: Percy Jackson did not need compassion, or understanding, or even love. What he needed was the truth.

However ugly it might be.

The truth—

Was it his fault?

Did he, of all people, kill her?

Was he guilty of her death?

We all seek the truth, in some way. Whether we like it or not is another matter.

As is the fashion in which we deal with it.

Oh, gods. Oh, Christ.

Percy.

"I need some time," he said. "I need some time away, from all the—" He was referring, of course, to the apartment he'd recently abandoned and that he'd once shared with a recently-dead Annabeth Chase. It doesn't take a genius to make a connection between the two. (I apologise if this had not been clear until now. I try to make it as simple as possible, but one should never oversimplify that which is complicate, nor complicate those simple things.) "—Anyway, I need a break," he said, after a momentary pause.

"Of course," said Sally. She had already started making pancakes in the kitchen; blue food colouring was at hand. The woman was a saint. She truly deserved all the happiness in the world. "You could stay with us, we've still got your room ready, I'll—"

"No," said Percy, with perhaps more force than was necessary. But Sally understood. How could she not? "I—Thanks for the offer, mom, but, I—I'll find somewhere else."

"Honey—remember, if you ever need anything—"

"I'll call. Yeah. Thanks. But I think, I think I'll just stay in a motel or—"

"Or you could stay with me."

The words were said as if upon their departure the speaker wished to call them back in. Thalia's cheeks turned vaguely pink, then paled violently as if in punishment for the initial change, then darkened once more for caring about it at all.

Percy turned. "Huh?" The word wore the colours of surprise, suspiciousness, and thanks.

Her hesitation hung in the air like a flag. "Look, it's not like I want you there, or anything—no, don't think that, I'm fine with you staying with—actually—Well, I've got this place, okay? Lady Artemis paid for it, she said I should have somewhere to stay—something like—well, sort of—a home—and it's not that dusty, I can clean it, I think—and—well, if you want to come, you can stay."

"Where?"

"Oregon."

Far from camp. Far from her grave.

It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.

"Yeah, okay."

To be quite honest, there was no other answer he could've given. Just the one.

Yeah, okay.

How could you not love a boy like that?

So Percy packed his memories in a suitcase and so they left, the boy and the girl, dangling heartbreak behind them and with tears and blue cupcakes stuffed firmly into their hearts. Sally watched her son go with quiet, pensive eyes. I think she already knew, at that moment, as their backs receded into the cold, wintry morning, that he would not be back for many weeks, and he would not bring the girl with him for many distanced years.

And so Percy and Thalia boarded a train to Oregon. And sometimes I like to imagine how everything looked behind thick, clear windows, and I know without question that the sun was blond, and that the endless atmosphere was a stormy grey eye.

The Stinsons lived six floors down. They were a family of four, all with wheat-coloured hair and sky-blue eyes. There were in total eight occupants of the rundown stack of flats—the Eriksens, Lillian and Michael, slept all day and stayed out all night. That left the frumpish old lady, Rosa Wiebermann, in the lowest and dirtiest floor.

And then Thalia.

Thalia's apartment was a close second.

Dust fought for room in the corners of the flat. Empties boxes hibernated on the floor. The remaining wallpaper wouldn't have covered a mouse-hole; a jar of pickles sat forlornly on the upper shelf of the fridge, and a single light bulb flickered despondently on the ceiling. It was, in itself, the most desolating state in which an apartment could be.

It was also highly therapeutic.

Work, as it happens, is the best chore for the broken soul.

They scrubbed away till dawn.

* * * A NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR * * *

Whatever Hestia says,
frumpish is a word,
and a highly underused word at that.

"I think we're done."

"Yeah. I think we are."

They collapsed on the couch in dampness and relief.

The flat had been truly and thoroughly scoured. All dirt had been expunged; any remaining dust had been banished to the barest corners of the room. Wooden cabinets had been polished till they shone. The walls had been stripped bare in preparation for future sheets of smoky, dusky blue. Newly bought carpets rolled across with a proud, carpeted flourish. A fridge had been ordered; a new bed was on its way.

"Gods. That was—"

"Yeah."

They went out for pizza at three in the afternoon, exhausted, sore, starving. Percy paid.

The dryness of their eyes branded their throats with dusty whips, and kept their nerves knotted tightly, all the way walking down the street.

Let us now arrive at a moment eight days after, when Thalia was in the kitchen staring at macaroni, and Percy was trying to dismantle the fridge.

An explanation: at this point in life, the two of them had acquired the culinary abilities of your typical sheep, and after a week of ordering takeout, they had decided to try their hand at cooking themselves. But as Percy had been fed through courtesy of, namely, his mother, camp, and a sun-lit girl, and Thalia had learned to live off pizza roulette and antelope for the past few years, it was not the easiest task in the world.

"Wait. I think, you boil water, and then you put the macaroni in, and then—flour? What?"

"Here, let me take a look at that.

"This doesn't say flour, it says pour. As in, pour the water in."

"Percy, you may be the saviour of the world, but I think I have the superior reading skills here."

"Look, Thalia, I'm not saying I read better, but I'm positive you don't put flour in macaroni."

"What would you know? Have you ever cooked?"

"Have you?"

"Raw rabbit, once, but—"

"Oh, gross. We are not eating rabbit. Again."

"Hey, it was an accident, I don't read Japanese!"

"… I asked you to buy pork!"

"Oh, shut up, Mr. Hey-Thalia-I-managed-to-cheat-myself-out-of-fifty-bucks-today!"

"That was an accident! The guy looked legit!"

"Percy. Kid. He lived in a trailer in the middle of the woods. What were you thinking?"

"That we used to live roughly the same way? And don't call me kid, I look older than you—"

"Yes, but I'm still older, eternal youth thing remember?"

"Oh come on, you cannot be bringing that up—"

"It's true, you can't deny it—"

Needless to say, they ordered Chinese that night.

On the seventeenth day after a sun-lit girl bled to death on a grassy, strawberried hill, Percy Jackson and Thalia Grace drove back to Manhattan and cleaned out his old apartment. As previously mentioned, within one cupboard he found:

-Three birthday candles.

-A stack of twelve party napkins.

-One plastic fork.

-One pack of cupcake mix.

-A recipe for tears.

Long awaited. Long searched for.

Percy Jackson cried.

I feel like something needs clearing up. I apologise for not bringing this up earlier; I would like to clear it up right now.

Why?

A question.

Why would Percy Jackson take Thalia Grace with him, as he searched for tears to fill the emptiness and his eyes?

Yes.

Why?

How could he continue that way, laughing, living, as if everything was normal; as if a sun-lit girl had not been buried under cold, hard earth as love in the shape of tears fell from other eyes? How could he live as though everything was normal—how could he live?

I see it. I saw it. Or at least, I saw half of it. Having worked in this job for as long as forever—it constantly amazes me, what humans are capable of. How they can stand up after being beaten down, how they can carry on when tears are streaming down their faces. In that car crash, as an example—a woman's husband had been gutted down behind the steering wheel; pieces of her child's brain dotted the ground like gray chunks of cauliflower. Yet she stood up, and she walked to her husband, and she kissed his cold, dead lips, and she held her broken boy in her arms and stroked his cracked, torn skull, and to the best of my knowledge she lives yet.

How do they do it?

How did the woman do it?

And how did Percy do it?

Perhaps you're asking that question now.

Thalia came to the answer, and by reading her words, so have I.

I'll tell you the answer.

It was a truth Percy refused to admit, a guilt that wrapped itself around his throat, the blurry, foggy shadow that followed him on sunlit days. The shadow had a shape. Had blond hair. Had stormy, shadow-like eyes. When he laughed with Thalia or when he felt joy at the sight of electric blue eyes, day after day, night after night, he saw Annabeth everywhere. And he would not admit—he could not admit—that even as the love of his life died before his eyes, he could still find happiness, and it felt like a crime to him.

Percy Jackson, if not smart, was still amazingly perceptive, and Annabeth was found in the curtains, in the wallpaper, in the soft, distant sound of the sea. Clouds curled in the sky the same way her hair had curled around her shoulders; thunderstorms were the exact same shade as her stormy grey eyes. He saw her strong, lithe form in the supporting beams of bridges; cupcakes were all tinted the colour of her blue-shadowed love. Yes, Percy Jackson saw Annabeth Chase everywhere, and he loved it and loathed it all at once.

It appears to me that I have been rather unfairly biased so far in the story. I have talked about Percy, but rarely have I talked about Thalia.

Yes. Thalia.

That electric-eyed, black-haired, immortal-fingered daughter of the skies.

Why did Thalia accompany him, accompany Percy, after the death of the sun-lit girl?

I'll tell you why.

Thalia Grace, Luke Castellan, and Annabeth Chase. Alone, exhausted, parentless, and delighted.

Parentless.

Not familyless.

A small difference, and immense at the same time.

For several wild, dangerous and wonderful months, Thalia, Luke and Annabeth roamed the streets with no money in their pockets and happiness in their eyes. When monsters came for them, they fought. Side by side. Thalia next to Luke. Luke next to Annabeth. Annabeth, guarding Thalia's back.

Never mind that the oldest of them was only fourteen. For the electric-eyed daughter of Zeus, Luke became the parent that disappeared with each cocktail that slipped down her mother's throat; for the angry, stifled son of Hermes, Thalia became the confidant and trusted friend like no one before; and for Annabeth, those two restless, bitter, destructive teens were the protectors and benefactors her own mother and father had never been. They were happy; and they were alive.

Until.

After a boy with hair the colour of lemons and a scar gave his life for the world, Thalia Grace was completely alone. Well—not quite. Annabeth was still there. But she had Percy—she was happy—and although Thalia was surrounded by her Hunters and the sky, she was lonely, and no matter how much she tried to deny it she was angry at Annabeth for being happy.

Yes. That was it.

She was angry at Annabeth Chase because she had found the kind of happiness Thalia had not.

But let me tell you something about Thalia—she was not perfect; but she was a good person.
She was a very good person. Thalia Grace had the hard hands of a Hunter but the vulnerable, callused, chasing heart of a young, betrayed girl; and throughout her life her biggest goal was to never feel alone again.

With the information given so far, one starts to wonder, why would she choose Percy of all people to accompany after Annabeth Chase left her once again? Percy Jackson—who her friend had left for, leaving Thalia behind?

Here's the answer.

Thalia Grace and Percy Jackson had both loved Annabeth Chase in some way, and her death left them as broken and hollow as crushed snail shells.

I'm sorry. Maybe that's not a very good simile.

Anyway.

To return.

"I can't stay here. With you."

"Yes. Of course. Please—just go."

I'm sorry, Thalia.

I'm sorry, Percy.

"I—I would've liked to be with you. And you know, I think it might've worked. If we were different people. If we had different lives. But I can't be with you, without—"

Without seeing her.

"Yes. I know."

"It's better for the both of us."

I understand.

He gave her a small, sad smile. "I hope I can see you again."

"I hope so too."

"Well—goodbye."

"Bye."

So Percy Jackson returned to Manhattan, and so when Thalia returned to her Oregon home, she burrowed under her blankets and cried. And it hurt, more than the tearing, slashing pain of a blade in her skin, because she missed her in a way that causes her pain, missed her so badly she almost hated her for leaving.

The doorbell rang.

She didn't even realise until she opened the door that she had been hoping it was him, until she saw him and relief spread through him. And here's the funny thing: she didn't even think it was relief until she thought about it more thoroughly, many months later, she only knew it was emotion that swept through her at the sight of his kindling eyes and she was happier than she had the right to be.

"I—I can't. She's everywhere. And nowhere. She's everywhere and nowhere and gods, I can't, I just—Please."

"So… you want to…"

"Stay here. I, I want to stay here. Like—like before. Please. I can't be there anymore."

She sighed as if her mind hadn't already been made up. "Yeah. Sure. Come in."

Come in.

It was almost like before. Percy cooked, or at least tried to cook, on Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays; it was Thalia's turn the rest of the week. Of course, they ended up ordering out most of the time, and Sally sent over most if not all of their home-cooked meals, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

The nightmares started on the twenty-sixth day.

Looking back, I suppose it was something of a miracle that they had come so late. Almost four weeks.

Yes.

A miracle.

Don't leave me. Annabeth, come on, wake up. You're good at solving problems, please, just, solve this for me. You can do it. One last favour, that's all I ask. Please. Just—do it for me, okay? That's all. Save my life once more. Come on, Annabeth. Wake up. Save me. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

One last favour. Save me.

Oh, gods, Percy…

Later, when she filled pages with her cramped, spidery handwriting, Thalia would recall those moments with a smile on her face. Please, don't think of her too badly. She did not find pleasure in moments like those—the smile was not one of joy. It was of acceptance. Of understanding.

Of relief.

In the next few weeks, the son of Hades would summon up a ghost for his electric-eyed cousin, and the ghost, fiery, and proud, and grudging, would nevertheless give Thalia a smile, and her love would not shrink for either or both.

Thalia Grace would hate herself for months, perhaps even years, but finally she would find peace, and Percy Jackson would find a resemblance of that too.

But that's the future. And the future, no matter how much we wish it to be so, cannot be predicted. Certainly Percy could not have predicted that after a long while he would be able to look at architecture without feeling the ghost of Annabeth Chase hold him by the hand, and certainly Thalia could not have predicted that after a long while she would be able to look herself in the mirror and not feel revulsion, and certainly neither of them could've predicted that one day, in the far off, distant future, they would reach some sort of understanding, and the winds would no longer resemble the betrayed smile of a beautiful, dead, and sun-lit girl.

Percy, and Thalia.

There were never two people more capable of destroying themselves.

Somewhere around midnight, Thalia Grace awoke to the sound of screaming.

"Annabeth. Annabeth. Don't go. Annabeth…"

You must remember that there were only two people in the apartment, and one of them listened while the other cried.

Before she knew it, before she was quite aware of what she was doing, before she had even stopped to consider any possible implications of her acts, she had half-walked, half-ran to the room where Percy slept, tossing, turning, his skin silvery with sweat. His pleas crawled across her arms, dusted her lips, hid in the crooked-moon curves of her eyes. His screams were printed across the walls. The scent of her hurried footsteps wafted across the room.

And before she could help it, her hard, callused palms whispered over his cheekbones, and as his eyes flew open their startling greenness drew her down towards him as much as his ashy tears did.

"Annabeth. Annabeth."

"It's Thalia," she said gently. She refused to acknowledge the truth of the tears in her eyes. "It's Thalia. Percy, come on. Don't do this."

"Annabeth…"

"No. No. Thalia. I—this is Thalia. It's not Annabeth. Not Annabeth. Not Annabeth."

"Oh—oh, gods. Thalia, I—"

"No, it's fine, I understand."

Silence wore them in its pockets.

"Please. Sleep with me."

"What—no! No. No. No, that would be wrong. Oh, gods—I can't, Percy, I can't."

"No, I didn't mean in that way. Thalia—okay, yes. I know. Right. But please, I'm so cold—"

How could she not?

Thalia spent the night wide awake, her words curling into the air. This means nothing. This means nothing.

This means nothing.

* * * A SMALL QUESTIONS * * *

Despite his words, who do you think Percy Jackson
really saw in the cool, moon-loved
minutes of the night?

Oh, gods. Oh, Christ.

They did not speak to each other for almost an entire week. And I mean it was complete silence in the flat—they did not ask the other to pass them a spoon, or the pizza, or whether they had taken out the trash. No. No words escaped their mouths except perhaps a silent, stifled apology, and it was soon lost in the thick, gloomy air.

Finally, on the thirty-second day, Percy spoke.

"Thalia, look. I'm really sorry—"

"Yeah."

"No, honestly, please, just hear me out—"

"It's okay. You don't need to say anything."

It was, very evidently, not okay.

What was Thalia thinking about this all, you wonder? What did she feel when she murdered words in the night and lay with his cold fingers pressed against hers?

Here's what.

Thalia Grace had been in love with Luke Castellan.

It was a beautiful and desperate, terrible and wonderful romance— they loved each other, even as they fought monsters and ran from police and pulled a seven-year-old along with them. I think even the seven-year-old had seen it. Thalia and Luke were in love, and only the arrival of a sacrifice and war could've driven them apart.

Percy Jackson loved Annabeth Chase, and Annabeth Chase was dead. Thalia Grace loved Luke Castellan, and Luke Castellan was dead. I think I'm starting to see a pattern here, don't you think?

Looking back, I'm almost positive Aphrodite had a hand in it. I try to stay as distant from my relatives as possible, but this much I know: the goddess of love would've delighted in a story such as this. To tell the truth, if I were not so busy, I think I would like to slap her upside the head.

If the two of them had known, Aphrodite would've been very sore at the end of the day.

Thalia and Percy had both loved and been loved, and their lovers were both dead. For Thalia, it might've hurt more. She was not there when Luke Castellan died—she had not seen him since that day on the craggy, rocky hills, when she pushed him down the mountain and carried for the rest of her life the vision of his body tumbling broken and small by the force of her hand—but perhaps, that was better. Perhaps she would've taken it harder had she seen the life seep from his body as the others had. I don't know. She didn't know. These things, I suppose, were never meant to be anything but mysteries.

Something happened somewhere along the way: caught up in the story, I don't know how to end it.

Perhaps you are thinking, why don't I just say what Thalia wrote?

The answer is simple.

That ending is hers, and hers alone. I won't steal it from her.

It's the least I can do.

And perhaps now you are thinking: what would I do, if I could?

My answer: nothing.

Please don't think me heartless. (Actually—I wouldn't mind. Gods are not meant to have hearts.) But I would not do it. I would not tamper with the Fates.

Wars are fought, lives are ended, people come and people die. One universal truth. So it goes. Luke Castellan died, and Thalia was alone; Annabeth Chase's life fled, and Percy Jackson had nothing but memories. Maybe this was not meant to be the way it was. And just so you know, Thalia pondered that, too—wondered if the Fates had made a mistake, if none of this should've happened. But I have not worked eons alongside the Olympians for nothing, and I tell you this now: What is, is.

You can't change it.

You can despise it however you want. You can deal with it in whatever way.

But you can't change it.

Percy Jackson learned that, and so did Thalia Grace. It's a learning journey, really. Every life is. From the basic knowledge of tying your shoelaces, to accepting brutal twists and wrenching turns—I apologise for going so flowery at this point, but I cannot put it any other way.

People come, and people die.

So it goes.

We learn, as we live, that windows are not like cemeteries, and that we don't have to see ghosts in the fog. It's okay to laugh sometimes. We are not emergencies, as we are not funeral homes. No need to punish ourselves. No need to hate. Let go. Let go. Let go.

And I leave you with a final parting note—and this Thalia did not know, mind, it was an inquiry of my own that I made, through Hermes, to the Lord of the Dead—and I can tell you quite safely, that as Percy and Thalia lived and learned in the world above, below the earth Annabeth and Luke were smiling, and they were waiting, for them to come.