#heyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Well, white and blue. It fit the location. She had been idly (or not-so-idly) browsing some online storefronts for local Greek designers on Piper’s suggestion after she had subjected her dear friend to a multi-hour phone call agonizing over her wardrobe, all while trying not to directly quote Legally Blonde. Because she wasn’t sure if this would be The Date, capital letters implied. A romantic, full-service dinner on the rooftop of the King George Hotel would be a great place for a proposal, yes, but Annabeth didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. 

Elle Woods had it right: Annabeth did want to look special tonight. Bridal, even. But not in a way that indicated she was expecting anything. 

And even if she was–which she wasn’t–she couldn’t accept it. Not yet, not before laying out her whole truth. Which she needed to do. Soon. She glanced over at her mother’s ancient temple, glowing in the pre-sunset light. 

Maybe she could do it tonight. Here and now. 

And then maybe so much bridal inspiration wouldn’t be so out of place. 

The dress honestly wasn’t too obvious. The blue helped to take some of the edge off. And it was a beautiful dress–light and silky, it fell to her ankles, a slight weight to the bottom hem a bulwark against any wrinkles that might mar the beautiful pattern. Floral designs that could have been taken directly from a Minoan fresco curled up and down the fabric in beautiful hues of blue, crisp against the white background. A matching belt lent Annabeth the impression of a waist, and the halter top had been artfully concealed under a light scarf which had been promptly removed as soon as she was seated at the restaurant. 

Annabeth tipped her head back, closing her eyes as a cool breeze ruffled her curls, which hung in a loose ponytail. She gently twisted her head from side to side, feeling the soft caress of her delicate gold hoops against her neck, and twirled the bracelet around her wrist. 

The waiting was always the worst. 

He was late. Not by a lot, but enough for her to be nervous. She had sent a car to pick Percy up, but there was no accounting for city traffic. Flexing her toes in her not-too-high heels against the leg of the table, Annabeth resisted the urge to check the time, focusing instead on the stunning view from the terrace.

Athens stretched out before her. Ringed with mountains, the city rippled with the weight of its history, the ancient structures looming over the urban sprawl. If she were being uncharitable, she might call it a combative kind of architecture. Ancient columns fought for dominance with ‘60s modernism, while domed churches dotted the landscape as though they were surfacing a stormy, concrete sea, gasping for air. Unplanned and slapdash, scrubbed of undesirable elements, Athens could be a bit of a mess, a discordant combination of ancient and modern. 

She could relate. Annabeth, too, often felt like a mess, a discordant combination of ancient and modern. 

In many ways, Athens was her legacy and her birthright, as a daughter of Athena. An ancient promise, handed down over thousands of years. 

If she could find the prize, that is. 

Movement from the corner of her eye brought her attention back to the present–and to a different, much more pleasant kind of prize. 

The waiter was leading Percy over to her table, though it was entirely unnecessary, given that Helen had booked out the entire rooftop for their privacy. It also meant that no one was around to watch as Annabeth gave her boyfriend a significant look up and down. He wore a smart, dark gray suit, a sea green shirt with an open collar and no tie, and that crooked grin that always set her heart racing. “Hey.” 

She stood up to meet him, coming in for a quick, chaste kiss. “Hi.” 

“Am I super late?” 

Annabeth shrugged. “It’s Athens. No one is ever on time.” 

“You’re telling me–I think traffic here might be worse than New York.” 

“I can believe it.” But she didn’t care. She rested her hand on his arm, just basking in his presence. Marveling at the physicality, at the fact that, finally, he was here. That they were together. 

“I missed you,” he said, his smile melting into something softer. 

Reaching up for another kiss, she tucked her face into his neck, breathing in the sea-salt smell of him. “I missed you, too.” 

Siding his arms around her, he held her close to him, and she could hear his heartbeat in her ear. Missed you. Missed you. Love you.

He pulled back, eyes suspiciously misty. “Gods,” he choked out, taking her hands. “You…” 

“Yes?” 

But he could only shake his head, bringing her hands to his mouth. “Gods,” he said again, kissing them. “You are so beautiful.” 

Many people had kissed her hands before. Many people had called her beautiful. Percy had done both, on several occasions. She still felt herself go red, a suspicious blur forming at the corners of her eyes.

Percy cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

They sat, hand in hand over the table, not even breaking apart when the waiter made his way over to them.

It was a set menu for dinner tonight, but they at least had the option of choosing between wines. Greek wine was not exactly something that she would call herself an expert in, so she kept it simple: something white, crisp, light, and on the waiter's recommendation. He would know better than she would, anyway.

“Of course,” the waiter said, ducking his head politely.

“Oh, and also some champagne, if you have it?” Percy cut in. Annabeth's heart leapt in her chest. Champagne, for a special birthday dinner? Perhaps. Or maybe...

When the bottle arrived, Percy poured them out two glasses, and they gently clinked them together. “Happy birthday.”

“You're a day late,” she teased, knowing full well that he was not.

“Well, excuse me for having to work,” he teased right back. “We can't all just be a pretty face and a government-guaranteed salary.”

“You could have taken your laser and sailed right to me, and gotten back to Athens in time for your race.”

“Okay, even my times aren't that good.”

She took another sip. “Pity. Maybe Holmgren would be able to make it in time. Or who's that British sailor I hear so much about? Wilson?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real force behind. She knew that he knew very well what she thought of the British sailor. “At least pick someone actually good-looking.”

“Hmm.” She drew it out, smiling. “How’s Jason?”

He shook his head. “Replaced by a blond man? Really? Really?”

“I mean, he can do a backflip,” Annabeth pointed out. 

“I can also do a backflip!” he insisted. “Just not on a table without falling off.” He paused, thoughtful. “And I’ll always be happy about that.”

“About falling off a table?”

“Yeah. Cause whenI looked up from my sprawling heap on the floor, there was my dream girl.” 

She felt herself go red, even though she probably should have been used to such statements. Especially from him. “Well, that’s something.” 

“So just remember that, on the day you abandon me for Henry Wilson.”

From the corner of her eye, Annabeth saw their waiter walking up with their first course. “Well, hopefully that day is still a ways away. And hopefully, this helps put it off even further.”

Their waiter gracefully set down the basket, swiftly followed by a sliced, still piping-hot loaf of bread. “Kalathaki Limnou, as you requested,” he declared, “one of our famous, world heritage cheeses, hailing from the island of Lemnos.”

Percy peered at the item, brow furrowed. Then it clicked, and he smiled. “Cheese in a basket... Pausanias?”

She grinned. It was a passage from Pausanias’ Description of Greece, a text dating back to the second century AD. In one section, he had written extensively on the diet of professional athletes–including the famous, fortifying cheese in a basket.

Was it the same food as the kalathaki from Lemnos? Annabeth had no clue. Her cursory research had been inconclusive, and she wasn’t particularly interested in doing anymore. But of course he'd understood the reference, and that had been the primary goal anyway. “The only diet fit for an Olympic athlete.”

The rest of the dinner was delicious, of course–between the sea bream ceviche with ouzo jelly, the mushroom ragout with potato cream, or the slow roasted baby lamb, there was no way it wouldn't be. But, privately, she thought the kalathaki, paired with Percy's bright, happy laughter, might have been the best thing that she had ever tasted.

She was looking forward to dessert, though. Then again, was she more looking forward to the food, or Percy's reaction?

The sun had long since dipped behind the hill, casting the rock and the temple in bright hues of orange and pink, while behind the stone, the skies and the mountains melted into each other in a smear of deep, dark purple. Between the two of them, they had polished off the champagne, and were about to reach the bottom of a bottle of white. At some point in the evening, their hands had once again found their way to each other, fingers intertwining. “Gods,” Percy was saying, squeezing her hand. “I don't know if I could eat another bite. Coach is going to murder me.”

“Just tell him you were given a royal command to eat until you couldn’t fit into your wetsuit. What's he going to do, argue with a princess?” Percy laughed at that, and her heart felt as bubbly as the champagne. “Besides, we still have dessert left.”

“Better be good,” he said, taking a drink of water. “I’d hate to think I ruined my diet for a subpar dessert.”

“Oh, I think you'll be impressed.” She nodded to the waiter, who had been hovering unobtrusively nearby all night long. Had they been in America, he would have gotten one hell of a tip. Shit, she might give him a hell of a tip, anyway.

Percy narrowed his eyes at her, immediately suspicious. “What did you do?”

“Me?” she smirked, feeling a distinct sense of deja vu. “Nothing.”

“Don't get cute with me, wise girl.”

“So you think I'm cute?”

“I think you're–”

But she would never know what he thought (though she could guess), because their waiter once again stepped up to their table, bearing their final course. He was saying something, probably describing the flavor and texture or whatever. He could have been reciting his entire family tree, for all she was paying attention, so fixed on Percy's bemused, befuddled, unbelieving face as the waiter laid in front of him a plate of blue baklava, and a bowl of bright blue ice cream.

He stared at her. “How?”

She fought down a very un-princess-like cackle, but ultimately chose to concede with her honor intact. If laughing at her stupefied boyfriend was considered honorable. 

“Seriously, how?”

“By asking nicely, seaweed brain,” she laughed.

“But how did they get the phyllo to be blue? My mom’s tried for years!”

“Now that, I think, is a little above my paygrade,” she said, taking up her spoon. “But it sure looks good.”

He seemed to agree, the pastry already shoved halfway into his mouth. “Do you think if I asked, the chef would tell me how he got the color?”

Annabeth licked off her spoonful of ice cream, not at all unaware of the way Percy’s eyes were tracking her tongue. “I bet it’s a state secret,” she said. “Classified.” 

“I’m great with classified,” he said, a troublemaking grin climbing up his face.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve never told anyone anything about you. Like the noise you make when I stick my finger–” 

She threw a pistachio at him, and he ducked, laughing, not at all like the bright, tinkling champagne of yesterday’s brunch, but deep, full-bodied, as rich and sweet as the wine on their table. 

Gods, she loved this. 

“Well, fine,” he chuckled, dusting imaginary nuts off his suit. “If you’re going to be like that, maybe you won’t get your birthday present.” But his hand was already halfway into his pocket, undercutting the threat, pulling out a small, velvet box. 

Her breath caught in her throat. Was this…? 

But no, it was decidedly not a ring box. It was longer, thinner; probably a necklace. She felt her sigh of relief as deeply as her disappointment. 

The feelings fell away as he presented it to her, and she opened it with slow care. Percy had a knack for finding really beautiful and unique jewelry, and she knew she was in for a nice surprise. 

Predictably, she gasped. “Oh, Percy!” 

Percy had a habit of getting for her jewelry with the most perfect saltwater pearls, treasures that he always found at little markets he frequented all over the world when he traveled. This was not different, except how it was. It was a piece of raw coral, perfectly pink, about the size of her ring finger (or maybe ring fingers were just on the brain), but with little jagged pieces branching off of it. At the bottom was a perfect white pearl, the whole piece hung from a silver chain, as statement-making and beautiful as it was elegant.

“Happy birthday,” he said, soft as the evening breeze. 

“It’s beautiful.” She reached out to touch it, running her finger along the ragged edge of the coral. “Where did it come from?” 

“I picked up the pearl the last time I was in Stockholm.” He grinned, thoroughly pleased with her reaction. “And the coral is actually from Santorini.” 

“Sweden and Greece, huh?” The subtext was unmistakably clear: You and me. 

He flushed lightly. “I thought it fit.” 

“It’s perfect.” And it was. It would look beautiful with her dress, she knew, with the large amount of blue she had taken to wearing over the last four years. She had adopted the color because she knew Percy loved it, and that it showed her off to her advantage. 

“May I?” He asked, and she stood up with him, while he walked up behind her, pulling the necklace on, and leaning down to kiss her neck. It rested perfectly on her chest, just above where her cleavage would be, if she was the kind of woman blessed with cleavage. 

Percy kissed up her clavicle, then her neck to her ear, but then he stopped, resting his chin on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist, staring out, like her, she was sure, at the Parthenon. Except the sun had gone down while they ate, so they couldn’t see it up on the hill. Her mother, shrouded from her in darkness. 

From the dark corner of her thoughts, her mother’s words floated up to the surface: Be careful with that one. 

Annabeth frowned. Why would she say that? How could Percy be anything but perfect for her?

Did Percy feel the same foreboding?

“Is everything okay?” Percy, without even looking at her, seemed to pick up on her mood, taking her hands. They fit perfectly, like they were made for each other, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin. “Helen giving you a hard time about taking the night off? Or your stepmother–” 

“Nothing like that.” She could tell he wasn’t very reassured, lips pursing. “Just… a lot on my mind.” 

He squeezed her hands. “Tell me?” 

Annabeth turned her head to look into his eyes, as green as the waters of Piraeus in the sunlight, and she had what she could only call a moment of delusion. 

What if she did tell him? What if she told him everything? Her mother, her quest, her worlds, all nine of them, which were somehow more dangerous than ancient crowns and social media combined. She could tell him right now. The Athenian night safely wrapped them in a blanket of silence, shielding them from PAs and reporters and races and parents. It was a moment all their own, one which they had both been craving for so long. 

She could do it. Right here. She could unburden herself, and share her deepest secret. 

“Percy,” she began. “I…”

Then, from the corner of her eyes, she saw light. 

“Oh!” Percy gasped. “Look!” 

The Acropolis, which had been dark, was suddenly lit up, golden against the night sky. 

And Annabeth, too, had a moment of clarity. 

She couldn’t tell him. There was no way he’d believe her. Not yet, at least. 

She needed to go to the heart of her mother’s magic. There, she could show him. And that meant they had to go to the Parthenon. 

That’s where she would tell him. 

***

That night, his girlfriend in his arms while they stood on a romantic hotel rooftop, gazing at one of the most iconic, ancient monuments in the world, Percy did something he never thought he’d ever do. Not in a million years. 

He thanked Athena for ruining his moment. 

He had been so damn close, looking out over the Acropolis, to saying something stupid. About gods and goddesses, Athena and Poseidon, the ancient and the modern and the monsters that plagued them. About how they lived on far past their expiration dates, and how Percy was one of them. 

“It’s beautiful,” he sighed, grateful for the cool breeze which covered his shudder. 

And, unexpected bonus, the cold made it so she snuggled into him further. 

His heart hammered against his chest, strong enough that he knew she could feel it. But that wasn’t so unusual. His heart was always racing when he was close to her. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, turning her face up to his. “Your heart is going crazy.” 

Or maybe it was unusual. “Yeah,” he assured. “It’s just…”

She turned in his arms, looping hers around his neck. “Just what?” The frizzy ends of her golden curls fluttered in the breeze, her storm-gray eyes searching his for the source of all his problems, like she alone could solve them. 

And she would try, he knew, to solve them. She had innumerable resources at her disposal–money, networks, influence–and she was willing to waste them all on him. All for his sake. “…You just make me so happy.” His sight blurred for a moment, throat suddenly thick. “So damn happy.” 

Her eyes shone, her lips trembling as she kissed him, and Percy had a revelation. 

He should have brought the ring with him tonight! 

“I love you,” he murmured, following her mouth as she pulled away. “Gods, Annabeth, I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too.” Her voice shook, fingers tapping warm patterns on his skin. 

“Annabeth…” 

“Yes?” She gazed up at him, and he could count every freckle on her sun-kissed skin, glowing in the low light of the rooftop and the moon which hung above them. 

Why had he waited so long? Why hadn’t he given her the ring earlier?  

He glanced back at the Parthenon. 

That was why. 

Because it wasn’t fair to ask her to tie herself to him without giving her all the facts. Without sharing all of who he was, and all of what that meant, with her. That, and that alone, had prevented him from proposing for the last year. 

But there was no reason he couldn’t tell her tonight, and then ask her to marry him. 

Fuck it. He could give her the damn ring later. 

He leaned in and kissed her again, basking in the perfect feeling of her soft lips against his, running his hand down her back of her silk dress. They had a lot of privacy here, but there were things you just couldn’t do with a princess in public. 

But it didn’t have to be public. He wasn’t heading back to the Village tonight, after all. The plan had been for him to stay the night. With her. “We should go downstairs,” he said, and she grinned in response, her face full of trouble. 

“Sounds good to me.”

Was he excited to spend the night in a five star hotel? Of course. It probably had some sort of amazingly fancy soaking tub. Maybe they could cuddle up there together, and he’d show her just what a son of Poseidon was made of. At the very least, it was probably an upgrade from the Village. 

Maybe he could even find a moment to text Luke, and get him to bring the ring over. If there was one thing Luke could always do, it was get in and out of locked and restricted areas with no one the wiser.

But… on the other hand, maybe not. Percy would be the wiser, and knowing that Luke was there while he and Annabeth were having sex was maybe a step too far. Even if Luke was the one who had introduced them. 

Percy laced their fingers, a practiced motion that nonetheless still made his heart skip a few beats, and he pulled her close to him, keeping her as flush to his body as he could while they walked out of the restaurant, nodding his head at their waiter in thanks, who dipped his head in return, clearly fighting off a knowing grin. 

There was a camera inside the elevator, which, again, limited what things they could and could not do. But he felt no shame in pulling her close and kissing her. If another elevator video got leaked, well, they were about to be engaged, so what did it matter?

Annabeth’s suite was the only one on her floor, and you needed the keycard to get in, so he had expected them to make it to her room without running into anyone. But instead of the grand, empty hallway, the elevator door opened on Hans Gunderson, perpetual frown on his face, looking expectant and… possibly a little worried. 

“Your highness. Mr. Jackson,” he nodded at Percy. 

“Hans,” she said. “What is it?” 

With a sideways look at Percy, Hans leaned in. “We have a situation that requires your attention,” he said to Annabeth, in a low voice.

She huffed. “What is it?”

“Berserkir.” 

Her eyes went wide. “Here? Now?”

“Yes, your highness.” 

Percy frowned. He was pretty sure he’d heard that word before. But he wasn’t sure what that code meant. Hans and the other members of the security team had a million and one code words: Annabeth was Septentrion, paparazzi was mygga. Even Percy got a codename. He was officially designated Sjöman–sailor. 

He’d heard berserkir before. He knew it was a Viking thing. But he’d never been told its meaning, not as one of Hans’ code words. 

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Annabeth said, turning to him.

“It's fine,” he said, because it was, she had to go into emergency meetings all the time. He was used to it. “I can be super quiet while you talk to Helen.” 

Annabeth’s shoulder’s fell, and she bit her lip, stopping herself from saying something. “No,” she said, after a moment, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here for this.” 

He blinked at her, taken aback. He’d been cut out of important meetings before, early on. Been banished to the bedroom or whatever. But at least for more than the last year he’d been around, even if his exact presence hadn’t been explicitly acknowledged. And in the last few months he’s explicitly been asked to join.

“I can hide in the bedroom…” Her face told him that wasn’t far enough away. “Or the bar or lounge?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “I'm not sure how long this will take.”

“...Oh.” That was… fine. That probably just meant it was really important. And like he had said, all those years ago, she was entitled to her secrets, just as he was to his. Even if they had been together for four years, and even if he had nearly told her his secret not five minutes ago.  

“I’m so sorry,” Annabeth said, with an apologetic kiss. She cupped his face, her thumb stroking over his cheekbone. He fought the urge to pull away. “Your name is with the concierge’s desk,” Hans informed him, sympathetically. “They can get you a car to take you back to the Village.” 

“It’s okay,” he waved him off. “I’ll get a taxi.” If they didn’t want him to be part of this… well, he could take care of himself.

“Please don’t,” Annabeth said, “you know you can use my car whenever you need.” 

He took a deep breath. He was being dumb. He knew he was being dumb. He was being whiny. It was fine. He was just pouting. It was okay. They were okay. They were in love. 

Soon, he would be a real part of the royal family. And soon he would be able to cuddle in bed with Annabeth every single night.

Besides Annabeth was so cute when she was worried. She got this little scrunch between her eyebrows, and he could practically see her thoughts turning in her head, her brain working overtime. He squeezed her hand in reassurance, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “It’s still early, I want to walk around for a bit.” 

She still looked skeptical. “Call the car service when you’re done.” But she let him go without much more of a fuss. “And let me know when you get back to the Village.” 

“I will. Good luck with your uh… situation.” 

With a grimace that was doing its absolute best to be a smile, she turned and entered her suite, her hands quickly taking out her ponytail, before throwing it back up into a tight bun. Percy tried not to stare too obviously as she rounded the corner. Hans lingered in the doorway, hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure you don’t need transportation?” 

Aw. He didn’t realize Hans cared so much. “It’s fine,” he shook his head. “I need some air anyway.” 

He nodded, his stony countenance never breaking once, then shut the door behind him. 

The hotel opened up right into the middle of Syntagma Square. Like the New Yorker he was deep inside, Percy jaywalked across to the square, dodging an embassy vehicle, weaving his way through a pack of drunk English coeds, their high-heeled steps wobbly and their overly shiny golden laurel crowns askew. 

The square was packed, with tourists and locals of all stripes milling up and down the marble walkways. People poured from the entrance to the metro like a fountain, flooding the streets, mingling with the opposite current as it surged upwards from Ermou Street, Athens’ own modern day agora. 

It was strange to be reminded of the subway. Percy’s conception of old was American old: the old building on Yale’s campus or remnant remains of colonial structures during a weekend trip to Salem. And New York was all sharp and modern and subways, the colonial structures scrubbed clean. But Athens had its train system weaving in and out of ancient monuments and Byzantine churches. People had walked in and out of this place for millennia. Athens had been a great city for nearly his father’s lifetime. Even the other great cities–Paris, Istanbul, Rome–Athens was already ancient when they had been just a collection of mud huts.  

Percy picked a direction, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began to walk. 

He passed the changing of the guard in front of the Parliament building, only sparing a glance to the strange, exaggerated walk of the evzones as they solemnly circled around each other. He walked by a statue of some guy on a horse–not Alexander, as that statue was in a different part of the city, but a man he didn’t recognize in a plumed helmet and more modern armor. Past the former National Library, resplendent in all its neoclassical glory even at night, he took a right, and then a left, and then a right, until he was well and truly lost. 

Sort of. He could still feel the Acropolis at his back, a magical compass which pointed him to his father’s temple. 

It made him itch. 

The sounds of English had long since faded away, a chorus of Greek (heh) mingling in the air with clouds of cigarette smoke and the ever-present scent of coffee. He slowed to a stop at a triangular park, lingering on the sidewalk with a small crowd that couldn’t fit into the even smaller coffeehouse. Inside, he could see an older man on a raised dais, his hair gray and eyes drooping, cigarette in his mouth and strumming at a small, guitar-like instrument, while his partner, a much younger woman with space buns and evil eye tattoos running up and down her arms, sang something in Greek, her eyes shut tight and her hands shaking with nerves. 

Modern Greek was not his strong suit, not by a long shot, but some words were familiar, even if it sounded different. He could pick out words of love, joy, and sorrow. 

The song ended, and the people in the coffeehouse cheered. Hands reached up in applause, beer bottles were passed around, and the girl hopped off the platform, falling into the arms of her girlfriend, a wispy, waifish thing who kissed her, full on the mouth. 

Percy smiled, and moved on. 

The rest of the neighborhood was just as lively as Syntagma, but where the square had been white and gray, the streets here were colorful. Balconies overflowed with hanging gardens and climbing vines, the sidewalks broken up by orange trees, and every single building was covered in some of the most gorgeous graffiti art he had ever seen. Every. Single. One. 

Syntagma had plenty of graffiti, too. Every inch of Athens was covered in spray paint, save for the archeological sites and churches. But this neighborhood was something else. 

He passed a lush jungle, rendered so realistically on a concrete wall, an elephant’s trunk curling around a white door. Up above a balcony, he spotted a bust of Herodotus, the harsh, artificial shadow cutting his face in two. Percy walked by photorealist portraits, a man in a techno-futurist pair of glasses, two Picasso-style women in a passionate embrace, and more anarchist, antifascist graffiti than he could shake a stick at. 

The New Yorker deep down inside of him was proud. 

And then he came across the owl. 

Percy stopped in the middle of the street, so suddenly that a drunk guy bumped into him, mumbling an apology in Greek as he stumbled past with his friends. 

Like a lot of the street art here, it was a very realistic-looking owl. Enormous, it stretched across the corner of two walls, almost like a 3D image. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he might have thought that the owl was flying straight towards him, the way it looked like it was about to leap off the very wall it was drawn on, bursting free from its stone prison. The artist had spared no expense–each feather was given its own definition, the curve of the beak coming down to a nasty-looking point, and its large, menacing eyes had been painted with the reflection of the city, the entirety of Athens held in its all-knowing gaze. 

Percy shivered. 

Athens, owls, Athena–he tried not to think about it too hard. 

Though it wasn’t like he could avoid her. 

He had never met the goddess before, and hopefully he would keep it that way. The feud between her and his father ran deep, he knew, and when he had been younger, Poseidon had warned him, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from any of Athena’s children. 

Which was weird. Athena was a virgin goddess. Why would she have any children? How would she have any children? 

Anyway. 

In lieu of avoiding her children, Percy dutifully did his best to stay away from any trace of her. No trips to Nashville and the Parthenon. No souvlaki from that place in Astoria with her statue outside, even though that souvlaki was really freaking good. Of course, in Athens, Greece, it was a little more difficult. Her presence was imbued in every stone of the city that bore her name, from the temple on the hill to the watchful eyes on the walls. He couldn’t not avoid her here. 

And he especially couldn’t avoid her when he finally emerged onto a main thoroughfare, and was greeted by a statue of her, rising above the park across the street. 

Maybe it was time to contact Annabeth’s car service, and get back to the Village. It was getting late, and he was getting tired, and he had practice tomorrow. What he definitely shouldn’t do was cross the street, go into the park, and go up to the statue. 

Wishful thinking. He trotted across the street, safely this time, and made a beeline directly for the statue.

The stone Athena stood on a tall, tall pedestal, spear and shield in hand, lording over all it could see–which was presumably a lot. At the base was a lioness, mid roar, perched on a set of marble steps, and lit from beneath by a ring of small floodlights. Athena was too far up for him to see her face, but he could imagine it, her stony, vaguely disapproving frown, like every single one of his math teachers every time he failed a test. 

That was when, for the second time that week, he spotted some odd carvings. 

Like the delta on the cistern, they were barely more than scratches, carved a very long time ago. In the dim light of the pedestal, he could barely see them, and he doubted that sunlight would have made it easier. It was a fair bit more elaborate than the delta, though, a collection of overlapping triangles of different sizes which came together in the shape of… something. Maybe the central triangle was a body of some kind. The thinner shapes which bracketed it could be arms, or wings. 

Wings. 

It was a bird. 

More than that, it was the bird from the bronze disk he had found. 

Percy gasped, taking a step back. 

And more than that, it wasn’t just any bird. 

The carving on the bronze disk had been an owl. 

Somehow, Percy had stumbled across an artifact that belonged to the goddess herself. 

His mind was swirling with questions, but one thing was abundantly clear: Athena had wanted him to have the disk. She had led him straight to it.