The Winds Of Heaven (Annabeth Chase x Male Reader)

24. Tears From Steel

The cold wind of winter swept across Long Island, shaking the trees' still-barren branches. As it approached Camp Half-Blood, something suddenly slammed against it. Something unseen, something spawned by the power of the mythical Golden Fleece. Something that stood against the natural tide and currents of the air. The wind broke against the magical barrier, and only a breeze blew across the fields of Camp Half-Blood, over the cabins and to the manor house known as the Big House.

Y/N L/N, the demigod son of Hera, stood, hands behind his back as he looked out the open window. He thought about heroes, fate and tragedy. His life would end in one. He could see the drama playing all around him. He could feel the strings of destiny, and he knew people were pulling them, leading him on to his death.

Steel, he thought. I am steel. This cannot be fixed, and so I move on.

The building—a four-story-high, sky-blue structure looking a little like a barn—groaned and settled in the wind. Something in that wind smelled rotten. Everything seemed to, since Y/N had come back to camp yesterday. It was the anger Y/N felt growing inside of him, the anger and the pain that oozed from him. How long until it overwhelmed him?

The room he stood in had a cluttered, cozy feel. It was Chiron's office. One wall was covered with T-shirts from different conventions—Party Ponies 'O9 Vegas, Party Ponies '10 Honolulu, etc. Y/N didn't need to look at the stains, scorch marks and weapon holes to know they were some pretty wild meetings. On the shelf over Chiron's desk sat a "#1 Dad" mug and an old-fashioned boom box with cassette tapes labeled "Dean Martin" and "Frank Sinatra" and "Greatest Hits of the 40s." Knowing Chiron's music tastes, it might have meant 40 A.D.

The rest of the office's wall space—most of it—was plastered with photos of demigods, like a hall of fame. In some of the older photos, you could recognize famous people: businessmen, athletes, some actors. One of the newer shots, Y/N knew, showed two teenagers kissing: a red-haired boy and a blond girl—he and Annabeth. Ethan had taken that photo a year and a half ago, the day after the Battle of the Labyrinth. Y/N had hated it before, because no one missed an opportunity to tease him about it. Now, he hated it because it reminded him of the one he had lost—Ethan Moore, his best friend.

"Y/N?" a voice asked softly. He didn't turn, but felt Annabeth's fingers touch his arm. A moment later, her hands moved to his waist and he felt her head rest upon his arm. He could almost physically feel her concern for him, as if they shared an empathy link.

Steel, he thought.

"I know you don't want—" Annabeth began.

"The boughs," he said, nodding out the window. "You see those trees, just at the forest's edge?"

"Yes, Y/N. But—"

"They bend the wrong direction," Y/N said.

Annabeth hesitated, and though she gave no physical reaction, he imagined her anxiety. The window was on the first floor of the house, and outside of it, banners set near the arena flapped against themselves: the banners for the different cabins and their gods. All flew proud . . . yet just to the side of them, the branches on the pines bent in the opposite direction.

"Gaea stirs, Annabeth," Y/N said. It wasn't the wind blowing in two directions at once—he would've felt it—but something coming from the earth itself, creeping up the trees. He could feel the wrongness in the way those pines moved.

He could see other campers busy with their daily activities. They had noticed the trees. Some pointed, others kept their heads down, polishing armor, sharpening swords or lance points, climbing up the lava wall. At least they were safe. Y/N wouldn't bear losing anyone else.