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As Kronos fell before his children, he left them with a final gift.
The line of patricide would end with them. They would never need to fear being overthrown by their own children—for their children would be born vulnerable, and die by the very power of their parents before they could ever become a threat.
The Olympians would come to know the curse as truth. Yet even a curse forged by Time cannot remain unchanged by its effects.
For each child, the curse’s hold is strongest in youth, loosening only if they survive long enough to grow into their power. But reaching that point is rare. Most do not live long enough for the curse to fade.
Even now, protecting young godlings is no simple task, and many still do not survive despite their parents’ desperate efforts.
But Fate is not without its interruptions.
From another world, demigods arrive to this Broken Pantheon—
into the arms of parents who would do anything to keep them safe.
-
Annabeth was a lot of things.
A camper. A warrior. A general. A strategist. An architect. A friend. A girlfriend. A sister. A daughter.
And most of all—
She was a survivor.
All demigods were, eventually.
There wasn’t another word for it. When the world was full of monsters that normal people—your teachers, your classmates, your own parents—couldn’t see, and those monsters wanted to hunt you, eat you, tear you apart just because of what you were, you adapted or you died.
The ones who didn’t adapt never made it to camp.
So yes—Annabeth thought, with a sharp edge— All demigods were survivors.
Or at least, the ones that mattered were.
It was hard not to be bitter.
Hard not to be angry.
How could you not be, living a life like hers?
Two wars. Quest after quest completed. Monsters, constantly. All before she had even turned eighteen. She had bled for Olympus. For the gods. For a system that barely acknowledged her unless it needed her, a system that made her feel old because most demigods didn’t survive this long.
And what did it get her?
This.
Some distorted version of Ancient Greece—too pristine, too controlled—after days of wandering, exhausted and disoriented, only to be found by… them.
By creatures (gods) that claimed the names of the gods she knew…but weren’t.
A version of her mother—of all their parents—who had decided, for reasons Annabeth still couldn’t fully understand, to play house with the demigods that had quite literally fallen into their laps.
The thought made something twist in her chest, frustration bleeding into something deeper she didn’t dare name.
Demeaning didn’t even begin to cover this experience.
It was irritating. It was insulting.
And worst of all—
It was a waste of time.
Every moment spent here, under observation like some strange bird, was a moment she wasn’t using to figure out how to get home.
That was the real problem.
Not the strangeness. Not even the danger.
The loss of time.
-
From the moment this Athena found her, it had been clear things were going to be… different.
Not hostile.
Not even cold.
If anything, the opposite.
And that was worse.
This Athena didn’t keep her distance the way Annabeth’s Athena did. There was no tense, careful respect built over years of mutual understanding and quiet disappointment on both sides.
Instead—
She watched.
Studied.
Not clinically, exactly. That wasn’t the right description for it.
But with a kind of focused, laser-sharp attention that never quite turned off and that focus was concentrated on Annabeth in a way that made her skin crawl.
Annabeth could feel it, even when Athena wasn’t looking directly at her. A constant awareness, like being observed from multiple angles at once, like every movement was being noted, catalogued, and considered.
It was unsettling, and it took a lot to unsettle Annabeth these days.
But even worse was being separated from the others.
Quests weren’t meant to be done alone.
Annabeth knew that better than most.
Her mind flickered—unbidden—to dark stone tunnels, to webs, to the suffocating weight of being trapped with no way out, as she was dragged further into the darkness over the bones of generations of her siblings sent before her, towards the figure that had haunted her since a child…
Arachne.
If Percy hadn’t come for her—
She shut the thought down immediately.
That wasn’t important right now.
But the point stood.
Alone meant vulnerable.
And right now?
She had no idea where the others were.
Only that they had been taken “home” by their “parents.”
Which meant nothing.
They could be anywhere.
They could be on Olympus in a temple, or at some sacred location like Delphi, or just some random island; it didn’t matter because Annabeth had no idea where they were!
They could be somewhere close by or somewhere she couldn’t reach, and Annabeth, who had spent the last however long trapped in the same temple, in the same series of rooms, wouldn’t even know where to start.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true; there was always Atlantis, which would make the most sense for Poseidon to take Percy, but unfortunately, the children of Athena didn't get water-breathing, so that was kind of hard.
This universe’s gods (Athena) kept insisting she and her friends were safe.
Annabeth knew better.
All demigods who lived past thirteen knew better.
Gods were not safe.
They were mercurial. Easily fascinated. Drawn to something new and interesting—and just as quick to lose interest when it stopped being novel.
And when that happened?
They didn’t think about consequences.
Didn’t think about the people left behind.
Annabeth had spent years learning how to navigate that—how to earn favour, how to leverage it, how to survive in a world designed to kill her.
But here?
None of that applied.
The debts she and Percy had earned—the things they had done, the times they had saved Olympus—meant nothing in this world.
No leverage.
No protection.
Which meant she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
She couldn’t push.
Couldn’t argue.
Couldn’t let her frustration show, not fully.
She had to be careful.
Careful, observant, patient.
She needed information.
Where the others were. How this world worked. What the gods wanted.
And she needed a plan.
Preferably several.
Worst-case scenarios included, which meant a plan for when Percy inevitably blew up her original plan.
So for now, she played along and waited.
-
Athena, for her part, seemed… intent.
That was the only word for it.
Intent on something Annabeth hadn’t quite figured out yet.
She stayed close. Not suffocatingly so—but consistently. Always within reach. Always aware.
She asked questions.
Not interrogations.
Observations framed as curiosity.
“How do you prefer to organize your materials?”
“What do you do when a plan fails?”
“What do you prioritize under time pressure?”
and stranger questions…
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“What’s your favourite food?”
“What are your hobbies?”
Annabeth answered.
Carefully.
Truth, but not all of it.
Always holding something back.
Always assessing what Athena was really asking.
What she was looking for…
Sometimes it was less clear than others.
-
And then there was the other part.
The stranger part.
Athena… acted like a parent.
Not metaphorically.
Not distantly.
Literally.
It made a certain kind of sense, Annabeth supposed. A virgin goddess, one who in her world had children through thought alone, cared little for her offspring beyond leaving them as gifts for the men that impressed her and using them to bring glory to herself— but perhaps this version hadn’t quite… worked that out yet, perhaps Annabeth was her first and so she was trying to master this ‘parenting’ thing before she grew bored and set Annabeth aside. If that was the case, then Annabeth just wished she’d hurry up already and deem herself a ‘master parent’ or whatever else it was she was trying to prove so they could all move on with their lives.
But the execution—
That was what didn’t fit.
Because Athena had to realize—
She had to—
That Annabeth was seventeen.
She wasn’t a child.
She had led armies. Made life-and-death decisions. Held the weight of entire quests on her shoulders, held up the sky for gods’ sake!
She had survived things most people never would.
So when Athena adjusted her position slightly while she sat—subtle, precise, aligning posture without asking—
When she sat across from her, playing a children’s strategy game—
When she said, calm and certain:
“Meal time.”
Annabeth felt something tight coil in her chest.
Not quite anger.
Not quite fear.
Something harder to define, pounding away at her.
Something that sometimes got caught in her chest, tight and unsure.
This little illusion of care made this harder than it needed to be.
Because this wasn’t careless.
This wasn’t neglect.
This was… deliberate.
Structured.
Considered.
Eyes that looked at her like a person, not like an object.
And Annabeth didn’t know how to fight that.
Not yet, at least, after all, fighting against Athena would be useless.
Pushing too soon, without understanding the system, without knowing the rules—
That was how you lost the game, and losing meant dying.
So instead, Annabeth did what she did best.
She adapted.
Slowly, carefully, she allowed herself to be guided—just enough.
Not compliant.
Not resistant.
Somewhere in the middle, and watched how Athen acted. She was learning the rules of this game she hadn’t agreed to play.
Even as Athena adjusted the space around her—subtle changes, small comforts, things placed just so—
Annabeth’s mind kept working.
Mapping.
Planning.
Waiting.
Because this—
Whatever this was—
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
And Annabeth needed to get herself and her friends home.
-
Athena had never thought she would have a child.
That wasn’t to say she had never imagined it.
It was difficult not to, even when she tried to discipline her thoughts away from such impossibilities. Her mind—precise, wandering, inevitably curious—would circle back to it with every new birth in her family, with every fragile beginning, and every loss that followed too soon after.
She had long since stopped trying to keep count.
The number served no purpose.
It did not change outcomes.
And yet—
The question always returned.
What if?
What would she do? What would she plan for? What would it be like, if she were ever given something so fragile, so temporary, so… invaluable?
Children were a blessing. A gift. A miracle.
But not one meant for her.
Athena had accepted that. Categorized it. Set it aside as a truth that required no further examination.
And yet—
Somehow—
Here she was.
With a child.
A daughter.
The word still felt… new.
Unfamiliar in a way that no concept should be to her, the goddess of wisdom.
Athena’s daughter.
The thought settled strangely in her mind, not unwelcome, but not yet fully integrated into the structure of her understanding.
It would, in time.
For now, she examined it from every angle.
Her daughter.
Annabeth had appeared without warning.
No gradual introduction. No preparation. No controlled variables.
One moment, Athena had been operating within known parameters, with known variables…
The next—
She was the mother of a child.
Whole.
Alive.
Healthy in a way that defied not only expectation, but every pattern Athena had ever observed.
Even in her most indulgent hypotheticals, she had never allowed for this outcome. No visible curse. No immediate instability. No sign of the inevitable deterioration that had defined every other godly child she had ever known.
It was… incorrect.
Statistically impossible.
Which meant—
It would not last.
That was the problem.
Athena had found herself unprepared.
Not emotionally—she could regulate that.
But practically.
She had a daughter to care for and no model to follow. No prior experience. No precedent.
Her siblings—those who had been given and then lost children—had learned, however painfully, what to look for. They knew how the curse manifested in their bloodlines and, over time, had developed strategies to help mitigate its effects. Some of these strategies she herself had aided in creating.
Apollo could identify illness before it formed.
Haephastus knew the signs of wear in the body.
Ares understood the fragility of flesh.
They had knowledge.
Athena had none.
What form would the curse take in a child of wisdom?
Of strategy?
Of thought?
Would it be physical—something structural, something that failed under pressure?
Or something less visible?
A flaw in cognition?
A breakdown under complexity?
A mind that moved too quickly, too sharply, until it fractured under its own weight?
The possibilities did not resolve cleanly.
Athena disliked unknown variables.
She had stood in the temple as Apollo examined the children.
Her daughter among them.
Athena’s daughter.
Apollo had been thorough. Methodical in the way she knew to expect from him when examining godlings. His focus was absolute as he moved from one child to the next, searching for signs only he could fully interpret.
Athena had remained composed.
Still.
Controlled.
Even as something unfamiliar pressed sharply beneath her ribs.
An impulse—illogical, inefficient—to interrupt. To demand answers where none could yet exist.
She suppressed it.
Fear was not useful.
Fear would not prevent the curse.
It would not ease it.
It would not help her daughter.
So she maintained her composure; she remained steady.
And she waited.
There had been nothing.
No sign.
Not in Annabeth.
Not in any of them.
It was too clean.
Too perfect.
Too improbable.
Which meant it could change at any moment.
Athena did not trust the absence of evidence.
Not when the consequences of error were irreversible.
The curse could manifest without warning. Without pattern. Without reason.
The moment vigilance lapsed.
The moment attention shifted.
The moment something was missed
They all knew this had lived it over and over until it was etched in their very bones.
So they prepared.
All of them.
In the ways they knew how.
Athena, however, had no pattern to replicate.
No past to reference.
No known failure points to guard against.
It terrified her.
So she constructed something new.
Structure.
Predictability.
Routine.
A controlled system in which deviation could be identified immediately against the established baseline.
If she could not eliminate variables, she could reduce them. Track them. Measure them.
Adapt as needed.
It would also serve another purpose.
Her daughter was tense.
Watchful.
There was a controlled stillness to her movements, a constant awareness that suggested prior instability—an environment where unpredictability had not been safe, learned from a history Athena did not know and Annabeth did not seem ready to share.
There was fear. There was distrust.
Not without cause.
Athena had learned enough already.
These children had not been protected.
They had been sent out. Used. Placed in situations that required survival rather than growth.
Left to endure.
Even harmed, at times, by those who should have ensured their safety.
It was the very antithesis of everything she knew to be right.
However, that was no longer relevant.
Annabeth was here now.
With Athena.
With her mother.
Safe.
Athena would ensure that it remained true.
And in time—
Her daughter would come to understand and accept that.
So Athena began with something simple.
A routine:
Wake an hour after sunrise.
Dress.
Hair—done together. A point of deliberate, consistent contact. Not forced, but expected. Familiarity built through repetition.
Breakfast.
Lessons.
A walk.
Puzzles.
Lunch.
Games.
Another walk.
A measured snack.
Free time.
Dinner.
Quiet reading.
Bath.
Rest.
Simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
The results were immediate.
Athena observed.
Assessed.
Adjusted.
Athena had anticipated resistance.
It was a reasonable expectation. Children in unfamiliar environments often tested boundaries, resisted structure, expressed distress through defiance.
Annabeth did not.
Her daughter followed the routine with minimal prompting.
Ate when instructed.
Rested when directed.
Engaged with every task presented to her.
Not passively.
Not reluctantly.
But fully.
Athena noted everything.
Preferences.
Response times.
Engagement levels.
Patterns of hesitation.
Her daughter learned quickly.
Exceptionally quickly.
Concepts required little explanation. Strategies were grasped, adapted, and improved upon with an efficiency that was… deeply satisfying to observe.
Athena adjusted accordingly.
Increased complexity.
Introduced variation.
Refined challenges.
Annabeth met each one.
And exceeded them.
Her clever girl.
The thought came unbidden.
Athena did not dismiss it.
She examined it.
Accepted it.
Her daughter showed a clear preference for certain forms of problem-solving. Spatial reasoning tasks. Pattern recognition. Strategic games with layered outcomes.
Athena adapted her approach immediately.
Modified existing materials.
Created new ones.
Even in direct competition—
Athena ensured balance.
She did not allow Annabeth to win every time.
That would reduce the value of success.
But she structured victories carefully.
Enough to encourage.
Enough to reinforce engagement.
Enough to build confidence.
Assuring Annabeth of her own improvement and the possibility of replicable results in the future.
Apollo approved of this strategy, as did Athena’s own parents, and she had done similarly before with her own younger siblings.
And yet—
Annabeth hesitated.
Always at the same point.
At the moment of victory.
Even when the path which had been deliberately and subtly shaped became clear to her.
When success was assured.
It was always the same-
A pause.
A flicker of uncertainty.
A moment where she seemed to second-guess the conclusion she had already reached.
Athena noticed, of course she did.
But she did not intervene.
Not yet.
Observation came first.
Understanding came before correction.
Still, it was difficult. The first time Athena had orchestrated Annabeth’s victory during a simple game in which she had shown marked improvement over the last few rounds, Annabeth had become so still that Athena had nearly sent a panicked message to Apollo that he needed to see Annabeth right away. However, before Athena could act rashly, Annabeth had returned to her normal self, even if she kept sneaking puzzled, wary glances throughout the rest of the day at Athena when the young one thought Athena wasn’t looking.
Athena had very much wished to address the behaviour then and there, but she knew Annabeth was still too unsure, still settling into her new home; it would’ve been counterproductive to do anything that would disrupt the carefully structured routine Annabeth had only just begun to grow accustomed to.
Still, some adjustments had already been necessary, all minor.
Increased difficulty of games.
Greater variation in puzzles.
More complex layering of tasks to maintain engagement without inducing strain.
It was the right call, Athena confirmed. Annabeth responded eagerly.
There was a spark in her as she focused on the problems present to her.
A sharp, focused brightness that cut through her otherwise controlled demeanour.
It was… striking.
And when she succeeded—
When the pattern resolved, when the solution aligned—
Annabeth would present it.
Not boldly.
Not openly.
But with a quiet, contained pride that manifested in the straightening of her posture, in the slight placement of her shoulders.
Offering it.
To her.
To Athena.
Athena responded each time.
Deliberately.
Consistently.
A hand resting lightly against her child’s shoulder.
A brief, grounding touch.
“Well done.”
Measured praise.
Reliable.
Structured.
Her daughter responded to it well.
Of course, she did.
It was effective.
Efficient.
And—
Athena acknowledged, in the privacy of her own thoughts—
Deeply gratifying.
-
Things were going well.
Better than anticipated.
By every measurable standard, Athena’s system was functioning exactly as intended. Annabeth followed the routine. She engaged. She learned. She adapted quickly, efficiently—beautifully.
It should have been reassuring.
It was not.
Because the absence of failure was not the same as the absence of threat.
Even without visible signs, Athena could feel it—the looming presence of the curse. Not a thing she could define, not a pattern she could isolate or dismantle. It was not an enemy she could outmaneuver or a problem she could solve through strategy.
It simply… waited.
And the more Athena allowed herself to observe her daughter—not just as an item of interest nor a subject of study, but as a child—the worse that awareness became.
Annabeth’s quiet, hidden smiles when she solved something particularly difficult.
The way her eyes widened, bright and admiring, when Athena wove a new design into her hair—fingers stilling as she caught herself trying to follow the pattern.
The small, frustrated pout when something didn’t go the way she had predicted, lips pressing together as she recalculated, lower lip jutting out just slightly.
Small things.
Insignificant, individually.
But together—
They formed something dangerously fragile.
Something Athena had not expected to… value quite this much.
-
So she watched more closely.
Closer than she had intended.
Hovering, at times, before she consciously corrected herself and stepped back again. Space was important. Independence within structure was important.
She knew this.
And yet—
She found herself returning, again and again, to within reach.
Just in case.
It was during those closer observations that she noticed it.
Not the curse.
But a flaw in her own system.
It presented subtly.
A fraction of a delay in Annabeth’s responses during the afternoon—barely perceptible, but consistent once identified and monitored.
A dimming of that sharp, focused energy that characterized her engagement in the morning. Not gone, but dulled—like a blade losing its edge through repeated use.
During their second walk, her steps slowed just slightly. Her attention drifted—not unfocused, but quieter, less immediate.
And in their games—
Mistakes.
Small ones.
Uncharacteristic ones.
Not a lack of understanding, but a lack of precision. As though Annabeth was moving through the motions of the solution rather than actively constructing them ahead of time as she normally would.
It was concerning.
The cause, however, quickly revealed itself upon reflection.
Embarrassingly so.
Annabeth was a child.
Athena paused, standing still for a moment as the realization settled into place, aligning cleanly with the observations.
Of course.
Sustained cognitive and staggered physical exertion over extended periods would lead to fatigue. Reduced efficiency. Slower processing speed. Minor errors in execution.
It was not a flaw.
It was a limitation.
A predictable one.
Athena exhaled quietly.
How had she not accounted for that immediately?
The solution was simple: Additional rest.
Athena adjusted the routine without hesitation.
There was no reason for resistance. Annabeth had accepted every prior modification with minimal difficulty.
This would be no different.
When the first scheduled rest period arrived, Athena set aside the puzzle they had been working on, aligning the pieces neatly before turning her attention to Annabeth.
Her daughter looked up.
There was a flicker of confusion in her expression.
“Come along, Annabeth.”
Athena held out her hand, as she always did when guiding her through the more open areas beyond the secured rooms she had carefully modified. Annabeth was not fond of being physically carried, and this system permitted Athena to respect her daughter’s preferences.
Annabeth hesitated only a fraction before placing her hand in Athena’s.
It was small.
Warm.
Easily enclosed within Athena’s own.
“Where are we going?” Annabeth asked, her voice curious, quick—but threaded faintly with wariness.
Athena noted it.
Expected it.
Routine provided comfort through predictability. This deviation would require a brief adjustment period.
“I have decided on a modification to the schedule,” Athena replied evenly, already considering how best to rework Annabeth’s hair once they reached her sleeping chambers—something looser, more comfortable for rest but not completely let down as it was each night.
Annabeth’s nose scrunched slightly.
“A modification?” She echoed, slower this time, her attention sharpening.
Athena guided her forward with a gentle tug of their joined hands. Annabeth followed, though not as easily as before.
“I’ve decided to add a rest period to the daily routine.”
Annabeth’s steps faltered.
“Rest period?”
The words came out uncertain—testing.
“For you to sleep for a short time and regain your energy,” Athena clarified, her tone softening slightly.
Annabeth’s expression shifted.
Not confusion.
Something sharper.
Frustration.
“I’m not tired.” Annabeth protested as she tugged at her hand, trying to pull free from Athena’s own.
Athena allowed it warily.
“Your body shows clear signs of fatigue by mid-afternoon,” Athena explained, lowering herself slightly to meet Annabeth at eye level. “This modification will mitigate those symptoms.”
Annabeth’s arms crossed immediately, chin lifting in defiance.
“I’m not tired,” Annabeth spoke again.
Athena tilted her head.
This resistance was… disproportionate.
“You are.” Athena stated speaking only truth, all of the data pointed to this conclusion.
Annabeth’s glare sharpened.
“I’m not.” Annabeth reiterated, as though saying as such would change it.
“You are.” Athena added, once more, slightly confused, this conversation was becoming very inefficient with the back-and-forth responses.
There was a pause. A brief, taunt silence.
Annabeth’s cheeks flushed faintly.
“I’m not a child,” Annabeth said, the words edged, attempting sharpness once more—but there was a slight, unmistakable strain beneath them.
A thin thread of something softer.
Athena paused, considering how to proceed for a moment.
Then, very evenly:
“And I am not a goddess.”
Annabeth blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Clearly thrown off balance, her current emotional buildup was disrupted.
Success.
Athena leaned forward slightly, her expression composed, almost thoughtful. “If we are making inaccurate statements, I believe I should participate as well,” Athena continued, her tone dry, hiding the humour in it. “Though I am not certain it is a game I enjoy, dear one.”
The endearment slipped out before Athena could choose it, but she did not retract it.
Annabeth stared at her.
Processing.
Trying to reorganize the exchange into something that made sense.
“I don’t need a nap,” Annabeth finally said, digging her heels in, grounding herself in certainty. “So I’m not taking one.”
Athena almost sighed, closing her eyes momentarily before studying her daughter in front of her for clues as to what had brought on this lack of cooperation over something as simple as a well-needed rest.
Arms crossed. Chin lifted. Voice sharpened beyond its usual careful control.
Defiance fueled by high-level emotions.
Fatigue would only exacerbate this.
But the defiance itself was not necessarily unexpected… merely… delayed.
Athena felt a small shift in her understanding settle into place.
Ah.
So this was where it emerged.
A tantrum.
Annabeth’s first under Athena’s care.
The thought did not carry irritation.
Only recognition.
Annabeth had complied with every adjustment thus far with minimal resistance—too little, perhaps, given the scale of change she had undergone in such a short time frame. It had been efficient, certainly, but not entirely… typical.
Children tested boundaries.
They pushed.
They resisted.
They defied.
Not as a failure on parent or child—
But as a form of assessment.
What will you do?
Will you hold?
Will you break?
Are you safe?
Athena’s gaze softened, just slightly.
If this was that—
If this was Annabeth beginning to push back, to assert, to express frustration openly—
Then it suggested something important.
Comfort.
Not complete.
Not yet.
But growing.
Her daughter felt secure enough to protest.
Secure enough to raise her voice.
To push against the structure instead of simply moving within it.
That was… promising.
Even if the timing was inconvenient.
Athena adjusted her approach accordingly, her tone smoothing as she shifted from instruction to negotiation, inclining her head slightly.
“You may not believe you need a nap…” Athena began, deliberately mirroring Annabeth’s phrasing, “but that does not mean you do not require rest.” She paused, then added, in a gentler tone. “You do not even need to sleep. You may simply lie down and allow your body to recover.”
Annabeth was already shaking her head.
“Not doing that either.” Annabeth protested, and well, Athena supposed there was something to be said for determination. Then Annabeth turned sharply, intending to march back the way they had come.
Athena moved without hesitation.
Her hand closed around Annabeth’s arm—not harsh, not sudden, instead with a smooth, though not quite practiced motion, and Athena lifted her. Settling Annabeth securely against her hip.
Annabeth reacted immediately.
Squirming, twisting, pushing against Athena’s chest.
“Put me down!” Annabeth demanded.
Athena adjusted her grip—not restraining, simply ensuring stability—and continued walking.
“You will lie down for your rest period,” Athena said calmly, as though the conversation had not fractured at all. “You are not required to sleep.”
She shifted Annabeth slightly higher, supporting her more comfortably. “And when you have rested, you may choose the next activity; we can play whichever game you prefer.” Athena added, her tone still even, still patient. It was a small concession; while Athena did not wish to reward bad behaviour, she also did not wish Annabeth to associate future ‘naps’ with punishment nor the act of being held.
Annabeth, however, continued to struggle, though less effectively now, the movement already losing some of its force due to her current fatigue and the difficulty of achieving adequate leverage given how Athena held her.
These observations reinforced Athena’s conclusion that Annabeth wasn’t in the right mental frame of mind for a proper discussion of her actions. Reasoning would be inefficient at the moment with her daughter so worked up. Athena would wait until after she had rested and calmed to discuss today’s events.
“I’m not doing it!” Annabeth’s voice came out harsh—too harsh for her size, for her position, for the small body currently held securely in Athena’s arms. She kicked, twisted, her hands striking weakly against Athena’s chest, more effort than force, her face flushed red with exertion—
And then—
She stopped.
It was abrupt.
Total.
The resistance did not escalate, nor did it gradually die off as Athena would have predicted; it collapsed.
The fight drained from her all at once, leaving Athena’s precious daughter a puppet with cut strings.
The colour leached from Annabeth’s cheeks with alarming speed, leaving her pale—too pale—as a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the hallway.
Her shoulders crept upward toward her ears, her body folding in on itself as though she could make herself smaller, less visible.
Safer.
Her eyes dropped. Then flicked upward. Then down again. Quick, darting movements—tracking Athena’s face, her expression, searching for something.
Judgment.
Anger.
Punishment.
Now it was Athena’s turn to be still, as she frowned.
Not at the outburst, at the aftermath that followed.
The response did not align; it wasn’t an escalation, nor a quieter form of resistance; it was fear.
And fear… was not an appropriate response.
Athena’s grip shifted—not tighter, but more secure—as her free hand rose, slow and deliberate, toward Annabeth’s face.
Concern threaded through the motion.
Annabeth flinched.
It was small.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
She recoiled as much as she could within Athena’s hold, her breath catching, her body tightening further.
Athena froze.
There it was again.
That disconnect.
Action—
Reaction.
Athena’s gaze sharpened; her mind moved quickly, attempting to reconcile the sequence, to reorganize and reclassify the situation.
The outburst had fit, raised voice, physical resistance, delayed boundary testing, all consistent with a child growing more comfortable with a structured environment, in other words, a tantrum.
And then—
Fear.
Immediate. Instinctive. Deeply ingrained.
The speed of the shift, the severity, the way Annabeth’s eyes flicked, not in frustration but in assessment, assessing Athena’s response. She was tracking it, bracing for it, waiting for it.
This was not the behaviour of one anticipating correction; this was the anticipation of punishment, and one completely disproportionate to a child simply behaving as a child.
Athena inhaled slowly.
Steadying.
She was accurately aware of the cold she felt inside her and the heaviness that seemed to press down on her chest.
Not anger, something quieter, more focused because Athena knew…
This response was learned.
For the first time in a long time, Athena wanted to rage—not at Annabeth, of course not, but at whatever had taught her this response— but Athena could not; such a reaction had no place here, not now, when the problem had just clarified itself. So, she forced the emotion back down where it could wait for further examination at another time.
The issue had shifted; it was no longer about defiance, about establishing clear boundaries and rules. The issue was fear-
And fear, if left unaddressed, would compromise all of the progress Athena had made with her daughter.
“Annabeth…” Athena spoke, her voice softening to a feather-light tone, though carefully controlled.
Annabeth’s eyes flicked up to her face—just for a moment—before dropping again.
Then, with visible effort, she straightened slightly in Athena’s hold, forcing her posture into something more rigid.
More… formal.
“You acted out,” Athena continued, her tone even, measured. “And while I would have preferred a more moderate conversation between us…”
She paused, ensuring she had Annabeth’s attention. “…you are not in trouble.”
Annabeth’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in defiance.
In assessment.
She was testing the statement.
Weighing it.
Trying to determine if it was safe to believe.
“I’m… sorry for my… my unbecoming behaviour as a child of Athena,” Annabeth replied, the words were careful. Too careful.
Structured in a way that did not belong to a child speaking naturally.
There was a tremor beneath them—thin, but persistent.
Fear.
Athena did not like that.
“All is forgiven, dear one,” Athena said gently, wishing she could hold Annabeth even closer. “You are young. It is expected that you will act out, raise your voice, misbehave.” Annabeth’s brow furrowed slightly, and Athena’s voice turned even more gentle, taking a tone even Athena did not recognize in herself. “I am not concerned with that.”
Her hand rose again.
Slower this time.
Deliberate.
Allowing Annabeth to see every movement before it happened.
She cupped her clever girl’s cheek.
This time, Annabeth did not pull away, but she did not lean into it either. Instead, she held herself very still.
Athena’s thumb brushed lightly along Annabeth’s cheek, tracing its shape.
A grounding motion.
A reassurance.
“I am concerned,” Athena continued quietly, “with how you believed I would respond to your behaviour.” Annabeth stilled further if that was possible. “I do not want you to fear me,” Athena said, her voice low, steady, certain.
Her thumb stilled.
Her gaze did not waver.
“You are my child.”
The words landed with quiet weight.
“I should be a place of safety for you.”
A pause.
“Never of harm.”
Athena leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Annabeth’s head, guiding her gently forward until the girl’s head rested against Athena’s shoulder.
Annabeth allowed it.
More than allowed it—she seemed… unsteady.
As though the ground beneath her had shifted and she had not yet found her balance again.
“You’re… not mad?” Annabeth asked after a moment, her voice smaller now, dulled at the edges.
“No, Annabeth,” Athena replied, already working carefully at the pins woven into Annabeth’s hair, loosening them one by one with practiced fingers. “I am not angry with you.” Athena continued working hard not to lie, then she paused. “And even if I were—” Annabeth tensed sharply in her arms.
Athena adjusted immediately, drawing the little one slightly closer, her tone soothing and smooth. “—or if you required discipline,” Athena amended, calm, measured, “I would never harm you.”
Her hand settled more firmly at Annabeth’s back, rubbing slow, steady patterns.
“I could not.” Athena whispered as though sharing a secret just between the two of them. A quieter beat. “Not now. Not ever.”
Finally—
Gradually—
Slowly—
The tension in Annabeth’s body began to ease.
Not fully.
But enough.
Athena waited until the shift was undeniable before she resumed walking.
Annabeth did not protest this time.
Did not speak.
She seemed lost in thought, quiet in a way that was no longer defiant, but distant and perhaps a little lost. She barely reacted when they entered her chambers, only blinking, faintly disoriented, as Athena lowered her onto the soft expanse of the bed, sheets already pulled back, ready for her.
“This again…” Annabeth muttered, though the words lacked their earlier bite. There was no real resistance behind them.
“You still require rest,” Athena replied gently, guiding her Annabeth to lie down, adjusting the blankets with careful precision. “And you may be more fatigued than you realize. Especially after… all of that.” Athena spoke, unsure how to categorize the last interaction; instead, she focused on the child in front of her.
She tucked her in securely.
Not tight.
But contained.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Even if she did not know it yet.
Her hand returned to Annabeth’s hair.
No longer undoing structure—
Now simply smoothing it.
Stroking, slow and repetitive.
Annabeth lay still.
Tense at first.
Then—
Gradually—
Softening.
Despite herself, Athena began to hum.
It was quiet.
Unpracticed.
Not the effortless, flawless melody her brother would have produced.
There were imperfections.
Small inconsistencies.
But it was steady.
Intentional.
And threaded through with something unmistakable.
Care.
“You can do that?” Annabeth murmured, her voice thick with sleep, surprise slipping through the edges.
Athena allowed herself a small smile. “I have a very good reason to learn, do I not?” Athena answered softly as she continued the wordless tune. Athena matched the rhythm of her hand to the quiet rise and fall of Annabeth’s breathing, drawing it out longer as her breathing slowed further.
The melody was unfamiliar.
To both of them.
But it worked.
Annabeth’s breaths slowed.
Evened out.
Her thoughts, already dulled with fatigue, began to drift—edges softening, focus slipping.
“…not tired,” Athena’s baby mumbled weakly, the protest half-formed, already dissolving.
Athena did not respond.
She did not need to.
By the time the words faded, Annabeth was already asleep.