Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
The gods arrived a few minutes later in their full war regalia, thundering into the throne room
and expecting a battle.
What they found were Annabeth, Grover, and me standing over the body of a broken half-
blood, in the dim warm light of the hearth.
"Percy," my father called, awe in his voice. "What . . . what is this?"
I turned and faced the Olympians.
"We need a shroud," I announced, my voice cracking. "A shroud for the son of Hermes."
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Chapter Twenty
We Win Fabulous Prizes
The Three Fates themselves took Luke's body.
I hadn't seen the old ladies in years, since I'd witnessed them snip a life thread at a roadside
fruit stand when I was twelve. They'd scared me then, and they scared me now—three ghoulish
grandmothers with bags of knitting needles and yarn.
One of them looked at me, and even though she didn't say anything, my life literally flashed
before my eyes. Suddenly I was twenty. Then I was a middle-aged man. Then I turned old and
withered. All the strength left my body, and I saw my own tombstone and an open grave, a coffin
being lowered into the ground. All this happened in less than a second.
It is done, she said.
The Fate held up the snippet of blue yarn—and I knew it was the same one I'd seen four
years ago, the lifeline I'd watched them snip. I had thought it was my life. Now I realized it was
Luke's. They'd been showing me the life that would have to be sacrificed to set things right.
They gathered up Luke's body, now wrapped in a white-and-green shroud, and began
carrying it out of the throne room.
"Wait," Hermes said.
The messenger god was dressed in his classic outfit of white Greek robes, sandals, and
helmet. The wings of his helm fluttered as he walked. The snakes George and Martha curled around
his caduceus, murmuring, Luke, poor Luke.
I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches
for a son who would never come home.
Hermes unwrapped Luke's face and kissed his forehead. He murmured some words in
Ancient Greek—a final blessing.
"Farewell," he whispered. Then he nodded and allowed the Fates to carry away his son's
body.
As they left, I thought about the Great Prophecy. The lines now made sense to me. The
hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap. The hero was Luke. The cursed blade was the knife he'd given
Annabeth long ago—cursed because Luke had broken his promise and betrayed his friends. A
single choice shall end his days. My choice, to give him the knife, and to believe, as Annabeth had,
that he was still capable of setting things right. Olympus to preserve or raze. By sacrificing himself,
he had saved Olympus. Rachel was right. In the end, I wasn't really the hero. Luke was.
And I understood something else: When Luke had descended into the River Styx, he
would've had to focus on something important that would hold him to his mortal life. Otherwise he
would've dissolved. I had seen Annabeth, and I had a feeling he had too. He had pictured that
scene Hestia showed me—of himself in the good old days with Thalia and Annabeth, when he
promised they would be a family. Hurting Annabeth in battle had shocked him into remembering that
promise. It had allowed his mortal conscience to take over again, and defeat Kronos. His weak
spot—his Achilles heel—had saved us all.
Next to me, Annabeth's knees buckled. I caught her, but she cried out in pain, and I realized
I'd grabbed her broken arm.
"Oh gods," I said. "Annabeth, I'm sorry."
"It's all right," she said as she passed out in my arms.