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, 1 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