His was the first face you looked upon that made you feel something inside—like you were seeing a deep-seated piece of your destiny, twined into the Fates' loom since the beginning of time.

His was the hand you held on the plane ride that stretched your nerves thinner than piano wires, while Grover snored away in the window seat.

His was the shoulder you broke down and cried on at the bottom of Siren Bay, when you realized that nothing would ever be as perfect as you dreamed.

His was the face you focused on when the weight of the swirling sky threatened to crush you. He'll come. I just know it. I can hold on that long… for him.

His was the steady heartbeat under your hand that you danced to up on Olympus—earning a disapproving glare from your mother, of course—but you just didn't care, and it felt so goodfor once.

His was the gentle smile he would give you every time he saw you after the battle—a smile you knew you didn't deserve, what with the way you distanced yourself from him. He never got angry. He never yelled back.

His was the hand you held on to as your one solace, your rock, while people swirled in and out of focus and your arm burned like Greek fire as Will tried to heal it.

His were the strong arms that wrapped around you at the Poseidon table when you leaned in—and it wasn't like Mount Saint Helens, not this time, because he was kissing you back and you loved it.

His was the soft voice that whispered, in an air bubble at the bottom of the canoe lake where only you could hear him, I love you, Annabeth Chase, and for the first time it felt real.

His was the number you dialed every day when you got home from school, and the last thing you said every time was I miss you, Seaweed Brain.

His was the car you drove to Camp Half-Blood in—a battered old black Toyota with a missing hubcap—windows rolled down to let in the December air, both of you singing Christmas carols along with the radio at the top of your lungs.

His was the cabin where you stood in shock; the cabin where he had been just the night before and now he wasn't.

His was the face you expected to see when you went to the Grand Canyon. Instead, you got a hyperactive son of Hephaestus, an amnesiac son of Zeus, and a daughter of Aphrodite who was certainly stronger than she looked. All of them—but no Seaweed Brain. Where are you, Percy?

His was the case you worried about every night while Leo built his ship. Will the Romans treat him well? Does he remember his Achilles spot? Does he remember me?

His was the toga that you were crushed against when he strode out of that ungodly four-hour-long senate meeting, cut off what you were going to say, and whispered, Of course I remember you, Wise Girl.

His were the arms that held you through sleepless nights on the Argo II—long hours of not speaking, just content to be together—as the sun rose and orange gradually streaked across the sky. None of the others questioned it when they came across the two of you, having finally passed out at three in the morning, asleep in each others' arms.

His was the warmth you always felt against you while you dueled giants and monsters and what-have-you, moving steadily across Greece and Rome, never faltering in his presence—never failing to watch your back.

His was the steady gaze that followed every stitch precisely as they made a burial shroud—a dark red one emblazoned with a bloody spear and a boar's head—his were the lips that kept mouthing the word Frank; his was the voice that reminisced with Hazel just to fill the silence that threatened to overwhelm them otherwise.

His was the hand you held the whole way back to Long Island.

His was the signature that sealed the lease on your first apartment together.

His were the loudest cheers when you graduated from Harvard at the top of your class.

His were the fingers that fumbled in his pocket for the ring as he got down on one knee and asked you to marry him. (You almost couldn't hear him over the loud squealing from every single one of Piper's siblings.)

His were the shining eyes that locked on you from all the way down the aisle on your wedding day, full of so much happiness and love it's a wonder he didn't burst—then again, you felt the same way, of course.

His was the soft black hair you just couldn't resist running your fingers through again and again, teasing him even at two in the morning because you were newlyweds and this was what you were supposed to do, right?

His was the shoulder you would bury your face in and sleep for hours and hours on end—neither of you much liked getting up at five on Saturday, anyway.

His was the expression you wish with all your might that you had a picture of when you told him you were pregnant. (Leo placed a bet that he fainted, but if he actually did, you didn't know. You were too busy cracking up.)

His were the hands that traced across your stomach, whispering Good night before the two of you went to bed and Goodbye before he left in the mornings for work.

His was the sloppy handwriting that filled all the birth announcements; you had to stop and correct him several times because he gave up and started writing in Greek.

His was the little daughter you brought into this world together: Cassiopeia (shortened to Cassie, he insists, because "otherwise it's a freaking mouthful") Jackson, who has your honey-blond hair and his sea-green eyes.

His was the voice that whispered in your ear at midnight, "I've got to go for a little while. Nico needs help with something up near Albany. I love you."

His were those final words.

His was the only funeral at which you ever really cried.