Grandmother. Thalia near fell off her chair in her scramble to rise. Still gripping the flashlight tightly, she waded through the mess to pull open the door.
And there she was. Standing in the doorway, the all-nurturing, all-destroying Ge. Thalia knew her grandmother little -- on the great heights of Olympus, the primordial Earth Mother was rarely seen, but oft-spoken of, usually in wary, deferential tones. Clio had warned Thalia in no uncertain terms that she was a dangerous woman, a goddess who consorted with tyrants, and whose will had brought kingdoms toppling down.
But at that moment, Thalia saw only her grandmother; the woman who had spoken to her so kindly and patiently in her panic, whose stern features were now softened by maternal concern.
She had thought she was past crying -- thought she'd wept herself dry -- but the swell of relief and gratitude brought tears to her eyes anew, and without even realising what she was doing, Thalia sank into Gaia's arms.