Chapter Text
Sometimes, when his heart is feeling particularly traitorous, Nico thinks of Camp Half-Blood.
He sits cross-legged in front of a fire made of shreds of torn diplomas and certificates. The ghostly blue flames char away names and achievements, whisps of thin smoke rising above the pathetic pyre. Just beyond the beach is a wide river, so deep and endless that it appears to be a gorge, the beach’s crags and sharp rocks like teeth in a ravenous maw.
Churning in its waters are soggy graduation caps, empty engagement ring boxes, open-faced time-pieces, and all the other lost hopes and dreams that now belong to the Styx.
An iron pocket watch washes up on shore, rust eating its luster alive. The hands have been wretched off by the current. In the Underworld, there is no meaning in keeping time when everything is eternal. Nico’s not sure if it’s been weeks or days or months, but the grief is always constant, hot and throbbing. Like the churlish tide of the river, it seems to retreat momentarily before rushing forth, just as painful.
His deck of Mythomagic cards are clutched in tight hands. He remembers showing them to the Stoll brothers, excitedly explaining all the little facets of the game. The Hermes cabin was packed, then – everyone either had a bed or a designated square on the floor for their belongings: a sleeping bag, toiletries, mementos from home.
Nico only had his cards. He’d sat near the wall with the others and showed them how to play, and they taught him games he already knew by heart from the casino. He never told them, though, because they seemed happy to teach him, and he didn’t mind learning.
The games distracted him from reality – that Bianca had left him. And, for a while, they’d worked. After the gaudy casino, with its neon lights and dizzying environment; dreary Westover Hall on a cold hilltop in the middle of nowhere; Nico was happy to be somewhere with company. He talked to anyone he could. He learned all the names of his cabinmates, and the names of their friends. He visited Hestia, who gave him a warm smile when he approached her hearth.
Eventually, he could walk through camp, and every person he passed he’d call out cheerfully, and they would wave and smile and say Hey, Nico! It seemed he wouldn’t be claimed, but Nico didn’t really mind. He belonged either way.
And then, one night, when he was staring up at the ceiling of the Hermes cabin, trying to sleep, a sharp sound cleaved into him like a knife cutting through stone. Ringing and ringing, a relentless death knell. He trembled and hid in the mass of blankets, clinging to his pillow and waiting for it to be over. He did not search for the source, because somehow, he knew it was him.
Sleep did not find him that night. It still hasn’t found him.
He’d been confused and frustrated when people asked why he was tired the next morning, if he had gotten any rest. How could he? He felt like an olive pit had been pressed deep into his gut, left there to rot and fester. He agonized over that awful feeling for days, to the point of feeling nauseous. When Travis Stoll asked if he was okay, Nico snapped at him, then consequently burst into tears.
He didn’t understand. The echoes of that sound haunted him. He didn’t sleep on the floor anymore, in his sleeping bag. There was a bitter coldness that seeped through from the wooden planks like invisible pitch, and when he put his ear to the ground, he could hear voices, thin and wailing; a begging chorus.
He chose to sleep against the wall, and bury himself in his games. Night after night, those shiny cards fluttered through his fingers with each quivering shuffle, and a pantheon of gods flicked under his thumb.
Nico gazes at them now. They slide effortlessly against his deft fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut until his head pounds. Camp Half-Blood is a thing of the past, and yet he has one physical memory of that place left.
A small, childish part of him wants to keep the deck, but there’s no reason to hold onto a useless deadweight. It’s not like he’ll ever get to play with anyone anymore, and every time he looks at those cards, of the immortals he had revered, it feels like a joke.
This is not your stupid Mythomagic game! Bianca had once shouted. And she’d been right. It was raw and real and worse than he ever could have imagined.
One by one, he throws them into the fire, and watches the flames eat their glimmering plastic until there’s nothing but ash.
When Nico returns, he pretends it isn’t by choice.
He is not curious. He refuses to be. This, he tells himself, is a matter of morality. He could never live in peace knowing he’d willingly chosen not to fight. When the labyrinth explodes, enemies pouring out, there is no other thing to do but fight. And he does, summoning hordes of the undead, slicing through monsters as they trickled from the blown-open maze entrance, his sword drinking in their souls.
A small part of him is unsure about battling so many enemies at once, but once he’s in the thick of it, there’s no pause. He dodges the spinning club of a laistrygonian and promptly stabs him in the foot. He spears a hissing dracaena , and barely registers her howl of agony before slicing through a crowd of approaching telkhines. They just come and come, and he continues to crack the earth and bring forth his own army.
The strength comes at a cost, and he later collapses, what looks like steam curling off his clothes. But he knows it’s truly his life force, withering from the husk that contains his soul.
This sort of overexertion is normal to him – Minos’ teaching mantra was that to succeed, he had to push himself past the limit. Thinking back on that, it’s obvious the old judge hadn’t had his health in mind, so it’s strange when everyone crowds around him, almost worried.
He finds himself in the infirmary later. He’s sure it would’ve been quaint, with its rustic look and bundles of sweet-smelling hyacinths, but the stench of death shatters the image. There are bodies in almost every bed, labored breathing and Apollo children rushing about administering ambrosia and bandages. They, too, are sullen and nerve-stricken. Nico knows it’s because they’ve just returned from making a shroud for one of their own brothers, Lee Fletcher.
A Hecate camper bursts in, a gash on his left foot trickling blood. On his back he lugs an unconscious Hermes kid with great effort, his knees wobbling. “A - ow - little help here!” He nearly stumbles over himself. “Shit!”
A girl, probably even younger than Nico, comes over and retrieves the Hermes camper, placing him on one of the few available beds. She kneels to inspect the gash on the Hecate camper’s leg. “This isn’t good. I think it’s infected, but I’ll need a closer look...”
The Hecate camper – whom Nico recognizes to be Eliott, only from hearing someone shout for his assistance earlier – scans the room, and realizes then that there are only two beds left – and both are on either side of Nico.
There’s an awkward, painful, long moment of hesitance as Eliott stares at the beds, then Nico. He hobbles over slowly and sinks into the thin mattress of the one on the left, jutting his leg off the side as though he’s willing to make a run for it. Even the Apollo girl is dubious when she comes to further assess the wound, her sharp eyes darting towards the son of Hades when she thinks he isn’t aware.
Eliott scarfs down a square of ambrosia once the examination is done. Through his hurried chewing he asks, “can I switch spots?”
It’s then that Nico makes the mistake of turning to look at Eliott with disdain. The boy flinches, hunching his shoulders. Sofiya tells him that he’s fully healed anyways, and that they don’t have the space to spare for overnight evaluation. He dashes out of the infirmary with little uncertainty.
She stares at him, lips twisted with perturbation. “What’re you in here for?”
“I used too much of my powers and started fading,” he explains matter-of-factly.
“Right,” she says skeptically. She wrings a towel in her hands and spreads it over the forehead of another camper, wiping away blood. “Just...try to keep that power in, alright?”
He knits his eyebrows. “What?”
“You know what I mean.” She sounds exasperated and impatient, like the conversation should be over by now. “The whole death thing of yours. Need I remind you, we’re trying to heal people. We can’t have any magical interferences. If that’s going to be a problem, then you should leave.”
“Magical...interferences,” he repeats. Part of him is surprised she managed to say that to him, whereas most of the other campers had warily walked around his bed as though he were an accursed mannequin. But what she has to say may as well be the verbal version of those adverse actions, too.
He’s speechless, and she has nothing else to say. Some bedridden campers look like they might nod in agreement, or congratulate her for being brave and speaking up about a nonexistent problem.
The infirmary is stiffening after that.
He slips away unnoticed when Sofiya leaves. He helps conduct the ancient rites for burning the shrouds, and that’s nearly enough to make him forget her bluntness. The rising smoke, the settling of human souls. It’s calming; makes him feel grounded. Fires engulf metal wreaths, sending sparks into the sky like little fireworks, and Nico, for once, is at peace.
Dinner is a muted affair. He doesn’t eat anything or even sit down at a table – though he does make an attempt, and when the tip of his boot heel hits the floor, everyone stares. Dozens of eyes, all a mixture of weary and bitter, staring at him. Don’t sit here, or here. Not here, either.
He swallows, pebbles in his throat, and retreats into the shadowy wood. A silvery light bleeds through the darkness, collecting mist and taking shape. In the clearing, veiled by dark shapes that shift with the passing moon’s light, the figure is a thin, willowy thing. Like dandelion fluff, easily blown away.
His heart catches when his sister stares back at him, her once warm brown eyes the same transparent blue as other spirits. “Hello, Nico.”
“Bianca,” he croaks. The pain unfolds again, fresh and real. “How...why-”
His sister floats closer. When she moves, her face wavers, full of emotion yet expressionless at the same time. “You’ve done well, Nico. I’m proud of you.”
“I...I haven’t done anything,” he stammers.
“Yes, you have.” Her lips split into a soft smile. “You’ve overcome your grudge. You helped save the camp – you're a hero.”
“A hero?” he echoes. “I don’t...I don’t feel like one.”
“That doesn’t change the truth.” She reaches for his face, as though wiping away dust or dirt the way she would do. Her hand fades into fog before it can reach his cheek. “I only wanted to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” he whispers. His voice is so fragile, like he’s back at the ranch where he’d first succeeded in summoning her.
She nods slowly. “I’ve been watching over you, Nico. But now I’m going to rest. You don’t need me to protect you anymore.”
No, he wants to say. He still feels like a child, standing with Bianca in a crowded city square, her hand in his own. It had always been just them, switching homes like playing cards – but Nico had never minded, because to him, Bianca was home. She was his family, his umbrella in pelting rain, a tree’s generous shade in the sweltering heat of reality. Even the Underworld, with its odd familiarity, isn’t any more home to him than a drunkard's favorite bar.
Bianca’s ghostly wraith parts at the beckoning of the wind, silver tendrils of her form scattering in the stale night air. Her face is serene.
“Bianca,” he says, “when have I ever not needed you? You’re my sister. And I-” he clutches the hem of his black shirt, twisting the fabric. “I just...I miss you.” It’s pathetic, how much he keeps inside. He used to be able to tell Bianca everything. He has to remind himself that she’s gone even as she stands in his sight.
“I miss you, too, Nico.” Her voice holds a tinge of wistfulness. “It used to be just you and I, fratello. You and I against the world. I cannot return to the land of the living, but you have the path I might’ve taken, the lives I might’ve saved. You hold both our legacies in the palm of your hand. And I know you’ll do amazing things, whether or not you believe it.” Her lips curl into a smile, probably the last he’ll ever see. It’s a thing to cherish. “And I’m not just saying this because I’m your sister, Mr. Ghost King .”
He blushes. “You saw that?”
“I did. I think it’s just the tip of the iceberg. I saw the way Minos treated you, and even at your weakest you defied him.” Her smile becomes a full grin. “Defy them, Nicolló. Defy them all.”
A sound cracks through the silent bubble they share, and Nico looks back to see Percy emerging from the path. Bianca’s hand reaches for his cheek, but it dissolves before it can even reach him. Her specter fades, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air.
“Saying goodbye,” he tells Percy hoarsely.
“We missed you at dinner,” Percy says. “You could’ve sat with me.”
Nico entertains the thought for a moment, then discards it. “No.”
“Nico, you can’t miss every meal. If you don’t want to stay with Hermes, maybe they can make an exception and put you in the Big House. They’ve got plenty of rooms.”
He thinks back to his first few days at camp, playing card games with the Hermes kids. And then the infirmary comes to mind again. “I’m not staying, Percy.”
“But...you can’t just leave. It’s too dangerous out there for a lone half-blood. You need to train.”
“I train with the dead,” he says flatly. “This camp isn’t for me. There’s a reason they didn’t put a cabin to Hades here, Percy. He’s not welcome, any more than he is on Olympus. I don’t belong. I have to go.” He looks back at the spot Bianca had just been and bites his tongue. “Besides...I’ve got tons of questions about my past – I need to find out.”
Percy knits his eyebrows. “You can still stay,” he insists. “You can search for clues about your family, but at the end of the day, you’d have somewhere to return to.”
A spark of anger ignites within. “Gods, Percy – why do you care?”
At this, he looks a little hurt. “Nico, why shouldn’t I? I – I watched your sister die, and every day I wonder how I could have saved her. I can’t watch her younger brother just leave to gods know where. Especially not after the Labyrinth. Bianca would’ve wanted you to be safe.”
“Bianca,” Nico seethes, “is dead.”
“Knowing what’s out there...that Luke is willing to do anything to turn demigods to Kronos’ side...I can’t just let you go knowing that,” he admits. “Bianca wouldn’t have wanted it, yeah, but neither would I. After everything you’ve been through, you deserve a safe place to stay, even if it’s just for a little bit.”
“I told you,” he mutters. “Nobody wants me here.”
“So...I’m a nobody?”
Nico rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m serious, though, Nico. You could be here, do your research, make some friends. If you don’t like it, you can go to the Underworld or something.” He lowers his gaze. “Besides...I don’t know how much longer Camp Half-Blood will be around. You should experience it while it lasts.”
The implication is startlingly macabre. A single battle had precured massive casualties and damage, and it's becoming increasingly clear how slim their chances of winning the war are. He wants to pretend he’s been disconnected from this place, but as much as he’s tried, he can’t forget his time at camp, and the sinking feeling that comes when he thinks of it in flames.
He considers the offer. It isn’t like he has to stay long - if it grows unbearable, he can leave. He won’t have to scourge to find a place to sleep or food to eat, which, he tells himself, is really the only convincing caveat. And though he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s a bit difficult to refuse Percy, who looks so stubborn and hopeful and determined – to set things right, maybe.
You should leave, Sofiya had told him. Straight to his face, without a hint of shame. She – and plenty of others – would think those silent thoughts the longer he stayed. They wouldn't be happy if he stayed. And there – under the sour peel of truth, he finds a sweet, petty core of vengeance.
Defy them, Bianca had said. Defy them all.
“Alright, then,” Nico relents. “I’ll stay, but only for a little while.”
Percy looks stunned, but the shock melts from his face. He grins abashedly. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ll ask Chiron about the Big House.” Then, before he forgets, “I’m sorry I was a brat. I should’ve listened to you about Bianca.”
“It’s okay. You were grieving. I don’t blame you. And, by the way...” he fishes something out of his pocket. “Tyson found this while we were cleaning the cabin. Thought you might want it.”
In Percy’s outstretched hand is a little Mythomagic statue, the one Nico had abandoned when he’d fled camp last winter. He almost wants to laugh – the depiction of Hades is absurd now that’s he really seen Hades. He hesitates, though, when he says, “I don’t play that game anymore. It’s for kids.”
“It’s got four thousand attack power,” Percy coaxes.
“Five thousand,” Nico corrects, “But only if your opponent attacks first.”
Percy smiles and tosses him the statue. “Maybe it’s okay to still be a kid once in a while.”
Nico studies it in his palm – the intricate curls on the hem of Hades’ robe aren’t shimmering with trapped souls, and his face isn’t gaunt enough, but he slips the imperfection into his pocket anyway. Maybe it’s better that they don’t look like their godly counterparts. “Thanks.”
Nico glances back once more at the spot Bianca had been before following Percy into camp, away from the darkened woods, and away from the shadows that beckon for him.
On his second week back, Nico gets injured. He’s lucky like that.
He’s taken quite well to the Big House – he has a room on the third floor, with a big, cushy bed and soft coverlets, which is more than he can say for where he’d slept in the past. A window with thick curtains gives him a spectacular view of camp, from the bushels of thriving strawberries to the omega-shaped myriad of cabins. He tends to stay in bed until lunch, recovering his strength, but also enjoying the rare warmth of real blankets. The sun’s rays ripple across the sheets, making him want to stay there, cocooned in comfort forever.
When he finally rises in the afternoon, Chiron is downstairs, either talking with Athena and Hephaestus campers or burying himself in musty scrolls. Nico chooses not to bother him – he looks stressed enough as it is – and carries on undisturbed with his day. Up until, of course, he gets slashed in the leg.
“Okay,” his healer says patiently. “Let me get this straight: you summoned a skeleton, almost fainted from overexertion, fought the skeleton to return it to the Underworld...and this gash is because you tripped against the side of a cabin on your way to the infirmary?”
Nico nods. He had planned on disregarding it until later, but the dripping blood had become too irritating to ignore.
“Wow,” the medic mutters. “That’s...ironic. Well, I don’t see any redness around the cut, so at least it isn’t infected. Kayla, could you pass me some ambrosia?”
Kayla – a girl with short auburn hair streaked with green – ducks behind a cabinet and returns with a palmful of godly food. “Here you go, Will. I don’t think we can spare another square today, since Sherman came in with his broken ankle.”
The healer – Will – sighs. “I might have to talk with the Ares cabin kids. The less unnecessary injuries, the more resources we can save. Thanks, Kayla.”
Kayla squeezes his shoulder and leaves the infirmary. Compared to three days ago, the place is relatively empty now. The beds are made, linen sheets stretched thin on spring-clean mattresses. Light spills in through open windows; wind tickles Nico’s skin. The air is warm and heady with strawberries. Drooping hyacinths have been replaced with fresh violet bundles that smell sweetly of the earth.
Each spot of cheer is a small effort made to scrub away the phantom stains of blood and sorrow. Nico can't help but wince once he realizes, even as the ambrosia hits his tongue.
“What’s it taste like for you?”
Nico almost doesn’t register the question because Will’s been mostly quiet up until now. He blinks in confusion, and at his puzzled expression, Will immediately back-tracks. “Oh - sorry, that’s probably too personal. I don’t know what I was thinking asking that, I’ve just been scatterbrained lately, and-”
“It’s fine,” Nico interrupts. “I don’t really care.”
“Oh. Oh, um – good.” Will runs a hand through his curls. When Nico really studies him, he notices how young he is. Just around his age, probably not any older than twelve or thirteen. He stands tall, minding his shoulders and the slouch of his spine. He speaks carefully and with the patience of someone who has years of experience – or, at least, has to appear that way.
“I don’t really know,” he admits. “It’s sweet and tastes like almonds, but that’s about it.”
Will hums. “Maybe pie? Or shortbread...”
Nico shrugs. He doesn’t remember what it’s supposed to be. He doesn’t remember much of anything, and it’s aggravating how many blanks there are in his memory. It’s one of the things he plans on investigating soon. “What does it taste like for you?”
“Pound cake.” He sets down a roll of bandages. “I should’ve said this earlier, but...you’re Nico, right?”
He frowns. “Yeah, I am.”
He expects Will to grimace, to mumble out an oh and finish up his work as quickly as possible. Instead, he smiles and extends a hand. “I’m Will Solace. It’s nice to meet you.”
Nico stares. It’s only the years of manners ingrained in him that manage to shake him from his stupor and accept the handshake. Will’s hand is tanned and sprinkled with dark freckles – beyond that, it’s warm . The casual, genuine contact is more than he’s had in months – and he rejects it, unsure of what to do with the feelings it creates.
Eventually he finds his voice and mumbles, “Likewise.” He tears his hand away. “Um...you’re a son of Apollo right?”
Will nods. “All I really do is healing, though. If you want to know about music or archery, ask my siblings.”
His tone is rigid as he says that, and Nico senses they’re trekking into stiff conversational territory. He diverts. “And you lead the infirmary?”
As it turns out, that thread of discussion is even worse. “As of late, yes. My brother used to, but...”
Nico grimaces. He recalls now that Lee Fletcher, one of the casualties of the battle, was a son of Apollo. He was Apollo’s only casualty, but being their head counselor, his death had really impacted the cabin. And if Will was the next best healer, naturally he would be expected to take up Lee’s previous helm, even if he was still just a kid.
“He’s in Elysium,” Nico blurts. He’s not sure why he says that – it's only a cherry of reassurance on top of a mound of dread.
Will offers him a weak smile, though, and he feels a little relieved that he managed to say something of any worth. “I hope so. He deserved it.”
They sit in silence for a period of time, the wind tousling the drapes and plucking away hyacinth petals, which fall to the floor in a spray of purple. Will hands him half another square of ambrosia, and as he’s eating it, a revelation is unveiled, like the slow unfurling of a flower. It’s such a small, careless thing, but it gives him a token of joy.
He’s smiling crookedly as the ambrosia’s healing ability rushes through his body, leaving only a good feeling behind. “I know what it is,” he says.
Will tilts his head. “Know what?”
Again, Nico isn’t sure why he’s telling Will any of this. Idle chatter is good for nothing, but he’s still pleased that he can finally label the familiar, nutty sweetness on his tongue, “I know what ambrosia tastes like to me. It tastes like marzipan.”
“Marzipan? I’ve never had any before. Do you know how to make it? Or maybe a family member?”
Nico’s smile falters. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Will’s eyebrows furrow. “Amnesia? But when I did a diagnosis, I didn’t sense any memory blocks.”
“A diagnosis?”
“When I touched you,” he explains. “I can figure out all the ailments you have and the source. But amnesia was not one of them.”
Nico pulls the collars of his jacket closer. “I don’t think I have amnesia. Or at least, not in the medical sense. But I’m going to figure it out.”
“Good luck,” Will says earnestly. “Hopefully you’ll be able to recover your memories.” His eyes twinkle with sudden mischief. “You think if you eat a bunch of marzipan, you might remember something by association?”
Nico arches an eyebrow. “That sounds like an excuse to eat marzipan.”
Will grins, and his eyes seem endlessly blue now, instead of the dull color they’d been when Nico had entered the infirmary. He’s smiling again, and his cheeks hurt from the strain of unused muscles. He’s been smiling an awful lot for an injured person.
“Will! ” A girl’s voice hollers. “We’ve got another severe injury on the LRE!"
The dullness returns. Will sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fifty drachma it’s the Ares kids again. I really need to talk with Clarisse.”
“I could talk with them.” By the gods, where did that come from?
Will shakes his head. “I appreciate it, but it’s my responsibility to address the issue. You can come if you want, though – but your leg-”
“It’s fine.” Nico waves him off. “I’m fully healed.”
“Alright, then.” Will’s amiable smile slips off, and his lips press into a thin line. As they walk to the Ares cabin, his easygoing, cordial posture tightens, as though he’s turning to stone with each stoical step. It’s a transformation Nico has seen many times on the kindest people he knows. A no-nonsense attitude, sure, but also a thinly veiled warning.
The Ares Cabin is painted with a scratchy red color that peels at the edges. Barbed wire lines the roof, spikes glinting like teeth ready to gnaw on some unsuspecting bird. A stuffed boar’s head hangs over the doorway, its beady eyes burning holes in Nico’s jacket. The place seems more like a gaudy reappropriation of what war represents than the dwelling of actual war spawn – and, in Nico’s opinion, could use a merciful remodeling.
Will hardly bats an eye at the leering swine, swiftly raising a palm to knock thrice. There’s a commotion inside before a young girl answers the door. She’s a little older than them, maybe fourteen, with loose black hair looped into a bun, dark eyes flecked with red eyeliner, and matching nails that tap irritably against the doorframe. “What?”
“Is Clarisse here?” Will asks.
“No,” the girl says curtly. “She’s probably training. Is that all?”
“No, actually. I need to speak with your cabin about something.”
Nico expects her to shut the door, but she sighs and lets them in. The inside is thankfully less brusque than the exterior, with beds lined up against the walls and campers hanging upside down off the upper bunks, jumping from the ladders, or busying themselves with their own tasks. There’s a cacophony of noise from every direction, kids yelling and chortling in a discordant garble of nonsense.
Since it’s early morning, just before breakfast, it seems all the Ares campers are inside. He’s certain that this cabin is barely ever occupied for anything other than sleep, because having a dozen demigod children cramped in a single room, their bodies writhing with endless energy, is a complete wreck. The din is so unbearable, the air so hot and smothering, that Nico wishes he could step outside again.
Will stares up at the campers, who are all engrossed in their own spats that they don’t notice either of them. He raises his fingers to his mouth, and before Nico knows it, an ear-shattering whistle rips through the cabin like nuclear fallout, ending the noise with one shrill sound.
Slowly, some of the Ares kids lean up from their crouching positions and pull their hands from their ears, glaring. Will only smiles briefly at them all. “Good morning, everyone!”
“What the Hades, Will,” one of the Ares kids growls. He’s dangling over the ledge of his bunk, hair cropped buzz-cut style.
“And good morning to you too, Ellis.” Will waves. “I hate to interrupt your guys’ sibling bonding time, but I have a small announcement to make regarding your frequent trips to the infirmary.”
“Oh, no,” drawls another camper, flicking a crumpled paper napkin off his bed. “What is it now?”
“We’ve been having a surplus of demigods in the infirmary lately-”
“Uh, maybe because we just had a battle with massive casualties?” an Ares girl pipes up.
“Yes,” Will says neutrally, “but we finished treating those people. Any injuries afterwards are not a result of the battle, but typical ones that we receive on a day-to-day basis – except that lately, certain people are refusing to follow basic safety measures in order to keep themselves from getting hurt. In the last few hours I’ve had three people from the Ares cabin come in with lacerations on their limbs.”
“Oh, one of those was me!” someone chimes in, and there’s a chorus of snickers. Nico feels his gut clench.
“Yes, Mark,” Will replies dryly. “That was you, because you decided that you were too much of a big kid to put on armor like everybody else.”
The snickers become full-bodied laughter, and Mark – whom is sitting with a trio of his siblings – burns an indignant shade of crimson, the same color as the walls.
“That goes for all of you,” Will continues. “We’re running low on resources, and shipments from Olympus have been stalling recently. Every bit of healing food we have is valuable, so we all need to work together to keep trips to the infirmary at a minimum.”
There’s a murmur of reluctant agreement, but then Mark opens his mouth. “What, are you complaining about doing your job now?”
Will inhales slowly. “I’m not complaining , I’m only saying that-”
“-we need to keep our faces out of the infirmary, stop getting hurt, blah, blah, blah. ” Mark rolls his eyes. “Do we have to stop fighting, too? Just ‘cause you run the infirmary now doesn’t mean you get to slack off. There’s no point in being stingy. You don’t wanna heal dumb injuries?” He laughs, and the sound grates at his throat like ash coating a chimney chute. “What does that even mean? Don’t you just sing or some shit? You’re acting like it’s hard.”
Nico’s fingers curl at their sides. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been angry on someone else’s behalf, someone other than his sister. But he’s seen the medics in the infirmary preform their healing hymns, and though their skin glows with health as they sing, it seems to seep into their patient, leaving their own pallor sickly and their souls exhausted.
The fury builds, and his hand brushes against the hilt of his sword – but then Will speaks.
“Not hard, Mark?” His grin is as sharp as a blade fitted between his dimples. “I’m sorry, I thought you were joking when you said that. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t clear enough the first time. We – meaning, this camp as a whole – are lacking in resources. I am not asking you to stop training. I am asking you to stop making foolhardy decisions. Stop refusing to wear armor. Stop responding to all your problems with a blade. These injuries are preventable. You aren’t invincible, and neither are the infirmary staff.”
Will makes eye contact with Mark, who, to Nico’s absolute delight, flinches. “You’re right about one thing – injuries like the ones you’ve been getting are dumb because they’re avoidable . And when we’re short on medics, ambrosia, nectar, and morale , I think it’s best to prioritize caution.”
There’s a bleak nod somewhere in the horde, followed by what Nico almost swears is a mumbled, yes sir. As Will turns to leave, the kid who had grumbled to him earlier – Ellis – salutes.
“Also,” Will says, his back facing the Ares kids. “If any of you decide not to heed by basic safety measures and get injured because of that, you can still come to the infirmary. I’m never going to deny treatment. I’ll have a cast all set up for you, and you can learn the hard way, since that’s the method you all seem to love so much.”
He flashes the cabin a dazzling smile, which is the last thing they see before the door shuts.
The walk back to the infirmary is silent until halfway through, in which Will practically deflates. “Oh my gods .”
Nico blinks in confusion. “What?”
“I - do you think I convinced them?”
“Convinced them?” Nico scoffs. “I’d be surprised if they ever picked up a blade again.”
“Too harsh, then? I mean, they needed to be told that, and I honestly wasn’t going to say that last bit, but then Mark – well.” He lets out a strangled sigh.
“He was asking for it,” Nico tells him. “They all were, being reckless like that.”
Will shrugs as they approach the infirmary. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if that’s - if that’s how...” He shakes his head. “Nevermind.”
If that’s how Lee would’ve done it. Nico feels a cold fist close around his heart. The battle had only really ended a few days ago. Nico had almost forgotten, only because Will didn’t really look like he was grieving, besides his faraway gaze and fidgeting fingers. But this – taking up an enormous mantle at first notice, shouldering the burdens of head medic immediately after the burning of a shroud – it’s a method of distraction .
When Bianca died, Nico had buried himself in a singular goal to keep himself from grieving, and Will seemed to be doing the same thing.
He wants to say something to alleviate the tension, but how can he? He’s processed and accepted, maybe, but he hasn’t allowed himself a moment to really think about Bianca’s death. Knowing that he has the power to summon her at his fingertips means that learning to live without her is less an obligation and more a promise to himself. It removes the distance that death puts between people, and makes it harder for him to let go.
If he were to tell Will anything encouraging, he would have to deal with his own emotions first.
You aren’t invincible , he’d said. Nico had tried and pretended to be adamantine. He’d tried to glue the shards of himself together, when instead he’d needed to let himself fully fall apart so he could be built up again.
They arrive at the infirmary steps. “Will?”
“Yeah?”
“I have to go,” Nico says. “But if you want help, let me know.”
Will blinks slowly, like the word help is beyond his understanding. “Help?”
“You said you were short on staff, right? I don’t know that much about healing, but maybe I can...” he swallows down a tinge of fear before his courage runs out. “I could cut bandages or something. It’s not much, but if it helps at all, I don’t mind.”
The son of Apollo’s face lightens up, just a little. In the cloudy sun, Nico can see the deep grooves beneath his eyes, and the utter fatigue underneath the misty pane of his irises. “You know you don’t have to if you don’t want to-”
“I want to.”
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay - um, just come in whenever you feel like it. There’s always something to do these days.”
Nico nods. They part ways then, Will heading back to the infirmary, Nico towards the Big House. He stays there for the rest of the day, meandering through his thoughts. He thinks about Bianca, bringing her to forefront for once, and lets himself cry like never before. His pillow is soaked and his bedsheets are mussed, but he feels...relieved, somewhat.
He imagines where he might’ve been if Percy hadn’t talked to him - running through nameless cities and streets, melting into shadow after shadow. Cold alleyways and weak oil drum fires; shoddy diners and fast food bathrooms. Bones that begged for a rest, and a heart that demanded he keep going until he iced over.
If he kept going, he wouldn’t have to think . If he was hungry and tired all the time, he wouldn’t waste time on sadness. He’d kept moving, but never onwards - a lways in circles.
In the Big House, underneath the blankets, warmth settling in him, he feels a tight spring uncoiling. All the sorrow that he’d kindled into resurrecting Bianca – but instead of trickling slowly, like water from a tap, it surges through him. The tears stream silently. Pain unfolds, a blooming, wretched flower of rippling thorns that tears through him.
Time slows. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting slanting shadows on the blank wall in front of him. His throat aches, and his tongue is dry. He trembles from a phantom chill that curls down his spine like a snake. Tomorrow he might repeat the process, wasting the day away in bed, feeling miserable.
But as he rises for a shower, breaths shaky, the despair washes away under the showerhead. He leaves the bathroom anew, and returns to bed. He remembers Bianca, and her final words to him; Percy asking him to stat. The chat he’d shared with Will in the infirmary, something sweet and short and unexpected, like finding a bit of candy in an old jean pocket.
How desperately he wants to stay under the covers, vulnerable and disconsolate. Tomorrow, though, he’ll push himself out of bed and face the sun, and he’ll keep doing it until it’s something to look forward to. There will be days when he can’t, and he won’t. But one day, he’ll get out of bed, look out the window, and smile.
For now, he clutches his pillow and drifts into a dreamless sleep. He isn’t healed, but it’s a start.