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Our Dancing Days
i.
You get your first good look at Nico di Angelo a little over three years ago.
He was this vibrant ball of energy which practically radiated off of him in blinding lights that could only either amuse you for a second or get under your skin. Just a short, scrawny little kid that asked way too many questions (and most of the time in inappropriate ways, occasions, and situations) to be deemed socially acceptable. And most of the time it’s pretty obvious he knows the answers to these but asks them anyway for the sake of asking.
When you break the news to him and his sister about them being part-god and perpetually in grave danger, they were both quiet for a while until Bianca di Angelo shrieks in disbelief and outrage while her brother’s eyes light up and says “Cool!”. Bianca thought that the manticore was terrifying; Nico only badgered them about how many attack points it has.
You eventually realize that your ADHD brain has somehow been registering all the information about Mythomagic the kid’s been spouting all this time and you’re mad at it because while it could have been absorbing all the facts and trivia’s about architecture that Annabeth has a penchant for ruthlessly gushing about that could have been extremely handy for future references,– cough – battles – cough – instead, it’s opted to clog up its tunnels of knowledge with how much damage the Master Bolt could do or how Ares has infinite health for the first three rounds. Although you don’t mention this to a certain blonde best friend of yours, lest you’d wish to get punched in the shoulder again.
The first time you’ve ever felt pity for the guy was when Bianca, in a way, left him in order to be one of Lady Artemis’ Hunters. You saw the complete unadulterated abandonment in his eyes, because hell, she was the only family he had (aside from immortal parents who are usually MIA), and she just left. Went away. Ran off. Departed. You could sympathize with the way he felt betrayed.
It didn’t last long, though. He then resumed being the little imp he was and continued to cause a ruckus around and about. And you let him, because he deserved the childhood that was soon about to be yanked from under his feet the moment he gets claimed and reality takes a hold of him and’ll force him into the real world: an incredibly mad plane that brings pain to a whole new level especially when you’re a demigod.
The day you finally decide to tag along a quest where you’re questionably not included in, he makes you promise to protect his sister. It was the first time ever in the whole length you’ve known him for (which was as long as a shoelace) that he’s shown deep affection for anything or anyone else that isn’t Mythomagic. And because you can never really say no, you do something really stupid and impetuous and you say “I promise” and then you left.
ii.
Your lungs feel crushed the moment you get back from your quest and you realize you have to tell Nico that his sister is dead, and as far as broken promises go, yours is a fucking trainwreck. But you do the right thing (and we all know that the right thing is often the most wrong), and the once energetic ball of enthusiasm and cheer the kid always possessed, well, now it’s morphed into a sphere of inextinguishable rage that came closer and closer as Nico throws the statuette of Hades away, declares his hatred for you, and as his eyes flicker with different shades of betrayal, anger, and loss; and it’s hurtling straight at you in three… two… one…
But the blow didn’t come. You blink twice, the air turns cold, and suddenly four skeleton warriors come out of nowhere, and you groan inwardly because this was so not the time to be trying to kill you; you’re in the middle of a grief/fury session damn it! But yet again, everything has moved too fast and you think it’s because of the fatigue, but dizziness sweeps over you and you think oh for goodness’ sake, how do I get both of us out of this one?
But by then the dizziness has subsided, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and the unmistakable sound of it splitting open rings through the entire field, taking the undead with them, and then you look at the kid before you. Nico di Angelo, the boy who only came up to your nose, the boy whose life revolved around Mythomagica, the very same boy who single-handedly defeated four skeletons in a heartbeat by somehow managing to tear the very ground apart and thwarted any plans of theirs of even touching a single hair on either one of your heads.
He was breathing real fast, and you realize so are you, but while you were looking at him in awe and astonishment, he looked down at himself in complete and utter terror. You open your mouth to say something, but before any sound could escape past your lips, Nico knits his eyebrows together, looks at you one last time, eyes filled with conflict, and completely books the hell out of there.
That was the last time you ever saw him in the same light again.
iii.
When you see him for the second time in your life, it came in the form of a mysterious Iris message. The fountain Poseidon gave to you as a gift last summer shone too bright in the stillness of the night and that mere disturbance woke you up.
You rub the sleep out of your eyes and stumble your way towards it, vaguely recalling that you were supposed to deposit a drachma, and the sight that greets you makes you stop dead in your tracks. Because there, clear as day, was Nico di Angelo, hunched over a pool of dark bubbling liquid and… fries? You shake your head. He was talking to a shimmering form – a ghost, you conclude. Your breath hitches when you catch wind of the words ‘Bianca’, ‘take’, and ‘back’. Realisation dawns on you – he was going to bring Bianca di Angelo back from the dead. And then they were talking about ‘a soul for a soul’ and you can’t help but to panic. After your fight with him, you can’t help but to fear the worst.
All too soon, your minutes were up and the vision was abruptly cut off as you scramble for another drachma, the rainbow shimmering into thin air.
Your heart beats a little faster, not quite sure of what to make of what you just saw. It had to be a sign from someone otherworldly, that was for sure. A guardian (you never know) or maybe even a god. Even the Stoll brothers draw the line at waking up at four am to prank anyone, so this had to be of bigger significance.
But what?
iv.
The amount of dust he has smeared on his face does not, in any way, cloud over the fact that you and everyone else were seeing Nico di Angelo in the flesh.
But still, you can’t believe that this was the same lively person you met a year ago. He’s gotten taller, about an inch and a half. His skin has lost some of its olive skin tone and now tottered between being pale and just a little bit dark. His eyebags had eyebags and there was no mistaking the new gauntness of his face. But, damn, his eyes. You always knew that they were dark, almost black, but it always had a spark in it. The same glint you and the kids from the Hermes cabin have; a mark of mischief. But now it was… well, it was almost empty. But it had a harsh kind of coldness to it that made you think that if you stared too long, you’d get frostbitten in a matter of minutes.
His clothes hung on his skinny frame and you can’t help but think if he’s been eating enough, if at all. Nico di Angelo’s transformation was like an arrow to the gut, and it had all – been – your – fault. You’ve failed to protect his only family and this, you bastard, this was the repercussions of your actions. Shame on you.
He doesn’t waste a second on verbally attacking you. The long-overdue sphere hits you in full-force and you have to resist the urge of dramatically stumbling back with each and every volley of malice thrown at you. It stings, quite a lot actually, but this was to not be compared to the pain you’ve brought upon the kid – not by a long shot.
Geryon had other plans, though. And you all end up getting tangled into his twisted web. But in the end you save the day (thanks, Hera; no, really) and manage to untangle the events of this afternoon.
Not once has Nico stopped giving you the evil eye. But at this point, with rocks in your hair and the lingering sting of salt in your eyes, reeking of cannibal horse manure to boot, you don’t really care. So you somehow coax the (officially) son of Hades into contacting Bianca one last time, and this instant, his efforts bear fruit.
It works – hurrah! – but obviously not in the way Nico wanted it to. Bianca ends up telling him about how he shouldn’t be angry and hold grudges against you anymore – which kind of looked like it infuriated him further – and stuff about fatal flaws about children of Hades. You find out that she’s the one who sent those Iris messages to you. Okay, you think, this is turning out better than expected. But then the name Kronos was mentioned, and even in the sweltering heat of the Triple G Ranch, a sense of coldness and foreboding washes over everyone. In a split second, Bianca’s image disappears.
Nico stayed back while you and your other friends still had to save Manhattan. He’s avoided your eyes the whole time and you pretend that this doesn’t put you off. Honestly, it’s not like a two-minute conversation with his dead sister’s spirit could magically heal the rift between you two, could it? You’ve got your hopes too high up and now it’s come crashing down like a Build-a-Block castle. Nevertheless, you go back into the labyrinth.
You can’t help but cast a last glance back to the dark-haired demigod as you move to descend, thinking about how you let him have his fun because he was in for a crappy life then proceeded to go off and being the catalyst for said life.
You’ve never felt more sorry.
v.
The second time you meet him in the maze, the first thing that crosses your mind is: You stupid goddamn moron, what have you done.
Minos, the ghost that’s supposedly Nico’s “advisor”, turns out to be a big baddie and causes a skirmish. He tricked Nico into going back into the maze to save you, of all people, and subsequently entraps him between two dracanae of Kronos’ army. You and the guys arrive just in time.
The usual battle protocol commences, and you did a pretty good job in rescuing Nico, but really, it was the boy in question himself who ended the whole thing with a bang. He stands up, looking sturdy and completely comfortable in his skin, and you know how completely confident and powerful he feels because you see it in his eyes (you’ve stared at it for more than a minute and nope, still no blue body parts), the spark was back, but it was a different kind. One that was lit ablaze by the drive to win and defend, and you think you’ve never been so fascinated your whole life.
He walks up to Minos, everything about him screamed death but that was understandable. They exchanged spiteful words, but the closing stages happens when the son of Hades completely loses it, raising his fear-inducing Stygian iron sword, and growls out in this real impressive voice, saying “No,” his voice reverberated around Daedalus’ workshop, “I’m the Ghost King!” and his blade came swooping down, fissures popping out like daises, and down Minos went.
vi.
His show of extreme power came in two parts.
When you all meet Luke as the embodiment of Kronos, things get out of hand, and in a desperate attempt to save everyone, he conjured a solid wall of black something – a double-edged move. It did you good and prevented Kronos from following you back into the labyrinth, but he’s also revealed that he was a son of Hades, another child of the Big Three that may or may not be the child of the prophecy. Oh lordy. You get away, though. Kronos getting conked in the head with a plastic comb was just a bonus, really.
Part two happened in the battle at Camp Half-Blood. He took part in the battle and successfully deterred some rogue dracanae from reaching the cabin of the gods and summoned a whole legion of undead warriors to join in the fight. The amount of effort he’s put in nearly kills him, and his clothes are smoking by the end of it all. You pray to the gods that the nectar could fix him up.
You don’t know if he’s still even awake, but as he mutters “With great power,” he yawns, “comes with great need to… take a nap.” You smile to yourself. He has his head rested on your shoulders, snoring a little, and in that moment you know that the rift you’ve both had has slightly shifted back together, however small the change. But it’s still there and you’re glad.
He makes a smart choice to let Bianca go, and you feel kind of proud. But he summons her spirit one last time, to say goodbye. He tells you that he doesn’t belong here and never has. Naturally, you disagree. He opposes to your opinion just as fast. He says he was leaving, and you know you really can’t do much about it, so you give him the statue of Hades he threw away last summer and you swear to the gods a ghost of a smile graced his lips before he himself melted into the shadows altogether.
vii.
On your fourteenth birthday, Nico di Angelo visits the fire escape of your apartment.
He’s done it, he says. He’s found a way to beat Luke. But the way his eyes looked at the slice of blue birthday cake in your hands almost wistfully makes you shove all thoughts about the upcoming war for a while and invite him in (you really had to teach the kid how to use doors), calling out to your mom to grab another plate of cake.
viii.
“The only way to achieve invincibility is to have you bathe in the River Styx.” No, that isn’t exactly what he said, but your too-shocked brain barely had time to process the first part of Nico’s sentence before devouring any other information.
Bathe in the River Styx. Holy Hephaestus, was he insane? Why would anyone willingly do that? “Achilles was dipped in those waters by his own mother,” Nico pointed out. “Y-yeah, I know but,” you hesitate, “What the Hades, man?” you look at him incredulously. His cheeks fill with colour and he looks away, fiddling with the hem of his omnipresent aviator jacket.
You learn that he favors this article of clothing because it probably added character to his presence. Because without it, you figure, without that trademark jacket all he thinks he’ll ever be is Nico di Angelo: son of Hades, god of the Underworld; notorious zombie-summoning freak and outcast; dubbed as ‘corpsebreath’. You share the same distaste of his reputation that people have built for him without his consent.
“I-it’s just a theory, o-okay?” He stammers. “I mean, no ordinary demigod could host someone as powerful as the King of the Titans and not spontaneously combust,” he explains. This gets you thinking. He has a point, you realize. In fact he had this whole thing mapped out with your name on them in all caps. It was crazy how much thought this boy put into this whole plan of his.
You and Nico have been discussing this issue since the crack of dawn when he woke you up with an urgent flourish to his actions. His slinking movements distinctly reminded you of batman and you almost laugh. Almost. You both arrived at a clearing and sat down on the grass.
And you talk.
“So… how do you suppose I go on about this whole thing?” You ask. He looks at his feet for a moment before letting a breath escape past his lips.
“You’re going to have to come with me to the underworld,” he says, “I’m sorry but it’s the only way to get to the Styx.” And you believe that he really is sorry because you understand him more than he thinks.
Children of the Big Three usually have heavier loads to bear since they’re a bigger target and monster-magnet than any other half-bloods. But unfortunately it’s practically in their Big-Three blood (not really, the gods don’t bleed red or particularly have DNA now, do they?) and nature that makes it inevitable for them to feel responsible for a lot of things; like say, saving the world from evil primordial forces while trying to gather a similar army of your own. Also, they tend to have a bigger hero complex than most.
You are a prime example.
You’re well aware of your hamartia and the fact that your loyalty would lead you to your demise. Oddly enough, you aren’t scared of this. Because if you were to go down (half-bloods don’t really live long lives anyway), you would prefer going down fighting for what and who you love. They say that death is but another great adventure, and you could only hope Elysium would be your next stop.
“Hey,” Nico’s voice cuts your musings short. “Don’t think like that.” You look at him, eyebrows slightly quirked up. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve already planned your own funeral.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’m a son of Hades and I’ve known you for a few years now, and if there’s two things I’m highly familiar with, it’s death and the many expressions of Percy Jackson.”
He has this slight – almost nostalgic – melancholy half-smile playing on his lips. He stares at a fixed point beyond the cluster of trees and you realize this is the most at peace you have ever seen him.
He says your name like prayer – quiet, solemn, and brimming with indiscernible emotion. You don’t know if it’s always been like this, or if it’s something new, but it’s definitely something different. Gone were the days when you feared that he was out plotting your death for what you did to Bianca, or rather what you failed to do, and in its place a burgeoning bond has formed. Or so you hope. But all doubts aside, you appreciate the change plenty. On good days – which were short in numbers – you could even make him crack a smile and that in itself is a miracle. You find yourself making a point to make a daily goal out of coaxing another expression from the boy’s face that isn’t filled with worry, anger, or frustration. You start thinking of it as a game.
You look at him and grin, “That’s not very fair,” you say, “It seems like you know all about me, yet I don’t know the first thing about the inner-machines of the notorious Nico di Angelo.”
Nico regards you through his fringe, eyes narrowed, and mumbles, “And that’s how it should always stay.”
ix.
You’re not very sure of a plausible reason at the moment, but you feel like your soul’s been severed in half the moment you realize Nico fucking di Angelo has, after all, betrayed you.
At first, you were confused, because meeting your uncle was so not part of the plan, and then the truth hits you like a thousand-ton boulder, and it aches, it really does, because when you look at this boy, this traitor in front of you, you don’t see him as a traitor, not at all, and it frustrates you to no end because all you feel is helplessness and tiredness soaking your bones, and okay, maybe you don’t feel as furious as you should be, but that’s the thing – you should be. You let yourself be betrayed once more by one who you call a friend and you can’t believe you’ve let even the faintest of trust brush the son of Hades when he did not, did not, did not, evidently deserve it. You’re angry but not really. You’re hopeless but you’re not. You’re tired but only halfway there.
You’re too hurt to think straight.
x.
Oddly enough, being left to rot in a 5x5 cell isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever gone through. It’s an extremely close second, though. Like a .01 point away kind of close.
Having a sense of claustrophobia and counting each breath away until you run out of oxygen isn’t exactly what you’d rather be doing in your past time.
There is a monster attacking Manhattan and an army of meanies charging through my home, you think, as you watch a skeleton lizard scamper across the narrow walls. And I, Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, god of the Sea, slayer of Medusa, am lying in a dark and dank underground cell because I was too stupid and gullible.
After the initial shock of di Angelo’s actions, you’ve cleared the cobwebs away and raw resentment replaced the preliminary fuzz. You think of how he went back on his words and offered you like a pig for slaughter. You think of how many possible false instances he’s been spending with you and how many you’ve believed. Your mind is whirring, too many thoughts spinning inside your head. And there are flashes of faces, sceneries, and it changes every millisecond, and your negativity grows every millisecond, and you think you’re almost to the brink of feeling pure, unadulterated hate, and you’re almost there, just a few lunges shy away and you mull the word over and let it roll off your tongue – hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. Until you start hating the word and –
You absolutely hate the fact that you can’t hate Nico di Angelo.
xi.
It is one thing to ask for an angel and another to actually receive one a la a huge slap in the face.
In Italian, ‘angelo’ meant ‘angel’ but it felt like you were staring at the face of the devil himself (or at least, the spawn of the devil) when a certain turncoat demigod decides to break you out from your prison.
A scuffle ensues.
Those don’t end well for two children of the Big Three.
You’ve got him underneath you with your arm against his throat and everything starts burning. You make sure his sword is out of his reach and you feel rage coursing through your veins, only momentarily satiated every time he whimpers and chokes. You’re blind with anger but when he says your name in that same breathy voice, like a prayer, you remember who you are.
Your name is Percy Jackson and you were never really one to strangle people you don’t hate.
xii.
A black chariot emerges from the thicket of monsters and allies, making everyone part like the Red Sea.
Hope is an awesome feeling.
The chariot surges forward, a battalion of undead warriors slicing through any enemies who dare cross them. Hades stood proudly in the center, his Helm of Darkness making the bravest of Cyclops shriek, and there, in his right, was Nico di Angelo, glowing with an air of power and glee around him.
You see him, and you think he is wonderful.
xiii.
“Why’d you turn down immortality?” Nico asks you one day.
It’s been months since the Titan War and you’re still caught up in the fact that peace has been restored around here. After months of hard work in building the other cabins and mass dispatching of satyrs around New York and later, other parts of America, the camp has been bursting with activity once again.
A proper burial was held for all the fallen campers and it was then that the camp fire burned black. But as time passed, wounds healed and if you happen to pay a glance at the camp’s hearth, it blazed at three and a half feet tall and glowed a bright orange.
It’s been quite a while since everyone’s been this at ease.
You look at your companion and grin, a complete toothy grin that was, you think, way too big for your face but you don’t care because it’s been too long since you’ve felt this good.
The blatant show of his struggle to reciprocate that grin made yours even wider, if that was even possible. Because he was Nico di Angelo and he probably only ever smiles once every other day (it’s still a game you play, although he doesn’t know that), and you’re Percy Jackson and you never really take anything too seriously. War with the titans? Psshh, bring it on. Immortal beings conversing about whether or not to end your measly mortal life? Ri-i-i-ight, like they could really slay the hero of Olympus. Going to lengths in order to make a certain son of Hades’ lips quirk up, though? Now that’s a conundrum.
“What, no hello?” You jest. He gives you a dry look and flicks some water in your face, which really didn’t do him any good. Being a son of the sea god tends to make you fond of water. You’ve been lounging at the beach for quite a while now, alone. But now you have him with you and some company generally makes everything better.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So why’d you give up immortality?”
You laugh at him, which makes him squirm.
“Your tactlessness is astounding, mister di Angelo.” He ends up sputtering and you laugh even more, and you start to think that this whole ‘happy thing’ is going overboard and it’s not really because of the end of the war or a comforting presence that’s causing this, but more of you going insane so you sober up a little. Just a bit. Still a tad too bubbly.
Nico glares at you but you know he’s not taking anything to heart. “I’m serious, Jackson,” he says, “Giving up the one and only chance you can ever be presented on a silver platter of being an immortal god? Unheard of,” he scoffs.
You can’t help but to let out a chuckle. “Well,” you start, scratching the back of your head. “At first, I thought it was because of Annabeth.” He visibly stiffens. You don’t press on this. (You’ve heard the rumors, alright.) “But then whenever I see her with Will Solace, I don’t know, I just don’t feel as hurt as I’m supposed to, you know?
“So I figured that yeah, we had our more intimate instances, but maybe it was just a spur of the moment or maybe just a war-born thing, and the fact that all we had was, I don’t know, us, kind of made ‘us’ grow closer and distorted our perceptions of what we actually were to each other – best friends. And that’s all we’ll probably ever be.”
Saying it aloud made it sound more certain to your ears, like you’ve made up your mind already. But it’s not like you’re just blowing this whole ‘possible-turned-not-really romance’ thing off flippantly, no. Just – you’ve come to face the facts and you find yourself completely okay with the idea of you and Annabeth being just friends and occasionally witnessing Will macking on her. Well, not completely, because it was more of like how older brothers have that special instinct to pull a gun on every boy that tries to make a move on their female familial counterpart.
“That brings us back to the real reason why you decided being an expendable mortal is better,” Nico points out. You smile at his impatience and say, “Right. It’s probably because I like being ‘an expendable mortal.’” You put up your hands to quote his previous words. “Insane, I know. But it’s not like I can take on that big of a responsibility, minor god or not,” you explain. “I mean, I could barely take care of my pet goldfish – wipe that smirk off your face, di Angelo, I know how ironic it is, just don’t – well fine be that way.
“Anyway,” you stress the word out while narrowing your eyes at one son of Hades. “Where was I? Oh, dying goldfishes, right – shut the hell up. Moving on, I think that being a god isn’t all what it’s cut out to be. Like, yeah cool, you don’t die – “
“Unlike goldfishes in the care of Percy Jackson,” he cuts you off and you gape at him.
“I said shut up. Do you not want me to answer your question?”
“Shutting up.”
“Better. So you don’t die and you get super-awesome powers and such but it… it ultimately ends up as just another job you have to take on. Like being a waiter in a crappy restaurant or a pool cleaner. Maybe a barista in the local Starbucks, if you’re lucky. You may or may not like it, but it’s what you do. It’s what you live with. But with mortal jobs you can always decide that one day you’re fed up and just up’n walk away. God-sized tasks are lifelong and binding.
“Even though we think that the gods have more leeway than us since we’re more prone to dying any second and they could just squish monsters in their true godly form, and they like to party and just sire more demigods, it’s probably just a distraction from their true duties. Like even though Aphrodite has a penchant for travelling and spraying her own personal bottle of Romance in the air, she still has this whole global chessboard relationship thing to map out carefully; or how Poseidon likes to stroll around beaches in fisherman disguise and even mix in with the locals, at the end of the day he has to return to the sea and run a whole kingdom. It sounds glamorous, but it’s just not, okay? Did that make sense?”
You turn to Nico and he looks at you with a strange expression and you’re not very sure if he got all that or if it sounded really stupid to his ears. But hey, you tried.
“Well that was profound,” he deadpans.
“What would you do if given the chance?” You ask. He frowns and looks down at the sand as he considers this question, weighing in pros and cons because that’s what he does, always thinking rationally (with exceptions in impromptu enemy infiltrations in camp wherein he just wields his sword and ploughs through everything in his path, which is a pretty scary sight). You’ve always wanted to be that kind of person, the one who turns over all options and analyses, calculates. You console yourself with just saying “You can’t always get what you want” because you know your brain was never hardwired for any of those things and it’s all about winging it. It’s one of those characters Nico has that you can’t help but envy.
“I would take it in a heartbeat,” he suddenly says. “There’s nothing really here for me, to be honest. A kid who’s not even from this century and a child of death? Outcast. No question about it.”
“Nico, that’s not true,” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you form a single word and cuts you off abruptly. “Oh don’t give me that, we all know it’s spot on. I’m a walking hazard and everyone knows it,” he says. “At least if I were a god people would be scared of me in a way that they actually hold an ounce of respect for me.”
He does not say this spitefully. Rather, with an interesting air of mixed finality and dejection. You try to catch his eye, to see a glimpse of emotion that you could only ever spot by doing so. His face is a lovely mask, nothing but a cold, hard, impenetrable veneer, but his eyes are fragile like the strings of faith and you’re careful to not turn away for a second and let it snap.
One look at his oil-slick orbs and you know it’s about time you shut up. So you do. And you see the gratefulness projected by your companion by the way his shoulders slumped in an i-am-so-done-with-this way, but you don’t let him get away scot-free (when do you ever do?) and you lay a hand on his shoulder – he tenses – for just a fraction of a minute and slide it back down to the sand.
It is silent for awhile.
And then –
“What’s a Starbucks?”
xiv.
There are too many blanks in your memory for you to even properly comprehend the torrent of emotions surging through your very being the moment you lay eyes on a somehow familiar dark-haired boy. His says his name was Nico, and you say yours was Percy (Lupa says so). He says “I know” and almost immediately flushes after. You ask him how he knows this, and then he disappears. Just – like – that. You wonder if it’s another demigod aspect to melt into the shadows like how you have power over water.
Hazel says that it was a son of Neptune thing, and explains that Nico’s ‘shadow traveling’, as she calls it, is a son of Pluto attribute. You nod but the frown doesn’t leave your features, Who exactly is that kid? You wonder. You wonder a lot. It comes with the fact that you’ve lost all traces of memory since the past sixteen or so years.
But a powerful gut feeling tells you that you’ve already met Nico in between those years and that there’s a connection between him and your past life. You make a mental note to have a chat with him whenever you could catch him again.
You do the action of ‘catching him again’ while taking a walk in New Rome. With the initial plan of heading out to buy some brownies being stopped short by a lone figure wandering about close to the college dormitories, all thoughts of pastries were chucked out and was replaced by questions flying through your brain with the prime purpose of finding out who you are.
You break out into a run and catch him before he could enter a flower shop, clutching on to his left sleeve. His eyes widen in alarm and the hanging potted flowers and plants that hung precariously on the low chain-link fence drained of all their colour: whites, pinks, lilacs, and blues – all wilted and void of any pigment.
“Crap,” you whisper. “They’re not going to like that.” And then you figure: hey, if he can flush the water out of these poor guys because it’s his thing, then you could reverse the effect, right?
It took a while for you to get a hold of your full powers in the last few days, but you finally get the hang of it. Surprisingly, just like how it’s second nature to Nico to raise anything that once held and was part of life, you too had power over water even in the very depths of the earth.
With a single flick of your wrist and the usual tugging in the gut, the whole array of plants gradually spring back into life, their petals blossoming and the sweet scent of various flora wafted in the air. You smile.
“Lookie here, di Angelo,” you whistle. “I brought it back to life.”
You look at Nico, feeling scrutinized under the nonplussed gaze of his. “Technically, you just brought water back to their systems and consequently rejuvenated them,” he says.” In fact, they’re already dying again.”
True to his words, when you look back at the small aerial garden, its leaves and petals were already in the process of curling into themselves again and the fragrance has left the atmosphere.
“Oh,” you whisper. “I thought, well, I thought I – I could –“
“Give it back its life?” Nico scoffs. “Sorry Jackson, but death is irreversible.”
“I – Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
It is quiet for a while, then you hear a sigh and the son of Hades regards you with a scowl etched on his face. “What did you want?” He asks. And then suddenly you have absolutely no idea how to get it out there.
‘Hey, so I kind of had all the memories of the past sixteen or so years completely wiped out – don’t ask how – and dude I think you were in that past or something, I don’t even know. So if maybe you could sit down for a chat and talk about who I actually am that would be just dandy.’ ? That’d be one conversation starter. Who even uses “dandy” anymore?
“I just wanted to ask you how we know – knew – each other,” you say. When he doesn’t respond, you continue, “Look, I legit just woke up in the Wolf House a little over a few months ago with absolutely no recollection of how or why I got there, plus there’s this whole being graecus and the should-always-be-avoided son of the notorious Neptune thrown in the mix, and you –“ your eyes travel from the ground to meet his. “You’re the only one who could possibly make any sense of that.”
He stares at you like he’s never seen you before – which he has, you’re certain. He stares at you with this deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression and his hands are fidgeting amongst themselves and you think:
Got you.
“Please don’t pretend that it’s not true.”
And then in that moment you know you’ve pushed your luck too far, because his face contorts into an angry kind of flustered expression, and you reach out to keep him tangible because he’s become too predictable now (shadow traveling is the ultimate ticket out of anywhere, you learn), but he’s either too fast or you’re too slow, because then the smell of sulfur permeates in the air and when you look at the spot where the dark-haired demigod once stood, it is now an empty space clouded a little with minuscule dust twisters left in residue.
xv.
“You could have told me something – anything – about my life.”
“I could have. But Juno had a plan in mind and I couldn’t interfere with that.”
“I know. It’s just – I feel like I’ve been betrayed, you know? For the second time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that, too.”
“Are you okay?” Are we okay?
“You know, I never really knew why, but I could never actually hate you.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“I’m not very sure myself.”
“Well it’s got to be, as long as we’re okay.”
“I … yeah. Yeah, we are.”
xvi.
After months of his disappearance, you see him in a dream and the panic has never been so substantial. There were three marks on the curved walls of a large… vase? Jar? And pomegranate seeds on the floor. He looked like one of the skeletons he would summon in battle and it frightened you out of your mind how helpless you are in this moment, there, but not there, in a state of indissoluble intangibility. Like how he was in a state of a death trance, as Hazel explained.
You and her worry over him, often times staring into space as the rest of the Seven thought of a game plan. Mostly you just ponder.
Nico was a lot of things, you realize. He was the Ghost King, a son of Hades, Ambassador of Pluto, Cabin 13 counselor (and only inhabitant), and whole other more the-gods-know-what titles, including a swordmanship level that threatened to overthrow both you and Jason at times, what with his impressive skill, being a protégé of many a fallen legends he took lessons from.
But most importantly he is a friend; a brother; a bane to his enemies; and a blessing to all.
Nico does not know this, you are certain. That is why he constantly runs away and puts an unhealthy amount of self-deprecation into practice. That is why he does not believe in people, and why his faith in them are damaged (can you spell yourfault). And that is why he believes himself to be unloved and unappreciated.
That is why he went on his own to find the Doors himself without anyone’s knowledge nor input, and all but neglected the ramification of his actions on his own health and, loathe you are to say, his sanity.
He’s wrong, in any case, and you swear on the River Styx that you would make it a life’s goal to make him think otherwise; when you find him (because you will). In time, Nico will know.
. . .
He is safe.
He’s a bag of bones and his eyes are completely broken, but he is here, he is breathing, he is alive, he is with you, and he is safe.
And that’s all that mattered, really.
. . .
“You can stop thinking of me as a little brother now, you know.”
“Heh. That stopped happening the moment you declared yourself the Ghost King, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. ‘Scared me shitless man.”
“Oh gods, haha… well, I – thanks then. For not thinking of me as a kid.”
“No problem, man. It’s hard to do so, anyways.”
“I suppose.”
“Can I think of you as something else, then?”
“Like what?”
A smile.
“Nothing, Neeks.”
“No, I want to know. You can’t just mention something and expect me to not privy, Jackson.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little mind over it and go get some sleep. You just got out of a jar, gods.”
“Percy!”
. . .
You make him promise to lead the others to Epirus and close the Doors of Death from the other side but when he makes you promise to come back alive, you can’t look him in the eye. The first time he’s ever made you vow to protect his sister, you came home without her, grave news to say, and only a stupid Hades figurine to offer.
You don’t know what to do this time when he asks you to protect yourself. So you shoot him one last withering smile, clutching Annabeth in your right, and plunge into the darkness; down, down, down, down, down to the very pit of the seemingly eternal abyss.
xvii.
You and she could have been falling for ten days and you wouldnt’ve known. How long has it been? A few hours? Five? A day? Two?
Annabeth is holding on to you for dear life and sobs are racking her body, muttering ‘Will’ every minute or so. Will Solace would miss her dearly, you think. Her father, stepmom, siblings, and Athena, too. In fact everyone would miss her. The demigods in the Argo II and Coach Hedge; all the kids from every cabin (even Clarisse, whom she’s formed an odd but pleasant bond with over the course of your disappearance); her classmates and friends and teachers back in her private school; them, and every person who was lucky enough to have even been brushed even the slightest by the winds of Annabeth Chase. She’s a star like that.
You wonder who would miss you. Sally would be distraught, and Poseidon will be sad, yes, but he can sire another hero. Someone better. Someone who won’t make as many failures and isn’t as flawed. Would your friends miss you, both in the ship and camp? Or would they be disappointed? Would they be angry that you have failed them royally?
The unfairness of the situation hits you full force that you almost loosen your grip on your best friend.
The fate of the whole world rests upon the shoulders of seven ADHD kids who are only recently honing and reaching their full powers and still have yet to learn so much. Who’s to say they won’t die? In fact, their whole lives have been filled with too many instances of them thisclose to dying, and threats from all around are persistently looming over their young heads and that was just so – not – fair.
Demigods were born to be the pawns of gods and those lucky enough to be granted immortality get to be their own personal playthings. It angers you that no one expects to live longer past eighteen – twenty, if they’re very lucky. They owe a long-ass prayer to Fortuna for that one. In fact they are expected to owe the gods everything and you don’t see how that makes any sense when you have little to nothing to be thankful of.
You are born, you serve your purpose, you are allowed to find someone and romance them, but you will not live long enough to continue on with the life you deserve. Elysium seems like the only sweetest form of reprieve but that only happens when you’re dead and irretrievable. And then people forget you.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve saved the world over and over and over again because in the end you’ll reach your limit, and you will die, and people will eventually forget you. Every sacrifice you’ve done – buried under the sands of the past mixed with the pebbles of the present and the sanguine soils of the future. Suddenly every good deed you’ve done for the people around you get taken for granted.
They will not know a Percy Jackson and they will not care. They are safe and sound in their homes, but you are already six-feet under by then. Or in the belly of a monster. Who knows.
They will not know the real heroes – the Annabeth’s, Jason’s, Reyna’s, Nico’s, Leo’s, Hazel’s, Frank’s, and Piper’s of the world. The heroes who could only hope that the reward for saving the world was a chance to live in it.
The heroes who were brief, meandering, little stories that have lived and lost and loved and will be a thing of the past – along with the bones of dinosaurs, stardust, and the clumps of matter that have ceased to exist long, long ago.
All of the heroes who had their futures taken away from them by the cruel fates and have ended their time and froze over their clocks.
Tick-tock.
How long have you two been falling again? Time… it doesn’t really exist. Clocks exist. Clocks tell you when it is time to have supper; when it is time to go to sleep; or when to expect the arrival of a relative.
Time is meaningless, but it is but another great force out to get you. Time is the enemy, for you and your friends are running out of it. A few days left to close the doors and prevent Gaea’s awakening.
A few days.
Days.
Tick-tock.
An average person can function without food for a few weeks or so. And then illness strikes.
Average. You’re not average, and neither is she. Half-god, that’s what you both are. Does that mean you’ll both hold out longer?
Tick-tock.
Water, on the other hand, is a different story. You can only last three days without water. Especially you. Water is a part of you. You can’t support Annabeth if you can’t figure out what to do soon. How long will this fall take? Three days without water.
Tick-tock.
Rule of Threes. Three minutes without oxygen, three days without water and three weeks without food.
Time is only one among the army of your greatest foes.
Tick-tock.
xviii.
You and Annabeth finally see the light and everyone was there to greet you (in a way), and happiness washes over you at the sight of your friends before you, however beat up and bloody.
Hazel, looking worked up with bits of dirt stuck to her curly hair, has reigned over the giant Clytius and the sorceress Pasiphae.
The doors of Death are closed.
For a second you are all allowed to believe that all was well.
(It is not.)
xix.
“What’s next?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Doors have been sealed shut, two of our biggest threats are down, and we’re just on this ship. I know this is part of the progress but I feel like we should all be, I don’t know, doing something.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Jackson, some peace and quiet never hurt anyone.”
“Not quite, di Angelo, have you not learned from all the times we’ve been lulled into a false sense of security?”
“This ship is secure.”
“Whatever floats your boat, but don’t say I didn’t warn you if we get another Shrimpzilla attack.”
“Don’t be silly, I – wha – did you just blow a raspberry at me?”
“Mngrffrngrff.”
“What is wrong with you.”
“I have anxiety! I’m just – I don’t know, worried all the time, and I feel like any second now someone’s going to die or get attacked and I don’t want that to happen, not at all, but the fates are predisposed to fuck shit up anyways, so I feel like I better be ready. And you, you’ll be going off and facing the Roman legionnaires and if shadow travelling several people already drains the energy out of you, I don’t know how you’ll be able to handle a 40-foot Parthenon, this is all just so fucked up, maybe I should go with you –“
“Are you an idiot?”
“Annabeth says so.”
“Seaweed Brain.”
“Hey! Only she gets to use that. Just make something else up for me, then!”
“Like, a pet name?”
“Not ‘like’ a pet name. Or if you want to put it kindly, a term of endearment.”
“Hn. How about Stupid.”
“How about no.”
“Kelp shorts?”
“What the hell.”
“You’re right, too simple. Surfer dude?”
“Be original.”
“Oh I got it! Aquaman!”
“That’s- that’s actually pretty nice. That hero from DC comics?”
“I think so, Frank told me about him anyway.”
“So now I finally get to call you Ghost Boy.”
“And I quote, ‘be original.’ “
“Skull Brain? Zombie Face? Spirit Skin? Bones?”
“I’m not choosing for you, Aquaman.”
“Well then I’ll just call you babe!”
“…”
“…”
“hgcrfncc.”
“Nico are you choking on something.”
xx.
The day Nico di Angelo confesses is the day the world was on its way to ending, and the two of you were on the ground with you on your back, and him clutching your bleeding form.
“You are such an idiot!” He exclaims, tearing a thick strip of fabric from his aviator jacket and wraps it around the grotesque gash on your forearm. “The damn attacks were supposed to be directed at me, moron! Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
It was impressive how he seemed to be shaking more badly than you, considering which roles you both play (him being perfectly peachy and you getting the life bled out), and his hands were covered with blood. You realize that it was yours.
“Had… to… return… a favour,” you croak out. Everything hurt.
A whole legion of Cyclops had ganged up on the son of Hades while everyone else was busy facing their own opponents. And although it was common knowledge that a certain kid of the underworld could off you with a single nick of his stygian iron, at that moment you couldn’t help but be alarmed. He looked so small compared to them and you felt intense panic of sorts bubbling in the pit of your stomach, and you just kind of, well, ran. You got there right in time, leaving Jason’s side, and just then, one particularly hefty Cyclops landed a blow to the son of Hades’ head.
You saw red.
Suddenly it was as if the curse of Achilles was bestowed upon you once more as the monsters had absolutely no chance against the fight you were putting up. Slash. Three forces of Gaea’s army burst into a pile of gold dust. Slice. Four more went down.
You are merciless and they are drawing closer to their demise.
Angling your sword for better aim, you grunt as more monsters come hurtling your way. Soon the gravel was laden with fine golden dust but like they say, nothing is really over until it’s over. A shout was heard, and you turn around a little too late, barely enough time to catch a glimpse of one particularly bold Cyclops moving towards you, its one red eye filled with ire and despair for his fallen brethren. And then one minute you were invincible, the next a mace was sticking out from your side.
Next thing you’re aware of is the blinding pain and the fact that there was a figure hovering above you.
“What favour?” He pleads. You try to say something but it comes out as a strangled choking kind of sound. Nico’s eyes widened in alarm. “Percy, stay with me. Someone from the Apollo cabin’ll arrive here in just a moment and you have to promise me you’ll do your best to stay conscious, okay?”
Your throat feels too dry so you only nod as an answer. “Okay,” he breathes out. “You’ll be fine.” You’re not very sure who he’s trying to convince.
“ ‘M’sorry,” it comes out as a barely-audible whisper. Spots are starting to dance in your vision and everything keeps fading in and out. Suddenly you don’t ache as much anymore. In fact, you’re starting to feel weightless and just a little bit dizzy. Well, maybe a lot dizzy. The world is spinning uncontrollably and the only fixed thing you could possibly focus on is the dark-haired boy before you, whispering all sorts of things that were possibly encouragement, but only fell to deaf ears. But even he – your only anchor to the world now – was starting to become a fuzzy memory.
You see flashes of white, and then faces. You hear voices of your beloved inside your head saying simple things like: “Watch your step”;”Get some rest”;”You did great”;”Just do your best”;”We’re here for you”;”Seaweed Brain”;”I’ll be waiting for you”; and something that sounded suspiciously like “enchilada!” and a quick “iloveyou”, which sounded the most real of all.
Then after a beat you realize that it was. Nico, the boy who gave his all to protect the camp and you (you never deserved any of it, really), the boy who has only ever wanted to know who he was (just like you, Amnesia Guy), the boy who was once someone completely different (that ray of sunshine you snuffed out), was sitting before you, fat tears rolling down his pale cheeks, telling you that he loved you, the catalyst for his own destruction. It was surreal.
“You can’t just leave, okay? I went through so much, you little shit, so much to finally get around to accepting myself and wrapping my mind around the fact that I was helplessly in love with you. You hear me? I’m in love with you. Always have and that is the cold, hard truth. I’m sorry, I really am, for having to make things much more complicated, since you ironically thought that I hated you and instead liked Annabeth, but I guess you know now.
“I – I, crap. Where’s Will? Hey Percy? Still with me buddy? Please stay awake. You can’t just leave like this, this is a pretty shitty way to die, you know. If we’re going to breathe our last, we’ll go out with a bang. That’s the only thing that will bring us justice, remember? Please remember. You won’t be dying on my watch.” He looked around nervously and absentmindedly started stroking your hair. His trembling hands were warm and that was the only thing that felt real in that moment.
You’re too overcome with the numbness and half-awareness of everything in general to completely register the confession, but you feel happy all of a sudden. Elated in a way a dying man should not be. With a bang, you thought. This felt like one. It was like one of those huge cannons they had in New Rome, its load striking you out of nowhere, knocking the breath out of you. And you probably wouldn’t have it any other way.
A pained smile makes its way to your split lips and for a solid minute the earth stopped whirling out of control. “Good-bye,” you say. Nico’s head snaps to you and the blatant agony on his face surprises you, because this boy never really was one to show emotion, let alone any of it barefaced. It was nice for a change, like it is something optimal for scrapbooking (which you don’t have time to squeeze in between monster fighting and saving the whole god damn world) and branded as one of the most Remarkable Days and – and quite probably your last.
He looks beautiful that way, you think, with the setting sun bathing him in their orange hues and defining all angles; shadows of his dark lashes casted just below his cheekbones making him look omniscient. You feel him grip you tighter and hear a distant shout – emanating from him or from the battle that continued to rage around, you’re not entirely sure. But you are sure of a few meandering things in the last few moments before you lose sense of reality, however: There is a beautiful boy wearing a familiar jacket holding you in their arms while there is blood everywhere and you are losing your every second. There is a beautiful boy with dark hair and dark eyes and he is telling you he loves you. There is a beautiful boy with the skull ring and haunted eyes – eyes which are crying – screaming your name and begging you to stay awake but you cannot, however hard you try, so you look up at this beautiful boy with the messed up past (one which you play a main role in) and you think, everyone deserves to go out with a bang. And this is mine.
And then you stop thinking altogether.
xxi.
Am I dead? You wonder, as you stare at the white-washed walls that surrounded the cavernous room you are in. It is silent, you note. Quiet enough to hear the distinct pounding of your own heart and that was how you knew that it’s still beating and no, you’re not dead.
‘Percy Jackson.’
A voice rang through the room and it was loud enough to hurt your ears. You turn your head to locate the source of the disembodied voice but see only the same enclosed white walls that felt a little too claustrophobic, however vast and echoing the path before you looks like.
“Where am I?” You demand, looking down at your hands and seeing the same tan ones, calloused from years of sword fighting . Suddenly, you hear footsteps – thunderous clicks that reverberated around the endless room. All of a sudden, it felt like the air was condensing and it was getting a little difficult to breathe. You feel the beat of your heart quicken as the ground rumbles beneath you and you are momentarily thrown off balance, the force so strong it causes you to fall on your feet.
You flip the too-long bangs out of your eyes and see a dark figure towering over you, and then, a grin.
“Aloha!”
He was a moustached man on the pudgy side sporting a full-blown Hawaiian-tourist-type theme clothes with the rainbow lei, Bermuda shorts, and orange floral flannel over a white wife-beater. The guy totally reminded you too much of Mr. D that you almost laugh. Almost.
“Need any help, bud?” He extends a hand for you to take but you opt to get up on your own. You absentmindedly brush away the nonexistent dirt from your tattered jeans, but when you look down at it, you realize that it wasn’t tattered at all. In fact, it was looking good as new, and even your soiled Camp Half-Blood shirt that was supposedly charred at random patches from wayward monster gunk (that could sometimes be acidic, unfortunately) was better than ever and even that rip it once had while you were having sword practice under the arms was sewed shut seamlessly.
The biggest bombshell was the fact that there wasn’t a single dab of blood on you, which was the last thing that washed over your reality before everything faded away.
“No thank you,” you say. “But can you please tell me where this is?” You ask Hawaiian dude. He looked like a summer-themed Santa Clause when he beams up at you with one golden tooth and spreads his arms wide abruptly, narrowly missing your chin.
“This,” he starts, “is whatever you want it to be, Mr. Jackson. Where do you think we are?” He looks at you, eyes shining like the summer sun. You frown, scratching the back of your head. “Limbo?” you try. He laughs at you jovially, his beer gut bouncing with every chuckle. “No, dear boy, although you are close. This is nowhere, but it is also everywhere.” Suddenly the room comes into paint like water colour, filling the walls with greens and blues and every shade you can think of. It came alive all at once and then everything is suddenly dynamic. From the glaring sun to the locals milling about; the birds to the trees, the sounds of the ocean coming into contact with the shore, and you could smell the faint wafting of sea breeze. Street performers are littering the cul-de-sacs as crowds and crowds gather before them and you could see the distinct flicker of a blazing fire from one particular circle.
You look around to try and allocate features to their land and find that it was a mix of different races, to your chagrin. Asians with their endearing eyes and alternating pale to tan skin are bargaining with the Europeans with their loud, exotic tongues and blue, green, and brown gazes. Egyptians with their colorful head-dresses are demonstrating some new product that looked like a lawn mower to the old kindly-looking Americans that are cooing at the contraption.
Music came from seemingly nowhere and it was in every genre and language, somehow finding an odd sort of harmony. Children ran across the streets and weaved through stalls, sometimes battering it in the process and their respective shop keepers later emerging out to tell them off.
There weren’t much infrastructures from what you could see, save for a handful of houses and the occasional convenience store and other basic lay ups. Overall it looked wonderful, and the scenery made you nostalgic for a place you’ve never been to before.
“Is this place real?” You ask without tearing your gaze away from it all. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s all up to how you perceive it.”
“Where in the world is this? It’s like people from every corner of the globe decided to build a life on the beach-side.” You hear a sigh from Hawaiian dude. “You ask a lot of questions, don’tcha kid? I don’t get paid enough for this… anyway I’m Aila’au, god of Fire and Light, and I shall be your tour guide for today.”
You look at him, puzzled, and say, “Tour guide? I – wait, what even is this?”
“Oh hush, it’ll all be over soon.” He dismisses your question with a blasé wave of his meaty hands. ”As you can see this is the island, yes it’s all lovely, look at all them beautiful people; if you look to your left you can see there’s a lot of sand and if you look to your right, oh hey! More sand! Moving on to the gift shops, follow me in a straight and orderly line, please.” Aila’au makes his way over to a tiny little shop wedged in between a surfing supply store and some kind of merchandise shop that had fire graphic tee’s and other mugs and keychains and the ilk with a picture of a burning camp fire on it. You figure it’s a trinket store in honor of the Fire god. He must favor this one.
When you both enter the middle shop, the smell of sea salt hits you and shell chandeliers bump against each other, creating a symphony of clicks. There is an exceptionally bored-looking girl with blue-tinted skin and wide-frame glasses poring over a magazine and is chewing her gum loudly. She looks up when she hears the store’s door chime sound and her eyes are the color of sea foam. Standing up, she says, “Aloha and welcome to The Luau, dear visitors, it seems that the kind tides have washed you away into our humble abode. My name is Walonika, how may I help you?” It would have been an extremely comical greeting, if not for the way Walonika said all of it in her monotonous voice. For someone with pigtails and bright clothing tones, she sure wasn’t… well, cheery.
“Walonika, dear, there’s no need to practice such high jinks with me, you know how much I hate it when you do that. Oh, Viktor should really get another shtick; his Hawaiian theme is too stereotypical, if not tacky.” Aila’au turns his nose up in distaste and eyes the counter, regarding the dancing dashboard hula girls with a steely gaze.
“His logic of theme rotation is per staff culture, so since I’m Hawaiian, everything’s Hawaiian.” Walonika sighs deeply and drops back down to her seat, flipping a glossy page in her magazine.
“Bah! What about that other Greek girl here, aye? That one with the same name variant as you –“
“Veronica?”
“Yes, her! The one who always carries a scroll around.”
“Oh, she’s on a leave. Said something about an emergency back home, I say it’s just an excuse to make me run this stupid thing all on my own while Viktor’s out going maid café hopping. It’s a good thing no one really comes here.” She shrugs, and with a wave of her hand, every bauble in the store swayed back and forth in an entrancing way and the store came alive with the tinkling sounds of shells clinking against each other, the smell of the sea growing stronger. A part in their conversation caught your ear and you stride over to the counter, accidentally knocking over one hula girl in a faux grass-skirt. “Did you just say Greek?” You look at her with wide-eyes, completely intrigued. She smirks and leans to the left, glancing at Aila’au.
“Who’s this dad?” Wait, dad? Which begs the question how a Fire god and a water nymph got involved without the other either evaporating or going out. But hey, who are you to judge?
“Percy Jackson, son of Lord Poseidon.” Aila’au doesn’t even look their way when he says this and instead was browsing the snow-globes with an abundance of glitter and miniature dolphin statuettes in it. “Mr. Jackson, Walonika, my daughter. Incidentally, she’s a sea nymph.”
You frown, “Sea nymph? You mean water nymph, right?” Walonika laughs, the kind of laugh that sets you on the edge and startles you just a little. “What do you think? Lord Poseidon doesn’t come around here as much as he used to.” She winks. “I like this one, he’s cute,” she says to no one in particular but certainly snags her father’s attention.
“Walonika,” he says warningly. She rolls her eyes and groans under her breath. “Dad, have you forgotten that I turned a hundred and twenty-three years old last month?” You discretely choke on your own spit, squinting at the girl before you. You don’t say anything though; the gods know you’ve heard stranger things.
“You can only date when you’re your sister’s age.”
“How can I do that when she’ll always be sixty years older than me.”
“Your sarcasm is appreciated, now go make nice with Mr. Jackson and do not engage in any fooling around.”
“Hmph.”
“Guys.” Your voice steels through their bickering and the nausea settles in like a bad burrito. Veronica, you think. She’s got to be a demigod. “Lord Aila’au.” You turn to him, fists clenched. “You mentioned something about a Greek girl here and your daughter said she went home for an emergency. That must be the war going on as we speak. And I really don’t know how or why I got here, and I honestly thought I was dead before but you have to understand, I can’t be here for long. My friends need me. Please, you have to tell me where we are!”
Walonika looks at Aila’au in distinct alarm, and you felt bad about your sudden outburst. These people haven’t really done anything worthy of voice-raising in any way. But the Fire god only regards you with a sympathetic gaze, saying, “I know, kid,” he sighs.
He then tells his daughter the sea nymph to tend to her other matters (which you highly doubt she has) while you and him are left in the middle of the store. Without her presence, the shop seemed to have receded into a dormant atmosphere, like the life has gone out of it. It didn’t smell like the sea anymore, a musky sort of scent that old attics usually have taking its place and the shell wind chimes stood completely still, not once even waving.
“Your father has long come into contact with us just a few years back, right after the Titan war, I think,” suddenly goes Aila’au. “And he talked to us, the Council who run this place, about the current state the mortal world is in, which wasn’t exactly the most pleasant thing we’ve heard in a long while. We were updated about all the dangers and the repercussions of all actions, and how it still wasn’t the end.
“That was also the time an abundance of cast-away’s have arrived here as well, they are people who inhabit the island. We call them ‘cast-away’s’ because they wash up at the shore or some other part of the island in probably whatever improved state they were in before they ended up here, but they do not remember anything about how they got here or who they are. We’ve tried asking a few of the newcomers about their personal affairs, but they simply just cannot supply any answers.”
“And they’re okay with this? Wait, but how-how is it that I remember?” He raises one bushy eyebrow and continues, “That’s what I’d like to know, too. Maybe because you’re a demigod, although we’ve had other half-blood cases here and they’re completely normal, or at least, the most normal you can get, being in a magic island. Or there’s your father, who was the one that campaigned for this whole island in the first place. But I have a feeling you don’t remember wholly, do you?” It only hits you that you actually don’t. You remember parts of it, the important stuff, perhaps. Like the war you and your friends have been worrying over for the past months, one you’ve been planning and risking your lives for. That you’re a demigod and a son of Poseidon. That you have supernatural powers and have a lot of friends and acquaintances with equally supernatural powers as well. Friends. Nico.
Whoa, you rub two fingers to your temple, what the shit. It was like getting a very brief migraine and an aneurysm all at once. There was that name, something imperative about it. Reminiscent of the name Sally, your mother, you’re pretty sure. Like, 97.2 percent sure. And then Annabeth and Grover and Tyson, and the flood of names just come charging in, piece of information after piece of information. They don’t hurt as much as remembering That One Name, even combined, but it’s all unsettling plenty.
“You okay, kid?” Aila’au asks, and you nod slightly. “Yeah, just – just go on. About the whole memories thing.” Something tells you that isn’t the first time you’ve had your memories wiped out. “So they’re alright with that, yeah?”
“Mr. Jackson, what you have to understand is that people find their way here for a reason. It may not be a conscious or voluntary reason, but this island was molded to existence to help heal the mortal soul. Like Elysium, we grant reprieve, but not permanently. This island is a safe haven for those who have been strained the most under the pressure of their past and present, and I mean that in whatever way you can think of. People who suffer from mental illnesses, abuse, et cetera, et cetera. These souls who can no longer hold out lest given pardon from the exceedingly nasty reality they are in. That’s what we are here for. Here, we give them a new life. Here, we let them breathe a little easier. Long enough to put them right back in the sane scale, so they don’t stay forever. Their souls must return again to their bodies which are all either in a deep state of sleep or comatose. Time travels faster here, a few hours in the mortal realm is already a week for us. It’s hard to think about, but I suppose it’s only fitting to make it as such: to savor the experience. But they don’t recall a single thing. Their forgetting is the one thing that ensures the discretion of this island.”
It takes you a minute to soak it all up, but soon enough, you understand. So that’s what Aila’au was talking about earlier, the thing about this place being nowhere and everywhere all at once: this was everyone’s whole world, or at least, everyone who was shipped off here to recover. It’s sad to think about the sheer amount of people in the island, which only said so much about how cold it actually is beyond this warm and safe dimension. You can’t help to feel shocked when you take in that you belong in this place now. “So… since I’m here, then, that means that I - ?”
Aila’au’s sympathetic gaze does not waver, but his eyes glow like embers from a stoked fire when he smiles. “I don’t know, kid. You tell me.”
xxii.
It is day three of your stay in Isla del Paraíso, as some of the more Latin American locals call it, and so far, the only thing productive you’ve done was successfully weaving a basket with a few old ladies, which isn’t something you’re particularly proud of. (Although they have already sent you another invite for tea and knitting lessons later.)
The island strongly reminds you of Ogygia, another land and water mass smack-down in the middle of nowhere in particular and somewhere in the universe. You wonder how the process of ‘leaving’ here goes. Is there another raft that would carry people safe to wherever they once were? Does a mystical force cater to these souls that are – what’s the word – ready to go back and face all their troubles again? Why do they even have to leave?
You look around and just kind of mull over the faces of these strangers around you. And you think that each and every one of them has a very elaborate story to tell and everyone, even the youngest of kids, came from somewhere perceptibly horrible and just not safe. That is why they are here. That’s why you’re here. But unlike them, you still know who you are and aware of the fact that you have to go back. You can’t just stay here and get pampered while your friends are out there with wounds that are deeper and much more tragic than yours still out there, alive and fighting and being useful. You’re probably in a bed somewhere, sleeping but looking half-dead. But you’re not, so you hang on to that little piece of hope that you’ll return in a little while. Aila’au did say that a couple of hours in the other side was already a week here, right? You still have time to, uh, recover.
“Psst!” Someone calls out. They hiss once more before you turn around and are immediately attacked by a mobile topiary plant. “What the hell,” was what you wanted to say, but since you got a mouthful of greens, it came out as “Wha-crghafghah!” It made sense enough.
“Shut up, Jackson!” The plant goes, and it takes you a second to look through the patch of leaves to see that a pair of eyes the colour of sea foam were staring right back at you. “We’re going undercover, so keep quiet!” A hand that looked distinctly blue shoots out from the side of the plant and grabs your wrist, dragging you down the street to nowhere in particular. Truth be told, you really couldn’t understand the logic of how a moving bush could attract less attention than just walking out in broad daylight, but whatever magic they were working, well, it was a good one because not once did anyone turn their heads or stop in their tracks to ogle at a boy and a plant, the former looking particularly harassed.
“Walonika?” You try. “Shhh,” she reprimands you, “they can’t know I’m out of the shop, my doppelganger can only hold out for an hour, we can’t waste a single second.” Doppelganger? “I thought the popular superstition is that doppelganger’s bring bad luck?” You stage whisper, if only to tick her off. But she doesn’t look annoyed, and instead just says, “Jackson nothing bad is ever allowed to happen here” under her breath and it effectively shut you up.
When you both arrive at a saloon (yes, a saloon, like one straight out of those Western cowboy movies; “this town ain’t big enough for duhtwo of’es!”), she kicks the semi-doors open and leaves the bush at the entry way, sighing. “Well, what are you waiting for?” She glares. “Go in!” So you step into the saloon feeling completely out of place with your orange shirt and jeans while every occupied table and bar stool before you was filled with individuals chattering with Texan lilts and wearing complete cowboy/girl ensembles. Walonika was dressed in a similar way, and you keep thinking about how she got those clothes.
“So, Percy,” she starts, taking a seat in one of the booths as you follow her example, sliding in the opposite chair. “Who are you?” You frown at her, not quite sure what to make of her words. “I …?” You trail off and she rolls her eyes. “Look, it’s not every day we get someone who has a sense of awareness here. Everyone you see here are kind of brain washed, but in the good kind of way. It’s a safe place, but their old memories are far out of touch.
“The problem is: yours are still intact. The only people around here who has theirs as well is the Council, a few volunteers who are usually veterans of the island – ex-visitors who’re given a blessing by dad to remember, or in very rare cases, minor gods and goddesses – and my sister and I. You’re neither part of the Council, an old face, a god, nor a sibling of ours, so tell me, Percy Jackson, who are you?”
You don’t like how her voice is too demanding, so you raise an eyebrow and say, “I don’t feel the need to tell you about my personal matters, thank you very much.” Which she didn’t take too well.
Walonika grumbles, looking very displeased. “Let me do this again – Aloha, I’m Walonika; daughter of Aila’au and I am a sea nymph, and no, we are of a different caliber of water nymphs. They’re our brethren and are extremely stuck-up and snobby, just because they usually inhabit fresh water and think they’re better than any of us,” her tone reminded you of Kelly the cheerleader empousai , which was another feat of your brain, recalling and all.
“Ugh, that one time when we took a family trip to an estuary, my cousins totally ignored us and pretended we were, like, invisible or something. So Walelia and I, my sis, were kind of just really OP the whole time while the adults tried to make nice but in the end it was the crappiest family reunion I’ve ever had. Of course dad wasn’t there, he’d burn out or evaporate the whole place anyway, but it would’ve been cool to rub it in their smug faces, like ‘My dad’s the Fire god, what does your dad do?’ and I swear to the gods I’ve never wanted to strangle anyone my whole life when Karana, a cousin of mine, brought out her clam compact and bragged about how it’s the latest make-up line H2O released, complete with Coral Gloss variants!”
Walonika rattled on and on about underwater fashion and women essentials industries, and you’d be surprised at how many puns these nymphs could make, but neither of you were getting anywhere with talks of Coral #3 lipstick (“With an authentic deep-sea shell hilt and cover from the Mariana Trenches!!!”)so you decide to cut her off –
“Look, that’s all very interesting, but we both know we have better things to do, sorry. And not to be rude or anything, I’m just really curious about how you’re corporeal when you’re essentially a naiad.”
She scowls at you and crosses her arms over her chest. “Hmph. Insensitivity check, Jackson, but for your information, I am actually made out of mist. But unlike the usual vapor, my molecules are closer together so a pretense of being solid is projected, and I can touch and handle things like normal people do. You can actually pass through me, but if you ever decide to do anything stupid like that, I’m charged with heat sensors so you will burn to your death.”
Gulp. “I thought nothing here can hurt the locals,” you mutter. She laughs, the same laugh that was a little honeyed, cloying, and a little bit chilling, her sea foam eyes sparkling like how the ocean glimmers under the high sun. It was unnerving, to say the least.
“No one here is stupid enough to try and walk through me, idiot. And, besides, that’s… that’s why I’m not really allowed out of the shop. Ohmygods, stop distracting me! Ugh.” She looks down at her watch and tsk’s. “I’ve only fifteen minutes till the other me completely dissipates, another neat mist trick, so you’ve got ten minutes to say something that is of significance. You owe me that much.” It was annoying because you actually did, even though you never asked her to spill about her own life.
You sigh. “Okay, I’m Percy Jackson and I’m a son of Poseidon. I don’t have siblings, but I have cousins who aren’t really related to me, just by title, and some of them constantly try to kill me. Although I’m not made of water vapor, I can control all sorts of liquids… so you better watch out –“ she glares at you, “ – I’m not sure myself why I can remember, and it’s not my fault I do, but with that knowledge, the only thing I know is that I really have to go home.
“I have a theory that the reason behind my still retaining information bit by bit is that I don’t belong here. No offense, this place is bomb as hell, but this isn’t where I’m supposed to be right now, all healthy looking and sitting in the middle of a saloon. I’m supposed to be out there fighting and trying to stop the demise of the world, including yours, so if you’ll excuse me I have to go and find a way to get out of here.” And with that you scramble out of your seat and walk away, ducking out of everyone’s gaze. But as you reach out to push open the half-doors of the saloon, a cold hand grabs your elbow and you turn around to see Walonika, a sanguine kind of expression on her face.
“You get better.”
“Excuse me?”
“A cast-away can only return when their souls are okay, that’s the rule and only known way. I still don’t know who you are, Percy Jackson, but I believe you. So you better get well again, and go save the world.”
You beam at her, and a kind of warmth trickles through you. She wasn’t so bad after all, you think.
“You bet your Coral Gloss ass I will.”
xxiii.
Day five and you’re still at a loss as to how the process of ‘healing’ works when you’re pretty sure you’re perfectly fine, if not for the fact that you were shipped off to Rehab Island.
You’ve tried meditating with a hippie who lives in a cabin near yours (you’re starting to wonder how rich Aila’au actually is since upon arrival everyone either gets their own place or apartment free of charge… depending on sanity scale, you speculate; others get penthouses) who goes by the name of Holly, which she says isn’t her real name, but everyone calls her that anyway because no one really knows who she is. She says that getting a fresh start (she believes that she’s recently moved from California) is a chance to reinvent yourself. So that’s what you do. And this is how your days go:
On Monday you visit the kind old ladies from last time and help them make sweaters or weave palm baskets and cups. You listen to them while they talk about their cats or dogs and what the current popular show was on Hermes TV is. When you go back to your cabin, you give your finished products to the kids who look especially bored (and we can’t have that, can we?), but take a select few back to serve as unique utensils.
On Tuesday you help out in one of the family restaurant the Council runs as a host and make small talk with those waiting in line. It makes you happy that it was possible to make someone’s day by just giving a simple compliment like, “That dress looks lovely on you, miss,” or smiling at those who look like they’re having a rough day (because you find out that the island only gives them as much possibilities of infinite bliss, the rest is up to them). And then sometimes you juggle cheap wine that was stocked down in the cellar and your heart brims with pride when children of families squeal in delight and chorus “Do it again!”
On Wednesday you visit Holly and tell her about Greek mythology, and in turn, she discusses about Egyptian mythology. The day ends with the two of you swapping various kinds of stories with her sneaking in a few meditation tips, those of which you try when you get home. (Calling it a home is dangerous, but it’s the only way to describe it as of now.)
On Thursday you promise Walonika to keep her entertained and crack jokes to pass time, and yes, you try not to cringe when she laughs because you can’t shake the chill up till now. And then you get a few beers with Aila’au and it’s worth the wait when he gets totally smashed and just sputters obscenities and complaints about the estuaries, much like her daughter tends to do, inebriated or not.
On Friday you go and swim at the beach, which was warm and the water looked too beautiful to be true. You felt the most at ease here, and sometimes you frolic with the dolphins and play hide and seek with sea horses (you never win). The fishes stare at you in awe and a few naiads invite you over for kelp tea (which you kindly refuse).
On Saturday you wonder how long until you’re okay again.
You miss them, your friends. An awful lot. You miss the rush of adrenaline you get from battling with monsters, and you miss Annabeth and her architecture facts; Sally and her blue cuisine; Grover with his magic reeds; the rest of the Seven and how you’ve found a family and a home in each other. And then there’s Nico, and you miss him just as much. If not, just a bit more.
You miss his rare smiles and the smell of his cracked trademark aviator jacket and usual black ensemble. You miss him and the way his eyes seem to come to life when they find yours in the crowd, and you miss how he says your name, like a prayer, and you miss him because he’s Nico, and you can’t believe he loves you.
It’s one of things that last resurfaced in your memory, which is weird because it was one of the most momentous. You remember that, and you remember the first time you actually caved in to your passion and just fell. You can’t distinguish what was what or when things got just a little more vexing, but later, you described the feeling as going under. It was something that alarmed Annabeth when you told her about it in the stables of the Argo II on a singular night of exploits of secrets, but you try and explain that it’s the good type of sinking. It’s when the waves carry you to where it wills and no matter how much you flounder or paddle back to shore, its pulls will always be too strong and magnetic and all of a sudden you just get tired of fighting it, so you stop resisting and let it claim you entirely.
You let it carry you to uncharted places, and it’s so foreign, terrifying, and exciting all at once that you don’t know how to feel about it. Until it completely engulfs you and it’s a welcome embrace, since the sea is your home and you’re not afraid of death. Because death is not horrifying, it is not tragic or uninvited in that particular moment.
Death – or rather, the child of death’s aftermath – is oil-slick eyes and shaggy black hair that is in desperate need of a haircut, but really, it turns you on; death is thin lips and prominent bones delicate enough to look entrancing; it is whispers of ‘goodnights’ at one a.m. when silence settles over you and only the faint sounds of water ripples, hushed breaths, and heart beats reach private ears. Death is cold, pale hands wrapping themselves around your waist as tears purer than the jade river in Isla del Paraíso stream down their face. Death is promiscuous and indelible; it is all-encompassing, filling all your depths and shallows to the brim and every accidental touch nearly bring you to your knees. Death is all that, and death is Nico di Angelo.
And because of that, death has claimed you long ago, and it was so much easier to fall for it when death, too, has fallen just as hard.
xxiv.
On the third Thursday of your stay in the island, the fates have finally decided for you to go back home.
It was in the afternoon of your visit in The Luau, and Walonika was in the storage room picking up new exports (from the gods know where) to place about in the shop, when a beam of light suddenly stemmed from the sand-encrusted floors and you hear a sharp gasp from behind you, and you turn around to see Walonika with her hands covering her mouth and random baubles and grass skirts littering the ground.
“What -?” You mutter, looking at her helplessly. You find yourself unable to move, as if your whole body was leaden and your bones were solid cement. You stay grounded on your spot until Walonika goes back into the storage only to come back out pulling Aila’au by his shirt and shouting something you couldn’t quite hear. It was like you were in a sound-proof transparent tube, you find out when you hold your hands before you and feel a cylindrical something encasing you.
Walonika gestures wildly in your general direction and Aila’au shakes his head and looks at you wistfully. “Aloha,” he mouths. You shoot him a questioning gaze and look at Walonika helplessly. She shrugs and has this warm smile on her face, and it felt like they were both seeing you off. “Aloha, Percy,” she shouts but you could only make what she said out by reading her lips. You slam your hands on the invisible wall and immediately it felt like your whole world was spinning out of control. It was an odd feeling, like being sucked in by a cosmic vacuum from behind and pulled arbitrarily anywhere and everywhere.
Belatedly you wonder about Aila’au and Walonika’s parting words back at the island that was once your home, and you remember something Holly and the old ladies mentioned one time: Aloha could mean hello, goodbye, or I love you. And it’s amazing how one word could have so much more than one meaning.
xxv.
You wake up with a jolt, and pain floods your senses into overdrive. There are beeping noises in the background and the smell of antiseptic and nectar fills your nose like it’s the only thing the air had in its composition.
Slowly, you crack one groggy eye open and the light blinds you immediately, making you cry out. And then shouts of He’s awake! was heard and suddenly people were crowding over you and you hear the distinct sound of Will’s voice barking out orders and your heart rate being monitored and the beep-beep-beep of it was reassuring, because gods above, you were alive. That run of thought only lasted for a minute, though, because for the second time since your untimely visit to the island, you black out once more.