Chapter Text
Prologue
Something between sleet and slush pounded the streets, dribbling into the demigod’s shelter in a steady gush of dirty roof water. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, she seemed right at home in the dilapidated Pizza Hut, muttering to herself with cracked teeth under soggy pizza boxes. Everything about her stank of neglect. From her rotting shoes to matted hair turned gray with dust, but her hands were pristine. They had to be. They were holding something sacred.
The loom in her hands was small, no larger than a binder yet the fabric it contained was more precious than all the jewels and metals in world. Its glow was the only thing illuminating the room, colors shifting in tandem with the threads weaving themselves within the cloth. In and out. Like a celestial tide, the tapestry ripples as her fingers glide across the surface, a liquid star pulsing below mortal skin with threads of sunlight, ocean blue, marbled grey, and so many others…
…Too many. There were too many threads in this tapestry.
Dirty water steadily dribbled into the fabric of her ratty coat, completely ignored. Her hands were unnaturally steady, almost possessed as she dares to touch the cloth.
The fabric shimmers in warning before the woman feels Them. She can hear their gasps of shock, and then the Other threads—the invisible ones around her throat, her wrists, her heart—tighten. She ignores the pain Their outrage brings, their shrieks unable to distract her from the triumph of finally finding the thread: a coil of jet black and bone white. It trembles as she catches it with her nail, as if sensing her intent.
The entire street seems to hold its breath, the power of the tapestry sloshing like the contents of a vase tipping over as she teases the thread loose. The strings around her throat are so tight blood starts dribbling down her neck, threatening to snap as Their unbroken wails draw more blood from her ears. And yet the demigod smiles, gripping the black and ivory thread in victory.
”I wish you luck, little cousin.”
And she pulls.
. . . .
Chapter One
Nico di Angelo startles awake as a drop of icy water hits his face. He lurches up, spluttering as instead of quilted fabric his hands meet stone. And it’s dark. Darker than the inside of his cabin—where he’s supposed to be. If he were anywhere else he’d immediately panic, but even without the familiar sighs of dead souls echoing off the walls, the energy pulsing beneath him was so uncharacteristically loud he could never mistake this place for an ordinary cave. He was in the Underworld.
The relief is temporary.
“Will—“ Nico spins to his right, where his boyfriend was snoring just as he’d fallen asleep (for once), but he’s gone. Nico was alone.
For a moment his heart stops. For a moment, he’s catapulted into the nightmare that’d been haunted him for months—even when Will was right next to him. But he’s not anymore. Will’s gone and Nico’s alone in the dark and he can’t breath—
The Underworld rumbles, like it can feel his panic, and the air wraps around him in a way it never did before. Like a weighted blanket, it pushes him back until his hands and cheek are on the ground. The stone pressing into his skin was soothing. Grounding. Nothing like the confines of the jar. He breaths, the cold earth almost purring in content, magic fluttering over him in waves of safety. Content.
Home. You are home, young prince. Child more precious than gold—
Nico shakes his head, pushing through the sudden fog filling his brain and to his feet, frowning.
The Underworld was never this loud before. He could always ‘hear’ it. Feel it, like a sixth sense, but that was it. It was a power to draw on not…whatever this was. As if responding to his thoughts the ground rumbles, almost like a greeting…almost like it was alive.
This….wasn’t normal.
Nor was how Nico ended up here. He might not have the best track-record of where he ended up in the land of the dead, but waking up in random places was more of Percy’s style of trouble. Still, even if he had no idea what was going on or why the walls felt so alive, the vaulted caves were a comfort.
Bedrock ripples in pleasure, veins of ore glistening as a breeze caresses his hand, nudging forward.
Well, there wasn’t really any other option, was there? He walks. Following no real path, letting the Underworld nudge and guide him across the infinite caverns until finally stepping into the light of one of its many rivers. He can hear the water before he sees it, and squints over the river Styx for the faint glow of the spirits on the other side. He pauses, no sign of Charon or Cerberus. Nico must be further inland.
The air shifts. Wings flutter in surprise, then confusion. The shale rock shifts, wary as icy air pours in, demanding.
“τι κάνεις εδώ?”
Nico startles. The words are greek, but, wrong. It feels older, heavier, and it takes a solid minute for his brain to catch up. Rusty gears churning almost painfully until the sentence translates into ‘what are you doing here?’—which he’d also like to know. He frowns, but the familiar voice encourages him to turn and address the god, only to freeze.
Nico stares, and the god stares back. Thanatos looked…weird. It was like someone had covered his skin in ashes, and his hair was short. Almost platinum bangs cut across his eyes, which were currently glaring down at him as if Nico was an intruder. He frowns, golden pupils flashing in confusion, and Nico was definitely confused. Before he opened his mouth Thanatos spoke.
“δεν—you—μπορ—can-είς—Not be…you sh-πε-ouldn’t be…” The words come to his brain faster as Thanatos’s glare settles into something dangerous.
“You should not be here.” The god growls, wings flaring and despite the rush of goosebumps shivering up his arms Nico only feels annoyed.
“Okaaay…then why am I here, Lord Thanatos?” If his father didn’t summon him, why in Hades is he in Hades?
The god’s glare grows murderous, and there’s only the smallest shiver of warning before Nico is stumbling away from the his scythe.
“Hey! What are you—“ He doesn’t have time to finish that sentence, or say anything, or think—the scythe keeps swinging at him. Trying to cut him down.
Thantose offers no explanation, no cryptic warnings or even a taunt as he continues attacking him. He doesn’t have time to summon any skeletons—the god isn’t holding back! The rock slips under his foot and he slams into the ground.
He doesn’t fall fast enough. Nico cries out as the scythe catches his arm, spraying blood.
The Underworld gives a single breath of warning, the temperature dropping below freezing before the ground explodes into an earthquake.
Nico winces, pain lacing through his veins and his ears vibrate from the Underworld’s screaming (why’s it screaming?). Thanatos hears it too, because he flinches, almost in shock. He almost drops the scythe, gaping at the caves shaking in rage and it’s all the time Nico needs to scramble to his feet.
For a split second, he considers trying to ask why in Zeus’ dandruff Thanatos is trying to kill him (that would’ve killed him. If Nico hadn’t moved fast enough, if he hadn’t fallen— ) before deciding it’s better to be safe than sorry. He runs.
The Underworld shrieks. Thanatos reaches for him, opening his mouth but Nico was already leaping for the shore, towards the shadows cast by the rocks and spirits. He thinks he hears Thanatos shouting for him to wait but by then he’s gone.
. . . .
A herd of deer lounged in a sunny meadow, content as they ate under the branches of an oak tree. At least they were, before Nico’s hurtled out from the shade. They scatter. Nico was perfectly content with lying there as they flee, face-down in the dirt until his head stopped spinning. He almost pukes.
Shadow-travel was never fun. It always came with the feeling of free-falling while holding onto dry-ice, but this time? Nico’s insides felt like they were put on a spin-cycle inside a wind turbine, over the arctic. Shivering, he curls around his arm, throbbing with his pulse from the frost-burn spidering over his skin thanks to Thanatos. He shudders. Even for a half-blood, if he wasn’t his father’s son so much as a scratch would’ve killed him. That doesn’t stop it from hurting. And now he was exhausted, sick, and freezing. Again.
He can practically hear Will lecturing him, and wishes he was here.
Why was this his luck? Was this a test from his father? A game? He knows the other gods of the Underworld, especially Thanatos, begrudgingly tolerated him at best but this was…out of character, especially for him. And why did he look like that?
With great effort Nico lifts his head from the grass, spotting a fawn staring at him from the edge of the meadow before its parents nudge it into the trees. He frowns, glancing at the oak and noticing its leaves were a lot greener than they should’ve been. And that the air was warmer. It’d been fall back at camp, so why does it feel like summer?
The crunching of grass and voices break him from his thoughts, jerking him to his feet. He stumbles, still dizzy from the jump and presses himself against the tree.
”Whatever is the matter my lady?” More weird Greek, from a voice that’s lyrical enough it was probably a nymph’s. And then another voice, one he unfortunately recognizes with sinking dread.
”I thought I heard something…” Oh great, Persephone was here.
Nico twitches, wondering if it was too late to go back and face Thanatos again before he’s scaling up the tree. Halfway up he realizes how stupid of an idea it was, but he’s already committed. Cursing at himself he presses against the trunk, fully knowing that if Lady Persephone so much as glances at his direction she’ll know he’s there. He tries to focus on becoming invisible. It was taking more effort not to throw up.
He hears the footsteps go quiet and risks a glance. He stops short, and wonders if his brain was just broken.
She looks younger than she’d been the last time Nico saw her, if it was possible to describe a god as ‘younger’. She seemed less…composed. Wilder, like the three nymphs trailing after her. Her arms openly swinging as she walked, her hair white and unbound, floating all the way down to the grass with flowers cascading through it. There wasn’t any of her customary jewelry on her either, no aura of death, nothing that screamed ‘Queen of the Underworld’—just a fluttery dress and shawl. She looked…she looked like she just stepped out of an ancient ceramic. Lead-white skin and all.
While Nico still wonders why and how he’s having a stroke the goddess and her attendees prowl around the tree, Lady Persephone standing only a few feet away from his hiding spot. He holds his breath, not daring to pray for her to leave in case she overhears.
“There’s nothing here my lady, surely it must have been an animal.” One of the nymphs say, glancing at the trees in the skittish manner of the deer that had been there seconds ago.
”How does that explain this?” Another gasped, kneeling where Nico had burst from the shadows and he bites his cheeks to stop from swearing.
The patch of grass was dead. More than dead, it disintegrates in the goddess’ hand when she tries to touch it. She was right under his nose now. Unaware, Lady Persephone wills the grass back to life as she crouches, rubbing her fingers over a stalk that was covered in…oh. Oh shit.
Nico’s blood was all over the ground. He flinches, realizing he was still bleeding, and that his blood trailed all the way up the tree. He pulls his arm to his chest, biting his lip as the gash stretches.
Big mistake.
In slow motion, he watches in horror as blood pulls free from his forearm and spills through the tree. Splashes down branches and leaves. One by one, exactly three drops of blood land on the goddess’ left knuckle, and you can hear the second all the birds stop singing.
Before Nico can blink there are vines wrapping around his body, pinning his arms and legs. He yelped, struggling in vain as he was yanked down for the goddess to glare up at him. Her eyes were black, the grass hissing and popping as her hair coiled around her like a shroud. Oh, he was so screwed.
“M-my apologies for disturbing you! Lady Persephone.” He blubbered.
(Don’t turn me into a dandelion again, don’t turn me into a dandelion again—)
The goddess’s face warped.
“My name is Kore, not Persephone.” Her voice thunders, but she isn’t attacking him, yet. She frowns at him like he ought to explain how he confused her for anyone else, making Nico draw a blank. Kore? Who was Kore?
A memory jumps into his mind. He’d been dragged to the campfire one night, ended up eavesdropping on Annabeth and Jason who were debating (arguing really, but they were still having fun?) over the differences between the pantheons. He remembers it because they mentioned Persephone, got into an actual argument about her names and whether or not she had a different one before…before…
A kernel of an idea blooms in his head. A horrible idea. A terrible, clandestinely perfect explanation that so neatly tied up every weird, backwards thing that had happened ever since he woke up into a horrid, terrible little bow. Nico swallows, suddenly very grateful the vines were holding him.
“Lady Kore,” he says, slowly, praying he was wrong. “As in…daughter of Dem—the grain mother?” He almost slips.
(Please be wrong, please be wrong, oh gods please let this just be a dream or—)
The earth rumbled softly, a promise and warning that this was very, very real.
“Yes. I am.”
Fuck.
And then she wasn’t frowning. At least, not in hostility. She was studying him, hollow eyes darting over his clothes and his face as her expression blooms into something like concern. But that wasn’t right, this was wrong—she never looks at him like that!
“Oh, you’re bleeding!” She gasps, and oh, yeah, that’s still happening.
Nico was getting dizzy again, was it normal to get this dizzy? Probably not. The vines were moving now, setting his back against the tree which was a good thing, because he would’ve fallen over otherwise. Lady Perseph—Lady Kore knelt in front of him, hands fluttering and there’s a weird fuzzy feeling stinging his arm as his blood coagulates.
”How did this happen?” She asks, too soft, too gentle, and it was wrong. Wrong, wrong!
“Gee I don’t know—ask the guy who got offended I was breathing.” He snaps on instinct, then blanches. Just because she wasn’t Queen of the Underworld yet it was still Persephone!
But instead of smiting him, or turning him into a weed, or even getting offended the goddess gasps again.
“Oh you poor thing! Thales, fetch water and bandagers, now!” She reaches for his arm and he freezes.
“Y-yes my lady.” The pinkish-green nymph was eying Nico, but ran off as she was ordered. The other two remain, nervously glancing at the goddess who was gently (too gently) lifting his arm.
Some animal instinct in Nico’s brain kept him paralyzed, like a deer being toyed at. He was in the past. The ancient past. Forget the time of heroes and myths, this predated the creation of Winter. None of his friends were here, their ancestors wouldn’t be born for thousands of centuries!
”There’s no need to be afraid, I won’t allow anyone to harm you here.” The words ripple over his mind to no effect, but his body obeyed. He shudders, the smell of honey and jasmine filling his lungs and settling into his chest, lulling his heart to slow. Compelling him to breathe. He dares to look up from his feet.
The goddess was staring at him again, eyes now spinning browns and greens and all the shades between a honeysuckle and bluebells, nothing but warmth. Every memory he had of those eyes were cold, distant. Disappointed. He didn’t recognize these eyes.
He doesn’t notice her hand until it’s touching his face, moving a stray lock away and he flinches back. Her mouth twitches.
”What is your name, little mortal?” She asks, gently, so very gently, like she was talking to a baby animal.
Did she not know what he was? No, that wasn’t a priority right now, was it even safe to use his real name? It might as well be, none of his family existed.
”Nico. Nico di Angelo.” He says on autopilot, voice hoarse as it really sinks in, how completely alone he is.
”What an odd name.” Lady Kore says, then adds, “Of course, I don’t intend any insult!
Why was she being nice to him? She’s still a goddess! Was it because Demeter kept her so sheltered that she didn’t know how to treat mortals with contempt or did she grow jaded in the Underworld? Before he could dwell on it the nymph came running back, pitcher and linen in hand.
”Here my lady, let us attend to the boy.” Another one said, eager to put distance between him and her mistress.
”I am perfectly capable of doing it myself!” The goddess actually pouted.
Nico barks a laugh. He couldn’t help it. The goddess that had been the focus of so much anxiety in his life was now fussing over him like he was a toddler! The problem was once he started it was hard to stop. And it hurt.
The trio of nymphs and their mistress watch him, completely oblivious to how deeply he was breaking on the inside. Again. He should’ve been used to it by now.
“I think—I think I’m very lost.” He wheezes, not wanting to cry in front of her, but he couldn’t stop it. He hides his face behind his knees, trying to hold himself together.
He wouldn’t fall apart. He survived Tartarus twice, he was not going to unravel over this—
Kore glanced at her attendants. The more wary ones must’ve felt pity, because they shuffle close and start looking at his arm. Meanwhile, the goddess actually sits in front of him, gently squeezing his shoulder and filling his body with peony-tinted warmth. It relaxes his body, buying him enough time to scrub at his eyes. He doesn’t dare look up.
”Where did you come from?” The goddess whispered. Nico shakes his head. He’d been lost for so long, what even was home to him anymore? It was starting to be camp. It had been his friends, his sister, Will. And now they were beyond his reach.
“Venice.” He croaks, because he wasn’t dumb enough to try lying to a goddess, even if she was trying to comfort him—for some reason.
”I…do not recognize that name.” She glanced at her handmaidens who were likewise confused. Nico shrugged.
“I figured—.” He starts to say before biting his tongue as the nymphs pour water on his injury. They might as well be taking an iron brush to it!
Kore blinks before touching his arm again, and the frost-bite starts to melt. It still hurts, still throbbed as the linen was torn into strips and wrapped around his arm but it was…bearable. He finally looked up, earning an encouraging smile from the god that was oblivious to how his very existence was an insult to her to the deepest degree.
“Well then, Nico di Angelo of Venice,” the goddess said, “I might not know how to get you home, but you are more than welcome to rest here.”
”My lady, is that wi—“
A cutting glare was more than enough to silence the nymph.
“We are more than happy to host you, while you heal.” Lady Kore quickly adds, turning to smile down at Nico with a hunger that shivered down his spine. Oh. That’s why she was being so nice, she was curious.
It makes sense; if she was as sheltered and isolated as the myths say he was practically a Christmas present falling into her lap, gift-wrapped and everything. He swallows. Nothing ever ends well for prophets, present or ancient past—that had to extend to time-travelers too. The Fates might smite him there and now for being here. So, telling the truth was right out, but he can’t just lie. But he couldn’t say nothing either.
”I…thank you for your hospitality, Lady Kore.” He says slowly, studying the way she was studying him. There was a flash in her eyes, amused and something Other before they flickered to the ground.
Sinking her hands into the dirt he watches a cluster of white strawberries spring out. She picks a fruit, peeling off the stem before offering it to him, beaming like the sun. If only it reached her eyes.
“Now, my new friend, tell me more about yourself.” That smile wasn’t as pointed as he remembers, but Nico found it no less dangerous.
. . . .
Thanatos stares at where the mortal boy had just vanished. Vanished, not died. There should have been a corpse. The boy should have keeled over the instant Thanatos’ scythe scratched his skin. He shouldn’t have been here to begin with—by all accounts, such a child should not exist.
And yet.
When Thanatos felt the Underworld’s attention suddenly pull to the Styx, he had assumed it was his lord finally taking reprieve from his self-imposed confinement. He had gone to the frozen shores in relief, only what he found by the waters was a boy. Mortal, but not completely.
The Underworld was curled around him, preening like it had found some great hidden treasure. Divinity so obviously coiled beneath the mortal’s skin, mirroring the dead realm’s magic in such a way even Thanatos had mistaken it at first for his lord’s. And those eyes. Black eyes. As dark as the pits of Tartarus. Only one other being in all of creation had those eyes, and they belonged to Hades. It had shaken Thanatos, staring at what all senses screamed at him was his master made miniature. Yet it could not be.
Lord Hades has no children. He has no wife to bear them, and he never flung himself among mortal lovers like his verial brothers. He rarely if ever steps beyond his domain, and, as of late, the confines of his inner palace. This child was by every single perpetual account…impossible.
So, Thanatos had acted rashly. If it was an illusion, he would shatter it. If not, if the blade of death did not fell this false demigod then he would…well, he wasn’t entirely thinking at that point.
And oh, how the Underworld seized in rage as his scythe spilt the mortal’s blood. He stopped, staring at the currents of the realm hissing in fury, rattled in warning that the boy was not to be harmed.
And instead of dying, instead of keeling over and fading into an empty husk like he was supposed to, the boy, instead, ran from him. Just as Thanatos finally realized the error of his impulsiveness, the child leapt for the river. Panicking, he tried to call out to the child but before he could reach him, before the boy could touch the water and do irreversible harm to himself—he vanished. Melted into the shadow like a shade. And now, the Underworld was making its anger known.
The ground shakes in waves. Stalactites rain from the ceiling, punctuating the surging, seething displeasure of having a child of its realm out of reach. He can all but hear the Furries howling for the Underworld’s voiceless rage.
Charon approaches from the other side of the river, his boat thrashing violently against the now churning waters until he washes ashore. Thanatos goes to meet him, easily ducking from a chunk of earth practically hurled at him from above. The boatman accepts his hand, the looming skeleton grunting as he steps onto the surf.
”What has caused our lord such ire?” The words escape in a hiss, Charon’s jaw barely moving as the hollow recesses of his eyes question Thanatos. He sighs.
”This isn’t Lord Hades’ doing. It…” How was he to possibly explain it?
He tries to. It’s a stuttering confession, all the more absurd as he speaks the discovery aloud, but it was true. The Underworld demands it so. At the end of the story Charon tilted his head, as if to say ‘and your first thought was to attack him?’.
”I thought it was a deception! A trick!” Thanatos bristles, still remembering that stunt Hermes pulled only a scant few years ago. The Underworld continues to seethe.
Charon hums, eyes silently asking what was to be done now. Thanatos rubs at his face, something akin to dread beginning to coil around his being. What was he to tell their master? How was he to justify—no, atone for what he tried to do? It’s enough to give the good of death pause. If the Underworld was this attached, this enraged, only the Furies could begin to know what kind of rage he’d just earned from his king. But they had to find the child. Of this realm or not, the Underworld was a treacherous place.
“I must tell Lord Hades. He…he will want to know of this.”
If he does not already. Surely, something of this magnitude would be enough to draw his lord out of his melancholy. Thanatos could only hope the discovery of a son (a son!) would be enough to spare him the worst of his king’s wrath.