The Cottage by the Sea

In a cottage by the sea there lives a man.

The cottage, if it can be called that, is what strikes notice first. An eclectic mixture of an old man's bachelor pad and a teenage boy's hideaway place. It is worn, well loved, although the statuettes on the mantelpiece are lined up with such OCD perfection that it seems slightly eerie.

The man, he is neither a teenager nor an old man, but somewhere in the middle. He is distinct, but unnoticeable; if you had walked past him in the street you would have paid him no more attention than a pigeon eating stray crumbs on the pavement. Oh, I am sure that if you took each of his features separately they would be striking, but the fact remains that he is forgettable.

There are many people who are blessed – or cursed – with forgettable faces.

It is, in the man's case, slightly ironic, as he himself is not actually forgettable in the slightest; you may think that you have forgotten him, but then something or someone turns up and you are reminded viciously of who he was.

Note I do not say is. We shall get to that in a moment.

The man is perhaps thirty-one or thirty-two. He has a serious, rather melancholy demeanour which makes him seem older, and there is an odd clash in his mannerisms; he will collect toys like a child and then speak of the Second World War like a veteran. In some respects, he is.

He is neither tall nor short. He is thin, but at the same time his clothes would give the illusion of a healthy weight. He dresses in black. He is friendly enough for people to remember him for it but not for them to consider him a friend.

His name is Nico di Angelo.

Nico keeps to himself. The cottage by the sea is also by a cheerful, bustling town, but despite this proximity he only ventures out to go shopping or, if you are very lucky, to eat out. As far as anyone in known is aware, he lives alone and has no visitors. If he has any family or friends, well, they've never seen hide nor hair of them, and isn't it such a shame for such a nice young man?

There are a few pictures on the shelves. Some are of people. Maybe those are his family and friends; they're all at least fifteen years old, though.

All of this, I hope, has given you a fairly good understanding of the man of the cottage by the sea.

Currently, it is twenty minutes past eight at night, and the man who was once a boy is sitting in front of a careful, well-tended hearth. If you cared to feel his skin, you would notice that he was cold, colder than humans are meant to be, despite the warmth of the flickering flames.

A stack of books sit on the coffee table beside the armchair, and a lined notebook rests in his lap. He frowns, concentrating. The first book, a child's book of fairy tales, lies open and propped up by both his knees and a portion of one of the armrests. The book is simple, on perhaps a fifth grader's reading level, but the writing is small and there are no pictures to aid with comprehension.

A pair of reading glasses are perched on the man's nose.

He reads, very carefully, and writes the few words he cannot read easily or understand on the notepad. His writing is careful, precise. Each letter is perfectly formed and spaced, without links or joins to other letters; a child's print.

It is incongruous from a man in his thirties, but upon seeing the studious, determined look upon his face, one cannot help but encourage him in his efforts.

The flames die down, and he gets up briefly to tend to them; the hearth is never empty in the cottage by the sea.

It is nearing ten when he finishes his study of the book of stories. He does not stop there, though; he moves to one of his bookshelves – of which he has a surprisingly large amount, for one who appears so linguistically challenged – and takes out a dictionary.

No, not an ordinary dictionary. An Italian to English dictionary.

The book he had been studying so carefully was in Italian.

He looks up definitions with the fluid air that comes with long practice. He peers at some closely, as if the words are difficult to read; in my experience, those with his bloodlines often have trouble.

There is a knocking noise, and the man looks up in bemusement. It sounds again. Recognition follows.

The book falls to the floor.

A/N: Percy Jackson and the Heroes of Olympus series are the property of Rick Riordan. I'm just playing. I do that.

This is just the prologue, my other chapters are longer. This was inspired by two separate muses, minuiko and Markus Zusak; the former for her visual art and the latter for his literary art, the Book Thief. Minuiko is on tumblr and does gorgeous work, go check her stuff out. If you haven't read the Book Thief yet, you are missing out, go read it. Credit where credit is due ;)

Tell me what you think of this style, my ears and eyes are always open!

- Bronwyn