A/N:
Title: Breaking Point
Summary: I try to regain what I can. I am Nico Di'Angelo. My family is dead. My father is the lord of the dead and the Underworld. Greek myths exist. There's a threat. Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase; where are they? Where am I?
Date of Publish: May 27, 2012
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Pain is what I feel right now, as I lay in the ground – or maybe a bed? It feels like a bed, at least. I have no trace of where I am, just the recognition of who I am. I can't feel my limbs, I can't open my eyes, and I can't do anything but breathe slowly. Just breathe and wait; listen to my breathing and, slowly, panic.
As the days go by, the pain either weakens the slightest bit – rarely, it happens – or increases and has me begging to the gods I can shout, but I find myself with my throat clogged up, or such; because no sound escapes. I begin to wonder if I've become mute, maybe blind; or even dead? Is this what it feels to have the life taken from you and being condemned to go to the Underworld once and for all? Sure is painful, more than I imagined.
I tune in and out of conscious, barely even noting someone carrying me and the change of temperature. I begin to regain feeling in my right arm, and then my left; I soon gain the ability to wiggle my fingers, with a dull pain. Two, three, maybe four days have passed, I assume.
The next day, with the pain still there, I gain the ability to open my eyes to the world and croak out things out of my throat. I feel sheets, silky sheets around me. I run my hands through then and I stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts confused as they try to process everything that has happened. Questions form.
Where am I? What am I doing here? Am I dead? What happened to the others? What happened? These questions remain unanswered, though. I note the wires and things I can't even name hooked up on me, on my arms, legs, and one on my torso. My breathing is slow and ragged, and I let my eyes travel around the room. All doubt and hope that I was in Camp is gone. The walls are a soft green, almost like grass. There's a beeping, probably from one of the machines. There's a cabinet next to the bed, only a glass of water and a cookie there. I'm not sure if it's for me, but I feel no appetite coming up.
Okay, hospital, maybe, I think to myself, trying desperately to reassure myself before panic rises up, or anything worse does. There's a normal-sized window, nothing big, or fancy. Outside, there's a clear view of the parking lot; lovely.
"Have you eaten your food, Mr. Di'Angelo?" I jump and turn around. Oh.
"Food?" I croak out, my voice hoarse. The nurse – it's a nurse, right? – nods and points at the cookie and glass of water.
"Doc said you might not wake up today, but to put that at least, in case. Lunch is soon, though, so you can get some actual proteins and calories in your bone-sack-like body." I hadn't paid much attention to my physical state of being, but yes, I was indeed a bag of bones. Useless.
She continues with her chatter; state of my wellbeing, how soon I might get out, things like that. It's not until that she mentions something that might either be good or bad. "You have a visitor, by the way. Says he knows you, might be a relative, we're not too entirely sure, since there's no records of your family members or anything. Strange. But we're letting him visit you; just in case he pulls anything funny, there's a button on the rail. You just press the button—" she indicates which "—and voila, there's a nurse. Yeah, nurses might not be the best, but it's better than nothing."
"What's his name?"
"Elijah Cartwright." I know no one of that name, which I can remember at least. I turn my head to the window. I hear the footsteps becoming fainter and there's a last, "He comes by in a few minutes, kid. Might want to drink that water, your voice sounds terrible," over the shoulder before the door shuts and I am alone again. Elijah Cartwright. For all I know, he might come in to kill me or something, and I'll be too late for that stupid button. No. This whole, where-am-I is getting to me.
I think of myself as a mouse, at this moment, lost and confused; surrounded my four walls; injured. Maybe, I can clue things in if I think of things that relate to me.
No, I am not in Camp. Yes, my name is Nico Di'Angelo. I am hated, no doubt, from my uncles. Greek myths exist. I falter at this, though.
My mother and sister are dead. I may be close as well; I continue and continue making a list which will possibly answer my questions until a door opens. I don't turn. Instead, I find myself amused and entertained by my list. The door closes. There's another person, besides me, in the room.
"You might want to eat that while it's still there, Nico," says the person behind me; a person with a way too familiar voice. I turn and see a face that reflects intelligence mixed with something that can shoot fear up someone's spine. It doesn't take long to come up with a name in my mind after one look in the man's eyes.
"Hades." It doesn't come out strong; it comes out weak, and hoarse. He nods. No Elijah Cartwright. No, just a lord of the dead and the Underworld; my father.
"Yes. It's a surprise to see you alive, rather comforting after hearing your adventure. Don't tell anyone that. It might ruin my reputation." It's strange, this banter. I would never imagine him being remotely friendly or anything with me. "Though you might want that water, your voice has been through hell and back," he says; his unemotional face still at blank. He offers himself a seat in one of the plastic chairs. "You've been to hell and back, though."
"New gossip up at Olympus, though, sure to keep the gods busy for once; all because of you and Percy Jackson—that blonde girl too, maybe. A few were concerned, yes, but really—it's all about the gossip and entertainment. Being the Father of the Year, I came to check up on you, something Poseidon, nor Zeus did," says Hades, crossing his legs. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and go, "Of course. They wouldn't visit someone they want to kill," but I know that it ins't directed to visiting me. Nonetheless, this is strange. There's something wrong. Something he's not telling me.
"Are you even going eat what was left for you?"
"I'm not hungry," I say.
"Water would be good for you. You need food, as well, since you're a bag of bones right now," he says, completely honest. I wouldn't call a cookie and a glass of water food.
I do take hold of the water. My hands are so shaky; I wonder how I can take sips of the water without spilling it all over my bed. My throat is soothed as I drink the water. In a few sips, I have the glass drained and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Before I can help it, I blurt out, "Where are Percy and Annabeth?" He looks as if he's struggling to tell me correctly.
"Ah, well…to put it bluntly," he says, his eyebrows knit in concentration, as if deciding what my next move would be. "Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase are nowhere to be found, Nico."
A/N:
Hello there. I've decided to venture out of my little cave and into the world of fanfiction once again, full of ideas and a better chance at a somewhat decent story. Of course, this might just end up backfiring, but oh well. I've decided to start anew, new stories, new everything. Oh, yes, as well as venturing into long-forgotten, but still there, fandoms. Ideas about PJO fanfics trickled and now I've gotten some kind of muse to start. At the beginning, at least. I'm fairly new with writing with this character's point of view, and even so much with actually publishing a fanfic in first person. So hopefully, you all can forgive me for anything wrong, or any bad grammar because it's already two in the morning as I publish this. And I also didn't proofread this. Haha, sorry. ;; Expect many sentence fragments.
Wow. This looked a lot bigger while writing. Kind of small now.