There were thin red ones from a razor.
There were little dent-like ones from a safety pin.
There were deep, old ones; courtesy of a knife.
Nico's arms were littered with scars but he hated them. He regretted them, except one. On his shoulder there was a burn, red and raw. He cherished this one. The outline of a hand heated by love but formed in battle. The one last reminder of his light in the darkness. Here in the dark of Cabin 13 it glowed dully in unearthly light as new scars traced their bloody way into the ghost king's arm.
A/N: I was having a bad day…