It's funny, in a not so funny way, that the High and Mighty Children of the Big Three can be afraid of the high and mighty things they're supposed to control.
Thalia Grace- deathly afraid of heights, he's heard someone mention. Percy Jackson- almost drowning a few times when that's not supposed to be possible can leave a lasting impression, he imagines.
So it's funny, in a not so funny way (irony, he remembers, irony is the word he's looking for- ironic, very ironic), that Nico di Angelo is very much afraid of the dark. And not the dark itself, not really- and it wasn't bad, he'd learned to control it, shadow-travel, power over it, he'd gotten used to the power- it was his to control, his to use—
and his to be trapped in, down and down and down in the literal pits of hell. He is foolish and small and weak down and down and down there- the shadows won't listen to him and the dark is something to be feared again. Something to be feared and hidden in. Layers upon layers of darkness (and fire and blistering monsters and hopelessness in the form of unforgiving waters)- that is what Tartarus is made of.
And it's funny, in a not so funn- ironic, yes, ironic- way, that the darkness is his downfall.
Curling into the sheets of his bed in the little house in Italy- there are monsters under the bed, monsters hiding in the shadows and the corners of his room where the moonlight streaming through his window doesn't reach; he can't curl up tight enough and if he closes his eyes they might get him.
Curling against a bench in the middle of a park, shivering, cold, lonely probably, because he's alone save for the darkness all around him- there's a lamppost nearby, yes, but that doesn't stop the shadows from creeping up to him; they're drawn to him, he supposes.
Curling into the jagged rock of the cave wall behind him, down and down and down in the literal pits of hell- the darkness is everywhere and all around him and he is trapped; laughs and taunts from who knows where and a deep chill in his bones and he wonders what will happen if he blinks.
Curling further and further into himself, away from the dark and away from the light.
So far into himself that he's not sure he can distinguish himself from the fear flooding his veins.
So far into himself that he's not sure he can ever get back out again.
And it's ironic. There are parts of hell even a child of hell shouldn't enter.
