No more. They are no more. Gone. They are gone. No one is left. No one alive. No one that matters. No one that will ever matter. Because they are gone. And it's killing you, it's torture. You remember them, sitting in the sunset, hair shining in the amber light, laughing silently as you attempt to impersonate their father. They kiss your cheek, and your face light a brighter red than the sun, crimson, scarlet. You remember when you first met, them stumbling into your arms, gasping. Fighting all around you, yet you only see their face. They are all that matters. They are your life, your love, your reason. Stubborn to a tee, loving and caring and kind and everything you are not. Everything you wish you were. You sob over their body, holding it to you and lashing out at everyone who would dare to try to pry them from your arms. Your friends try to reason with you, but you are relentless. You refuse. You scream and shriek and cry and break down. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't live.

Because life is not worth living without your sunshine.

Without your Solace.

xXx

You spend days inside your cabin, huddled and alone, refusing to eat, refusing to talk about it. Kind words and sympathetic faces and behind it all they're lying. They're lying right to your face. They tell you they're sorry. They tell you they understand. Centaur shit. They don't understand. No one understands.

And so you finally man up and do it. It hurts at first, the blade against your skin, and then calm. It takes away the pain, anchoring you in the real world. Anchoring you, and making you forget about them. About the pain. About the misery.

But you want to be with him. To remember, at least, the good. But without the pain, all you can remember is the bad. The blood gushing in rivers out of the gaping wound, the light in their eyes fading away, their hand going limp in yours... Stop. Don't think. Slice. Slice. Away with the memories. Away with the pain.

Life hurts. It's awful, excruciating pain: every breath, every blink, you know, is without them. You fly into a rage. You don't know why. Maybe you want to be with them and are frustrated that you can't. Maybe you just snapped. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Vases overturned, flowers wilted, water flowing... Water, liquid, almost as dense and red as their blood... You see red. You grab the knife. Slice. Slice. Slice, slice, slice. Nothing works. It's all in your head. All in your head, and you hate it. It hurts. It hurts so bad. The only way is to get out of your head. Out of your head, out of your mind. You give a bitter laugh and rummage through the drawers. It's there somewhere. You stashed it. It's always been there. It was your grandfather's. Now it will once more free you.

You shakily lift the handgun to your head. A trembling finger releases the trigger, and then -

Weightlessness. Nothing. Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you? How did you get here? Why are you here? When did you get here? You don't know. It's only when you reach the Pavillion that you remember, and you begin quietly sobbing as they decide your fate.

"A good hero. He saved many lives by convincing King Hades to fight for Olympus in the Second Titan War..."

"And he delivered the Athena Parthenos to Camp Half-Blood with that Roman girl..."

"Suicide, though. The taking of a life is very serious..."

"Driven mad, though, by the death of a loved one. Good intentions, Minos. Good, indeed. I suppose Elysium."

"Elysium."

"The Fields of Punishment."

"Two against one, Minos. We judge that Nico di Angelo, son of Hades, is put in Elysium."

You drift past aimlessly, going toward the bright lights and party music. It's not until you're almost there that you spot a familiar mop of blonde hair.

Very familiar.

They're not going to be very happy with your, ah, mode of transportation, but you don't care. You run toward them, calling their name.

You can finally be free. For you have found your missing piece.

Your better half.

Your reassurance.

In other words, your Solace.