Thanks for reading! Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson, not even a little bit.
He thinks sometimes he should have known, because nothing lasts for Nico di Angelo. Not Bianca di Angelo who died with a promise on her lips. Not Hazel Levesque, but she was always cursed, wasn't she? Not Jason Grace, but really Nico can't find it in himself to blame Jason, perhaps if Piper had lasted a little longer. Not Reyna Ramirez-Arellano, but Nico knows duck tape doesn't last forever, and sometimes the cracks are too deep too heal. Not Percy Jackson, but Nico always knew he was a little bit too reckless, and what's that saying? The good always die young? Nico knows that, oh yes, he knows. But he thought, hoped, wished, that maybe Will Solace could have held on longer.
Maybe he could have gotten his fairy tale ending. But he's a child of Hades isn't he? He supposes he was always destined to die alone.
But he won't die, will he? He can't. Sometimes he wishes he could. Maybe then he could have died with Will. But he couldn't. Because Nico di' Angelo is a ghost. "Too much shadow travel," Will said. "You're staying with me from now on death boy, doctors orders." But he didn't and now Will's gone and it'sallhisfault and now he's all alone. And so he curls up in the under world (because Will (or maybe it's Liam or Daniel or Kyle, now) is long gone- but aren't they all.
And he lets himself go. Lets himself drift meaninglessly. Past the molten lava, past the screaming spirits, past the souls so old they've forgotten even themselves. He doesn't care. He lets himself float whoever the wind takes him.
And so one day when a warm wind picks him and carries him into the sunlight he doesn't protest (even though he's almost forgotten the gentle touch of heat; he avoids it as much as he can (the colder he is the less he thinks of Will).
The sun kissed breeze sets him down gently next to a silvery plant- moon lace, which awakens an ache so old he thought it had healed. An ache of blue cake and salt water and sea green eyes. But it's not nessacarily a bad ache. And so, for the first time in centuries, Nico di Angelo sits up, stretches, and actually looks around.
And then he sees her. She's wearing a snow white dress so old it almost reminds him of the hunters (wasn't she wearing jeans lay time he saw her?). And although her hair is smooth and straight and frizz-less, it reminds him of Hazel's with it's rich cinnamon toast color. And although she has a faint smile, wistful and sad and happy at the same time, she has his eyes. Lonely eyes. Lost eyes. All-alone, forgotten eyes. And so when she reaches out her pale, pale hand, he takes it. He can't touch her, of course, but he can feel her warmth and smell her scent of beaches and fresh fruit and the smoke of a long gone fire.
And they lock arms (or try too). And they walk away. Away from the underworld. Away from the garden. Away from a boy with hair made of sunshine and a tan, calloused hand that could heal anyone (even Nico- or at least his heart if only for a little while). Away from the boy with the curly black hair and the mischievous smile who could fix anything (but himself, in the end). Away from a woman with warm brown eyes and a daughter with a silver hunters circlet. Away from a girl with jewels almost as rich as her heart. Away from the boys washed up on the beach long ago, and away from the friends who saved the world- or at least tried too (some things can't be saved).
And so they go. They don't know where their going, but does it matter? They have all the time in the world. And she's not Bianca, she's not Hazel, but she's Calypso and that's enough. And he smells of death, not sand, and pain, not peace, but he's there. And so they step onto a path that exists only in their memories ('cause Camp Half Blood is long long gone) and start to walk. They don't know where their going, but they'll get there.
They'll get there.