Nico sits tangled in the rigging of the Argo II. The sun had set several hours earlier and the other demigods had retired to their cabins below decks. They'd, grudgingly to his mind, offered him Percy's cabin, but he'd declined. As if he could have slept in that bed. No. It would just be another form of self inflicted torture. He is already a master at opening his own psychological wounds. He doesn't need the extra help of lying in that bed, not that they know. Besides, being below makes him feel claustrophobic. Spending days in a jar hardly bigger than himself, slowly starving and suffocating to death has that effect. He's chosen to stay on the deck instead. No one had argued. Hazel had looked like she wanted to, but didn't. Not the others. They were happy to leave him on deck. He saw it in the glances that Leo and Jason gave him: distrust, suspicion, fear. They would be happy to have him as far away as possible.
The stars sparkle brightly in the sky, mocking, as he gazes out, his glassy stare not really seeing. He is so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted. He longs for sleep that will not come. He wishes for deep, black sleep, devoid of nightmares, empty of dreams that lie. He wants cold, dark, oblivion, but it does not come. He stands, carefully, on the crossbeam of the sail. One hand wraps around the ropes and rigging, holding him steady. He looks down, over the side of the ship, watches the ground pass below. He wonders how far down the ground is. How much shorter would the fall to the ground be compared to the fall into Tartarus?
Tartarus, he thinks bitterly. Too late, his mind conjures the horrors he suffered there. They left no physical scars, but the mental anguish had left him nearly broken. He knows he's hanging on by a thread. The others should have left him. They should have let him fade away in the jar, freed him from the miseries he endures. The wind whips around him, blowing hair like ink into his eyes, whipping at the loose folds of his clothes. He looks over the edge again. He doesn't have to stay. He can let go. He can fall to earth, a fallen angel. His fingers flex on the rope, uncurling and curling. He opens his hand for a second and closes it again, clinging to the rope, his lifeline. It would be easy to fall. Briefly he wonders if Hazel would know. Would she know if he falls? Would she feel it like he felt Bianca? Would the others simply wake in the morning and find him gone and never know? She doesn't have his gifts. Hah! Some gifts. The gift of death. He's bitter. Bitter that he will never belong. Bitter that he's been pushed outside of everything his whole life, bitter at all that he's lost, bitter at all that he'll never have, bitter at all that he's had to experience. It's a long fall to the ground. There would be no more pain, no more misery. Even the end would be painless from this height. Instant. He lets go of the rope.
Percy. He grabs the rope before he slips. As much as he wants to, he can't do it. He promised Percy. He will lead them to the House of Hades. He will help to close the doors. He has to. He hates himself. He knows. As long as he's around, he will always be Percy's lap dog. He will always jump for the chance to please his master. It disgusts him. He doesn't want it to be true. He knows it is. Still, a part of him is thankful. Maybe it's the one part that isn't broken. Maybe it's the thread that he's hanging by. He sits back down. He stares, sightless, at the beauty of the night. He is thankful. Because if he hadn't promised Percy, if he wasn't such a faithful dog, he would be falling. Eventually, he knows, he will fall anyway. What else is there for him? For now he sits, and he stares, and he remembers, and he hates, and waits for the dawn to come.