So, there's not much Nico in this chapter. I apologise. I guarantee more next time. Also, there's some mildish swearing later on, if anyone cares.
The last section of this chapter is a modified retelling of a retelling of a Norse Myth as written by Kevin Crossley-Holland. Basically, he told a norse myth in the penguin book of Norse Myths, then I borrowed a couple of phrases and the essence of the tale then changed the characters, the settings, and the moral, etc. Basically the only similarity is the structure. But all props to him for his fantastic book. If you want to read more into Norse Mythology, it's an excellent source.
Also, thanks to my reviewers. Just to let you know that I did fix the Nico surname thing, it's just taking a while to update.
It's soon decided that Ayra is a Roman; she's not claimed, and she has some grasp of Latin. It doesn't fit completely, however; and in light of the fact that she's still having 'episodes' during the night, she's being kept in the Greek sickbay until a transfer can be arranged.
The girl is a terrible sword fighter. Annabeth watches, bemused, as Percy knocks the weapon out of her hands the fifth time in a row.
"Stop doing this," he says, demonstrating the hacking motion she uses. "You're acting like it's an axe. It's not. It's a sword. We're demigods, not lumberjacks."
There is a chorus of laughter from the nearby students. Ayra scowls and shifts her position. "Again."
They fight. Her style is so unsuited to her blade, it's comical. Percy wins once more. For now, he is content to teach her, Annabeth to keep a weary eye over things, and Nico to glower at her from across a field.
"General."
"Colonel," he replies. He pours something that looks like brandy into a crystal glass and offers it to him. The two birds by his side caw at the intruder.
The Colonel smiles with scarred lips and takes the drink. "She made it. It was a close call."
"We both knew that she would. What does she report?"
The smirk melts away. "There are more Olympians than we thought."
The General is impassive to the news. He adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. "Do they suspect?"
The Colonel sits on the sofa opposite to his superior. The fire crackles as if in response. "For the most part, no. She's worried about one of them. He knows too much."
"Who?"
"A son of Hades,"
The General rolls his one eye, and waves his hand dismissively. "We can deal with that later. Call a meeting. We must discuss this with the others."
The Colonel doesn't like this idea at all. "The fewer who know the details, the better."
"They are our brothers in arms."
"They hate me."
"As do I, Loki," the General says as they get up, his voice teasing, "As do I. But she is our weapon first and foremost, and your daughter second."
They meet in conference room six.
"The Major's smoking again," proclaims a haughty looking woman with shining, golden hair that reaches the floor. Her eyes flash amber under heavy, pale lashes. "I can't think with this stench fogging up my brain."
"Shove it up your arse, Sif," replies the Major. This provokes a growl from the huge, red-haired man sitting beside her. "I told you I'm quitting."
"Children, children," The Colonel sits on the right hand side of the General, who is placed at the head of the table. "Now is no time for petty fights. I'm talking to you, Major."
"Fæn ta deg, Loki," says Freyr, stubbing out his cigarette.
This brings murmurs of agreements from the other occupants of the room.
"First order of business," there is silence as the General starts talking. "Where are the others?"
"Idun wouldn't come because Loki's here," says the red-haired man, Thor. "Same with Heimdall. Skadi refused because she thought she'd have to see Njord. Njord refused because he thought he'd have to see Skadi. The rest are present."
"The rest that are alive, you mean," mutters Sif.
This displeases the General. You can tell by the downwards curve of his mouth and the sudden restlessness of the two ravens perching on his shoulders. He continues on as normal, anyhow. It's what he's always done. "The Aska Project has so far been a complete success," there are relieved sighs from his audience. "No one suspects."
Loki winces. "Apart from-"
"I'll be getting to that later."
"Honestly, I'm not surprised," a gorgeous woman who looks very similar to the Major chips in. Her hair is the fiery red of a Pre-Raphaellite model, curling romantically down her shoulders, and her eyes are clear blue, shooting inviting looks to whomever she looks at. Her face is that of a classical painting, perfectly formed and perfectly unattainable. "She gets her lying skills from her father."
"As interesting a contribution as ever, Freyja."
Before they can start arguing, a man turns to the General. He is swarthier than the others, with black hair and thick eyebrows, but he is still obviously northern, with features too distinct to be from anywhere else. He has only one hand; the right is a stump bound in blue cloth, held protectively on his lap. "The Colonel said something about an exception. Does anyone know?"
The General shakes his head. "There is a son of Hades–"
"You mean Nico di Angelo."
A woman steps into the room. She is shrouded by a cloak so you can't see her features, and her presence has an inescapable aura of fear. It makes the people around her shudder.
"Hel," says the Major.
She nods and sits. "Hello, Freyr."
"You know the boy?" asks Loki.
"I know of him. He's caused quite the stir in Hades. Stole the title of Ghost King from Minos. Some say he could overthrow the place if he wanted to."
"Does he want to?"
"How should I know?"
"Unimportant," says the General. "Is he a threat?"
She shrugs. "He's a wild card. The Olympians are keeping a weary eye on him as well. There's no love lost between them. Why do you think Perseus Jackson was the child of the prophecy?"
"We could recruit him," offers the one-handed man, Tyr.
"Too risky," says Freyr. "He could turn at any moment."
"Not if he and Ayra fell in love," sighs Freyja.
"This is war, not a Jennifer Aniston movie,"
"What's a Jennifer Aniston?"
Loki groans.
"We're getting of topic," Hel reaches out her left hand and begins drumming the table. The skin is grey and bloated, like that of a corpse, and the others watch it in muted horror. "We should kill him and get it over with. Simple enough."
"The Olympians would be angry."
"Then make it look like an accident," she aims her steely gaze at the man sitting to the right side of the general. "You have plenty of experience with that."
There is an uncomfortable silence. It is broken by the Colonel. "There's no way she could pull it off."
The General agrees. "It seems we've reached an impasse,"
"So what do we do?" asks Tyr. "Do we wait? Do we fight? Or do we approach?"
"We question the Wise One," he says, turning to Loki. "Fetch Mímir."
He returns half an hour later cradling a shrivelled, decapitated head in his arms.
"I despise you, trickster," says Mímir, conversationally. "You should still be tied to that rock."
"I know," replies Loki. "And no one calls me Trickster anymore. It's so third century."
It is set onto the table, looking utterly out of place on the shining mahogany.
"Wise One," intones the General. "We seek truth. What is it that you see?"
"I see a Ghost King and a call to arms," it replies, its voice multifaceted, harmonizing with itself, "I see an uprising and a traitor's daughter by His side. I see dead warriors pledge their allegiance to His crown. I see-"
Then it screams. It screams with Ayra's voice, and somehow it speaks over that scream. "The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall! The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"
It continues, repeating the same phrase over and over. The Gods cower away from it, their hands over their ears. The ravens panic and start tearing through the room blindly.
"The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"
"Shut that thing UP!" yells Loki. "Bloody Hel!"
"Excuse me!" Hel shouts, affronted. It's difficult to tell whether it's aimed at him or the bird that just ran its talons over her scalp.
"The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"
Sif wails in frustration. "Make it STOP!"
Thor roars and smashes Mímir with both his fists. The screaming cuts off abruptly.
"Thor," says Freyr, half admiring, half mad, "I think you just broke the Wise One."
"Oops."
"Oops?" cries the Colonel. "No, you bastard, not oops! You just ruined our only prophet! What in Niflheim are we going to do now?"
"Quiet, everyone. Our seer is just in shock," the General gazes searchingly at the head. "A Ghost King and a call to arms. The Ghost King is obviously the son of Hades, then. But a call to arms?"
"It probably refers to the uprising in the next line," says Tyr.
"And the Traitor is me, so that means the daughter is Ayra," Loki says. The others look at him. He sighs. "In all of the five hundred prophecies we've been given, four hundred and ninety-six have referred to a traitor, and four hundred and ninety-five times that traitor has been me. One time it was Freyr when he had a one-night stand with a daughter of Aphrodite."
"Oh, that," chuckles the Major. "That was one crazy decade. To be honest with you, I don't remember the vast majority of the eighteenth century."
"I do," says Tyr. "You became a pirate, didn't you, Colonel? Bloody Sam Crawshank, was it?"
"My point is, we can pretty much assume that the prophecy is about Nico di Angelo and my daughter leading an uprising," Loki leans back in his chair. "By the way, it was John, not Sam."
Do you want to hear a story?
Do you know who can hear the sound of grass growing? Do you know who never sleeps, who never closes his eyes?
He has many names. I think today we'll call him Hawk-Eye, for he has the sharpness of that very creature, and the nobleness, too.
But this figure standing on the seashore; who would know of his accomplishments? He is dressed simply, and he carries no weapon, no obvious sign of power.
But, look- he reaches a shack. It is derelict. It stinks of manure and unwashed people. He knocks on the door and enters. The rough-hewn floor scratches red lines on his bare feet.
In the middle of the room crouch two figures. They are The Damned. They have been judged.
"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who do you speak for?" say The Damned.
"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye.
"You are welcome," say The Damned.
So Hawk-Eye joins The Damned. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, and in no time he wins the best position by the fire. And when the time comes to rest, he wins the best bed, and spends the night imagining the stars.
For three nights he stays with The Damned. Then the time comes for him to leave.
"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who does He speak for?" say The Damned.
"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye.
"We will follow Him," say The Damned.
And, now- he reaches a palace. It is opulent. It shines with gold and marble in the sunlight. He bangs on the great door and enters. The servants wash his bare feet.
In the middle of the great hall sit two figures. They are The Blessed. They have been judged.
"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who do you speak for?" say The Blessed.
"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye.
"You are welcome," say The Blessed.
So Hawk-Eye joins The Blessed. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, and in no time he wins the best position by the fire. And when the time comes to rest, he wins the best bed, and spends the night imagining the stars.
For three nights he stays with The Blessed. Then the time comes for him to leave.
"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who does He speak for?" say The Blessed.
"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye.
"We will follow Him," say The Blessed.
And, finally- he reaches a field. It is bathed in sunlight and shadowed by clouds. It grows lush and the ground is barren. He opens the gate and enters. There is no feeling in his bare feet.
In the middle of the field stand two figures. They are The Unheard. They have not been judged.
"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who do you speak for?" say The Unheard.
"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye.
"You are welcome," say The Unheard.
So Hawk-Eye joins The Unheard. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, but they will not listen.
For three nights he stays with The Unheard. Then the time comes for him to leave.
"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye.
"Who does He speak for?" say The Unheard.
"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye.
"We will follow Him," say The Unheard. "We will follow him, and The Damned will follow him, and The Blessed will follow him. But He shall know this; that two have come before Him, and one has lost, and one will lose. For someday there will come a time when he shall lose, too."
Nico wakes up.