And he was sure of it. He was so sure of it that it hurt. There's no question. That hand was the very hand of Bianca di Angelo.
He reached out to touch it. He expected to feel the same warmth he had when she was alive. Or maybe they'd be dry and cold, like his. They would feel like her hands, though. He thought that would be the case. Nico was wrong. The second his fingers met the silvery set, the image moved swirled, passing right through Nico. Foolishly, he tested the same with the metal figure. Just like his sister's hand, it slipped way from the boy's touch, as slippery as oil. What else could he expect? And, if he was to be honest, one hundred percent truthful, what else did he want? It would have been cruel to have been allowed touch of something so plain, so unimportant, but not permitted to feel his sister's warmth once more. It would have been an insult, a sort of terrible joke. So, it was actually preferable to have been deprived of touching the silver figurine. That would have been saying, "Just as she thought, you know. That's just what she thought. This Mythomagic piece is more important than your ever seeing her again." It would have been saying, "She threw away her life for this, and for a good reason. She died so you could run your hands across one of the last things she would touch, this metallic statuette of a god." The message would have been as clear as ice—but that wasn't the best comparison, seeing as the ice here was an ugly soot color, rather than transparent—and Nico wouldn't like the message in the least.
Nico found that he didn't have much of an appetite after seeing this, despite the fact that the closest thing he had had to a meal during this (he couldn't think of a word) incident. Who would? No one said, "Well, I just saw my dead sister's hand—just her hand—reaching out toward me, holding a toy. Well, that was fun! So, how about some McDonald's? That will be pleasant!" That idea was insane as the event itself. There was still the red package and evilly vibrant-colored cup sitting in the sludge surrounding him. What was he to do with this extra meal? It would be stupid to throw it away—even a ten-year-old boy knew that it would be idiotic to waste food that would normally cost about five dollars, money that he didn't have to spend. He could hardly eat it. Odds were, he'd throw up at his first or second bite; the food had become far worse during the journey and wait. There was, Nico supposed, one other option that would possibly help him. Maybe there was another use that could perhaps be beneficial to the grieving boy. He could, he guessed halfheartedly, throw it into the pit as well.
So, he did. It wasn't nearly as much as he first dropped into the hole in the earth, and the first contributions had mysteriously vanished from the premises, causing no notice whatsoever by the boy until now. As a result of the small quantity of food put into the grave-like pit, what little meal there was stuck, soaked and pathetic, to the ground. It looked most pitiable, and from this angle, Nico pondered how the restaurant could pass this for a proper meal; it looked much smaller from a few feet above. The drink didn't even rise an inch above the bottom, but instead made a dumb-looking puddle that blended in rather unpleasantly with the dirt. Despite its ugly appearance, Nico stood reverently over the food, and began chanting in a voice he had heard—and used—once before, but was nothing at all like his own.
"Άφησε τους νεκρούς να αυξάνονται και πάλι, με δόξα. Ας τους αφήσουμε να νιώσει ξανά, γεύση και πάλι. Έχω έρθει με μια θυσία των τροφίμων. Θα το δώσει σε αυτούς, και τους επιτρέπουν την ελπίδα της ζωής και πάλι," he spoke, placing some sort of meaning in the words. He made it out to translate to something about the dead rising again, feeling and tasting as they did in life, and a bit about his "sacrifice".
Instantly, a line formed at the pit. It was, as he had both expected and feared, made only of figures silvery and mist-like, with not a single solid being in there. As soon as he appeared there, a ghost at the front of the line greedily began drinking the coke and eating the soggy fries.
Nico raised an eyebrow. For a moment it was one of pure confusion, but it quickly shifted to something else. Just as soon as the expression hit his face, he realized something. It was both a good and frightening feeling. You should be the one controlling them, and they should be serving you, a snakelike whisper hissed. It was a scary, evil-sounding voice, but Nico almost found that he liked hearing it. He reacted in a way that mirrored his feelings toward it.
"STOP!" he commanded loudly, scaring himself nearly as much as the spirits he directed it at. Scanning the crowd for the familiar face of his sister, he cursed after reaching the end of the line, finding no one that looked remotely like her. "Where are you?" he screamed. "Bianca! Where are you?"
He spirits took advantage of his distraction by resuming the eating of the McDonald's.
Nico noticed. "Stop it! Stop! All of you!"
They did as they were told, however reluctantly. There was a murmur of anger among the ghosts, all no doubt upset at being summoned for nothing.
"Can't you see? I'm looking for someone! I'm looking for my sister! In case you haven't noticed, I want to see her again."
One brave soul piped up. "Master—" he squeaked.
Nico raised an eyebrow again, this time remaining in question. "Master?" he echoed in curiosity.
"Yes, Lord. Master. You are a son of Hades, are you not? And your sister a child of the rich one, as well. Am I correct?"
Nico surprised himself by nodding, but the second the action was made, he knew it was the truth.
"And, sir," said the same ghost, "we must respect you and your sister, for your father is, after all, the lord of the dead," the spirit squealed nervously. "And, as I'm sure you noticed—" he laughed—"we are dead."
Nico smiled slightly. Maybe Bianca was happy being dead.
That jerk. She could be happy, but not Nico… She could have fun, but not Nico! Nico was deader than she was. His soul had been torn to shreds because of her, but she was perfectly happy dead! Life, apparently, was worse than death.
Well, that was rude. Nico realized this, and tried to throw it from his mind; he would not tarnish her memory by thinking those awful things about his sister, she was a good person, and would be remembered as such.
Even if she did leave him alone.
"Master?" called the ghost. "Master?"
Nico looked up. He almost apologized. Instead, he changed the subject. "So, can you help me?"
The spirit seemed quite as surprised as Nico had moments ago. "Me, sir? Certainly not me?"
Nico smiled again, almost cheerfully, but almost bitterly as well. "Yeah you," he said, looking the ghost straight into its lifeless eyes. "C'mon, then. Go ahead. I'll get some more food. You can have this." His tone was almost as friendly as it had been before all of this demigod business. It quickly turned sharp as he addressed the others. "The rest of you—scram!"
And, so McDonald's had become a ritual.
AN: Tada! it's complete. After ages and ages of procrastination, it's done. I might change my mind, but that's unlikely. (Then again, I may just eat my words someday soon.) Could you tell me what you think of the ending, and the story as a whole because I'd really love some feedback on that. If anyone would like to tell me, that'd be fantastic, but I'm not forcing you to even review. I'm just thankful for every reader I have! So, thanks. I'm dead-awful (no pun intended...but while we're on this topic, do you get it, or is that just me?) at endings. So, thanks again, and maybe I'll see you soon...not literally, as in on fanfiction, as in I read your stories, or I publish something else (and I have an idea!), or something like that. Well, that was awkward.
-Lexi
