'mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone
"Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone..."
Spirits of the Dead, Edgar Allan Poe
"I am sorry, Will Solace," Thomas Jefferson said. His voice was a quiet one, but it was the kind that made people listen.
He just nodded, half-bowing. A bitter smile formed on his face. Life was fair - and so was death. It was too bad that the truth he'd been given had also happened to be the most painful one.
"But," the man added, and he straightened. "unlike the others, you will retain basic knowledge. Speech. Senses. Emotion. Thought. A small sense of identity."
His mind spun, but finally he nodded. "Thank you," he said. That was, he supposed, the only kindness they could offer him.
Will began to walk - well, more like drift. Before he left the judges, he turned back to look back at them one more time - the last time he would ever see them. Three faces turned to look at him, too.
The last he would ever see of them was the dim light reflecting off of their cruel gold masks.
The ghosts that took his arms and that were escorting him were like machines. They had no emotions, didn't speak, and didn't care. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not, that he was able to dwell in his thoughts alone and without interruption.
The first thought that came to mind in the silence: Well, shit.
His second thoughts were, morbidly enough, about his body. He wasn't quite sure what had happened exactly. Had he been drawn to the Underwood with Nico? Was his body lying on the riverbank of the Styx, to never be noticed again? Or worse, had his brothers and sisters come back from the campfire, laughing and joking, the sputters of a half-finished song in their midst to find him on the floor, dying flowers clutched in his hand?
He could see it clearly now, the chaos that would descend. He'd seen it happen before, on the battlefield, one of the downsides of being a child of Apollo. Most of them were gifted with healing powers (and the ability to make really bad poetry), so they had a tendency to think they could heal anything and everything.
Alyss' scream, the kind that tore out of your mouth and left you breathless. Jay, who would kneel down and check for a pulse, for breathing, for anything that could possibly indicate life. And when he finally accepted it, he'd look at their waiting siblings and shake his head no.
And that would be the end.
He still remembered the first war - how they'd lost five of their count. How terrible it had been, even after months of healing and new siblings coming in, even after he'd thought he'd gotten over it.
Will had needed to be the strong one. He'd been the one holding Alyss until she finally fell asleep, exhausted. He'd been the one helping with Amy's post-traumatic stress disorder. He'd been the one telling corny jokes until Dave finally cracked a smile. Holding hands and bringing his younger siblings breakfast in bed. Singing them songs - his favorites ones from what now seemed like a lifetime ago. (Maybe.. maybe it was.)
Who would be there for them now he was gone?
He sent a little prayer to what gods would be listening - but there was only one god here, and he was not kind.
They stopped at the river. The Lethe.
He'd heard so many stories about it, but never had he imagined he would stand in front of it. It was a strange river, its currents slow and lazy. The white water was translucent, but even though he could kind of see through it, there was no bottom in sight.
The two ghosts that were escorting him let go of his arm, and he stumbled. He hadn't realized how much they'd been supporting him, lost in his thoughts as he was.
The ghost to his left gestured a hand at the river, and then the two stepped back. He had a feeling they could wait for him forever.
Trembling, he stepped forward. There had been a moment in his mortal life, when he'd stumbled towards the Apollo cabin. He'd begged - please. Not now. I don't want to die.
This was much, much worse. The river was beautiful in its strange way, but he knew that if he listened to its call, that would be it. He wouldn't be Will Solace. He wouldn't be the counselor of Cabin One, the teen who never missed, the person that loved Nico like he'd never before.
He'd just be... well, he didn't know exactly what he would be.
There was a faint whisper of sound. He looked up - and his breath caught somehow even if he couldn't exactly breathe. Nico stood on the other side of the river, Stygian sword held loosely in one hand. He was exactly as Will remembered him, tall and lanky, dressed in black with that ridiculous but admittedly cute avitar jacket around him. His hair was messy and skin pale.
He looked as much as a ghost as Will was.
"Will," the other boy said softly, almost pleading, but he was already shaking his head no.
"Nico," he said, staring at him, drinking in what would be the last thing he'd remember before it was all washed away. I'm not ready for this.
"Say something," Nico pleaded after a moment of silence. I can't.
"Tell me...," he trailed off, his voice cracking. "Tell me you love me." One last time.
"I love you, Will," the son of the Underworld said, and he could hear the truth in those words. Truth in a world built of lies and sadness, of tears and long-forgotten dreams. I can't lose myself.
He didn't say anything after that, staring at the milky waters. I can't lose you.
Will lifted his chin up, held his head high, and clung to those words, a last memory that he would hold onto as he lost everything. Then he stepped into the river, into a vast and unimaginable place where everything slipped away from his fingers.
The spirit was hauled from the river and onto the black sand beach. He did not remember anything, nothing but the fact that he was male, and he had died, and this was to be his eternity.
When he glanced back at the river and the bank beyond it, he had a vague feeling that something there was missing.
The thought was gone before he knew it.
Death - the afterlife. Live as dead for eternity? Check. Live with millions of other mindless ghosts? No one had mentioned that, though he was sure he wouldn't have remembered either way.
It was easy to figure out why.
Besides him, no one really cared. They were dead. They were brain-dead. The shitty, shitty living space and tons of poor wandering souls didn't matter to poor wandering souls. Right.
He'd tried speaking to a few of them. It hadn't worked; maybe he was an anomaly. Maybe... and this thought was terrible, but maybe the judges had deemed it so he hadn't done something bad enough to be sent to the Fields of Punishment - but he hadn't done anything quite good enough to be sent to Elysium.
Stop it, he told himself. Shut up.
Eventually, the spirit found himself next to a poplar tree, ink black with branches that reminded him of bones. Hades had really gone all out on the decoration of this place. Death and destruction galore.
He didn't know how long he sat there; time didn't matter, and there was no way to keep track of it. He stared at the other ghosts and invented stories for them - they who would never have stories of their own. He chose names and made up their families and their lives and why they had died - and somehow these stories that he told were ones that seemed so familiar but so strange.
He didn't know where they came from. Maybe from his past life - his subconscious filling in the blanks of his memory.
Next to sitting by the tree, he drifted through the crowds often. He never knew what he was doing. What he was looking for, grasping at something in his memory. He never found it, though.
And so that was how eternity went. He wondered if immortals were miserable, too.
The River Lethe was right next to Asphodel. The only thing he knew about it was what it was and why it was here. He didn't have any memory of it - which was funny, because he'd probably gotten his memories erased by that river.
Sometimes, but only sometimes, he watched other spirits be escorted to it. He didn't know why he did it. It certainly wasn't a good thing.
Some spirits cried, begging to let back to their lives. Others stayed silent, head held high and stepping without hesitation. Some fought and struggled. Others were dragged, not strong enough to make the journey on their own.
He wondered which one of those he had been.
The spirit watched as yet another ghost was escorted to the River Lethe. It was a girl, maybe his age or so. Her hair was brown, brown like the color of dirt, and as they walked past, he could make out sharp features.
She paused and turned slowly. Their eyes met.
It was a shame, he thought, staring into her green eyes. It was a shame he didn't remember her, and in a few moments, she would remember nothing of him, either. She opened her mouth to say something; recognition flitted across her features.
He reached out, pulled by some unknown thought, an instinct. She knew him. She knew him. The girl did not reach for him, but she gave a start, her hand moving at her side as if she wanted to.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "Who am I?"
Silence.
Then, finally: "My name is Katie." Katie. He repeated it in his mind and then out loud, the name so natural on his lips. Katie. The name made the presence of the Lethe all the more threatening.
"Tell me more," he begged her, feeling a desperation hold him tight in its grasp. "Please. Tell me who I am." She glanced towards the River Lethe, and when she turned back, her face was sad and drawn.
"I can't tell you that, but..," she hesitated. Katie made up her mind.
"His name is Nico," she said softly, and then Katie - whoever she'd been, whoever she'd been to him - disappeared into the milky waters, never to be seen again.
The terrible thing was that Will had been given a gift - but it was one that sent him deeper into the darkness that lurked in the corners of his mind and the Underworld.
Nico. He clung to the name in the deep nights that fell, when he felt like the world had stopped spinning for moments because it was just too much.
At least he knew who he was searching for, now. When he scanned the crowds, when he looked at the escorted ghosts, when he sat down and searched his memory.
His name was Nico, and he would be found.
The spirit had been going about his normal routine. The usual: strolling around Asphodel, pushing through moaning ghosts, attempting to climb some poplar trees. Not like he was going anywhere anytime soon.
Or at least, he had been going about his normal routine. But there was something not quite right about the Underworld. The air seemed different - more quiet, maybe. More subdued. The calm before a storm.
Every one of them felt it. A presence. All spirits of the dead could feel presences - especially when they didn't belong to this world. This person, this creature was a) alive, b) alive, and c) very much alive.
He had been walking to a poplar tree (the one on the far east side on the edge of Asphodel and near the Lethe) when he felt it. And lo and behold, when he reached his poplar tree, someone was already there.
He approached cautiously, calling out. If his heart could beat, it would beat quickly. The loneliness dragged down on him, a heavy burden to bear on no longer existent shoulders.
"Hello," he called hesitantly. The figure looked up.
"Hello," he said softly back. He made his way next to this mysterious (and very much alive) person, sitting down next to him.
He took the moment to study him. He couldn't be very old - maybe fifteen? Sixteen? He couldn't tell. It didn't matter much anyway, because holy mother of gods (Rhea), this boy was cute.
Like, drop dead cute. (Ha ha ha, he cracked himself up sometimes.)
He had messy black hair and deep brown eyes. When he looked at them, he could almost see flecks of gold. The boy was pale, but he could spot the faint beginnings of a tan. He wore a tan avitar jacket and dark jeans that made him look really good.
It wasn't like there were any rules about checking out cute boys.
"You're cute," he blurted out into the silence, and the boy froze. "Sorry."
"No, it's fine," the boy told him, a small smile working its way onto his face. "You're not half-bad yourself, hotshot."
"So," he said, desperate for an escape from cruel reality. "What's the big deal?"
"About what?"
He gestured to the boy. "You. You show up, and there's this big ripple through the whole place."
The boy nodded. "You'll get used to it soon enough. I'm the son of Hades."
The son of Hades himself. Holy cow.
"Oh," he managed to say. "What brings you to Asphodel, then?"
The son of Hades' face darkened considerably. He began to twist a skull ring around his finger, and bones shivered from underneath the ground. He himself began to feel - almost faint, weakened.
He could feel himself fading from existence. The boy noticed and stopped immediately.
"Sorry," he whispered, so quietly he almost didn't hear it. "I didn't mean to do that. Comes with the whole Underworld power package."
"Oh."
"Yeah..," the boy said, before hesitating.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words true. "I shouldn't have pried. It's not my business." The boy gave him a strange look, one he couldn't decipher, and nodded.
"No, don't be." He took a deep breath. "I'm... looking for someone."
"Oh," he repeated. "Need any help?"
The son of Hades shook his head. "I have some time, though," he offered. "You look a little lonely."
He smiled.
He made his rounds, mentally noting some of the new spirits that had popped up. Asphodel just filled and filled, didn't it.
Somehow, he made his way back to his tree and stared at it. The dark tree looked skeletal almost, like bones reaching towards the sky. Or the ceiling, whatever. He eyed it. Maybe he could climb to the top today. (He'd only gotten so far.)
Mentally preparing, he grabbed the first branch and pulled himself up onto it. There was no fear of falling or anything; after all, he was dead.
He'd gotten halfway up when the son of Hades appeared out of nowhere. He let go of the branch and hit the ground, though the impact didn't hurt at all. It simply startled him.
"Ugh," he grumbled. The boy chuckled.
"Need a hand?" he asked, extending his own. He took it and let himself be pulled up, marveling at the warmth and the - strangely familiar - feel of his hand.
"Thanks," he said, grinning.
"No problem, Sunshine," the boy replied, before catching himself. He looked at the blushing boy curiously.
"Sunshine?"
"You.. seem like the kind of person," the boy said nervously. He shrugged.
"Right, Mr. Emo." The boy glowered at him with a look that could send monsters running to mama. He wasn't phased by it much, though.
"I am not emo," he huffed. He snorted and gestured at the boy's clothing, which was all in black. (A black shirt and tight, ripped jeans that showed skin. Damn. If he wasn't dead... well.)
"Whatever you say," he teased, and the boy shook his head and laughed.
"You seem to have missed me," he noted, and he stopped laughing to look at him. A pause.
Then: "Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess. Found who you've been looking for?"
A deep breath. "No, I haven't."
"Oh, well... good luck, then," he said. And he knew it was a terrible thought, but he hoped that the boy wouldn't find who he was looking for. It was stupid - but he liked the boy.
And if he found who he was looking for, he would be left alone here. And he didn't want that.
There was a lot of time for him to think around the Underworld. The time came in which he finally realized that the son of Hades - the almighty Ghost King - knew who he was. Probably.
The next time the boy appeared, he was waiting. He'd been lingering on the edge of Asphodel, somehow managing to lean against a poplar tree without falling through it. He wondered if maybe the tree was dead, too - was that why he could lean against it? But then again, what happened when trees died? Trees decayed or turned into dirt or whatever - decomposition, that was it - but so did human bodies.
"Hello," the boy said, coming to stand across from him. He looked up sharply, surprised; he'd been so lost in the theory of what happened to trees when they died that he hadn't noticed the son of Hades appearing. "You... look nice."
Was this his way of flirting, or was he genuinely telling him he looked nice? "You look better." And he did, dressed in a sharp suit. It was all black - as usual - except for the strangely colored tie, a bright orange. "You all dressed up for something?"
Immediately, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. The boy's face closed off, darkening. "Yes," he said curtly, his fingers playing with his skull ring again, twisting it again and again. He suddenly swallowed, looking down. The ground shook slightly, and bones shivered as they were drawn to the surface. He shuddered, the power drawing him in. The boy noticed and took a deep breath. The shaking stopped, and he melted back into existence. "I.. sorry. I thought I'd visit before I left."
Unconsciously, he moved closer. The boy was warm, warmer than anything he'd ever known. It stirred something in him, an unfamiliar feeling. He was missing something.
Suddenly there was a burst of light, and a tall, willowy woman appeared next to the boy. He knew who she was immediately and dropped to his knees, bowing. She told him to rise, but otherwise paid not much attention to the spirit. She instead turned to the son of Hades - her stepson. He took the opportunity to study her. Persephone was beautiful. She appeared young, not much older than he himself, though he wasn't sure of his own age. The thought scared him. She had blonde, wavy hair that was pulled back and clipped elaborately. She wore a simple dress, brightly colored against the bleakness of the Underworld. She glowed of immortality. Her eyes, bright blue, carried a spark of life that his never would.
Her lips were curled into a faint smile. She pressed a handful of flowers into her stepson's hands. "For you," she said simply. "I thought you might want them."
"Anemone," the boy said, looking at the white petaled flowers, small in size with a large, dark center. "and carnations."
"Yes," Persephone said, looking sad. "Some of them aren't real, but I managed to get a few for you." Some looked freshly picked from the world above, but mixed in the bouquet were chilling, delicate flowers made of gemstones, fragile and thin - almost real.
"Thank you," he whispered. She nodded, her face softening slightly.
Then she turned to face him. Her lips parted in what almost seemed to be surprise. "Ah," she said, eyes bright. "How very interesting. How very interesting, indeed."
"What's interesting?" he asked, suddenly defensive. She smiled.
"Be careful," was all she said before disappearing, the smell of flowers left in her wake. He turned back to the son of Hades, who was clutching the flowers. He turned, ready to leave.
"Wait," he said, reaching out for the boy's wrist. His fingers brushed them just barely, and the boy froze. "Wait," he repeated, not knowing what to say. "Don't leave me here."
"I have to go," the boy said, turning to face him but backing away.
"The flowers," he said haltingly. The feeling that he was missing something returned: the same feeling he'd had on the riverbank of the Lethe, when he'd looked back at an empty spot, as if someone should have been there; the same feeling he'd had meeting Katie with her grass-green eyes and mysterious words; the same feeling he'd had not moments ago, standing with Persephone. The flowers. He was missing something - the flowers. "What do they mean?"
"Anemones, the forsaken, and carnations for divine love: the pink ones meaning I'll never forget him, the red meaning my heart aches for him, the striped ones meaning I wish I could be there with him, the white meaning he was sweet and lovely. He died, and I'm lost here without him." Something inside of him sank and fell and cracked. He stared into dark eyes, and then not knowing what he was doing, stepped forward and pressed their lips together.
Kissing him was indescribable. It wasn't an explosion or with the feeling of flying. It just was, in the way their lips fit together and how warm his lips were and the way he almost felt like falling through the ground because he could.
"Stop," the son of Hades gasped against his lips. "Please. Don't.. do this to me."
He reached up to touch his lips, so cold, so.. dead. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"Don't.. I just.. I'm sorry, I can't.. you could never do anything wrong, it's me. I mess things up. Everything I touch, everything I love, dies. I don't want to lose you again."
Again. That word, again. The world spun, and he focused on the flowers. Anemones. Forsaken. Abandoned, deserted, left behind.
"What was his name?" he managed to choke out.
"Will. Will... he didn't deserve any of it. It should've been me," he said. "It should have been me, dammit. I should.. I have to go."
"Don't say that," he protested, what was left of his heart shivering.
"I have to go," the boy repeated, shaking his head. He turned on his heel and dissolved into shadow. Forsaken, he thought. All that was left behind was him - and a single carnation.
Alone. That was what he had become. Completely and utterly alone.
Just... alone. He sat by his favorite poplar tree and held the carnation in between his fingers for an eternity, until it dried and darkened and crumbled to dust. Sitting there, staring out at the Lethe, he realized one thing: he would give up any chance he had at regaining memories if only the spirit could see him one more time.
"Hi," someone whispered, coming to sit next to him. He didn't turn. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. He turned his face away, chest filling up with sadness. "Aren't you talking to me?"
He shifted, feeling bitter and empty. "You left me," he said, and it was an accusation, sharp and painful. "I was alone."
A warm hand slipped in his and squeezed. His heart shuddered.
"I'm sorry."
He looked back at the son of Hades. "I know."
This time, he was the one being kissed. It was raw emotions; a rough kiss, small hands in his hair as he wrapped his arms around the other boy. He kissed him like his life depended on someone who was already dead. He kissed even though he knew this could never work: not in this lifetime.
"Don't leave," he begged when they pulled back. "Stay here."
"I can't," he said, looking away. "I can't stay here with you like.. like.." He threw his hands up, frustrated. He had tears at the corner of his eyes that fell. He didn't bother to wipe them away, so the spirit lifted his own hand and brushed away the tears.
"Why not?" he murmured, pausing, his thumb on the other boy's cheek.
"I don't belong here," he protested. "I don't belong anywhere."
"Don't be stupid," he said with an edge that surprised himself. "You belong here. With... well, with me. I love you." There was no turning back now. He'd said it, and those words could never be taken back. He wouldn't dare take them back, anyway; he meant it.
Rapid breathing. Eyes that refused to look at him.
"I know." He noted that the boy didn't say it back. He pressed another kiss to his lips, softer, gentler than before. Pleading. "Gods, I know."
But his feelings weren't returned, were they? He was the son of Hades, the Ghost King. He was someone great and funny and kind. Most of all, he was good. The kind of good he couldn't ever be; there was a reason he had ended up in Asphodel, wasn't there?
"You're right," he said finally, and the boy's head snapped up. "You can't stay here. I'm a selfish, horrible person; I don't deserve you."
He stood up, ready to walk away, when he was grabbed. "Don't ever say that again." the Ghost King cried. "I never deserved you. Not in life and not in death. But I loved you and I still love you and never once deserved you. But I let myself fall, and I let myself love you. You're... you are so much better than me in every way. And you don't get it!"
They stared at each other, two opponents locked in a battle he didn't want to fight.
Finally: "Get what?"
"I tried so hard to stay away, because I knew this was never going to work. I tried so hard, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave you, Will."
He froze. Will. That feeling, he was missing something, he was missing a lifetime of memories... but he wasn't missing it, anymore. Will.
"Nico," Will breathed, but he was already turning to leave.
"I love you too much to let you go, but I have to. I lost you a long time ago, Will."
He grabbed Nico's hand, searching his eyes. "I'm right here. You never lost me, Nico." He was shaking his head. "You were looking for me, and you found me."
Nico turned away for a second, pausing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of sweet peas, the pink flowers small enough to fit in his palm. "I lost you on December twenty-first." The words sent a chill down his back. "It was the darkest day of the year."
"No, Nico-" he started.
"You made my life so much brighter. The time I had with you, the time I had to love you.. That was one of the best times I've had in my life. Those," he gestured at the sweet peas. "are to thank you for it."
He took a deep breath and continued. "But it's also a goodbye. You left me first, Will. Now I have to leave you. I can't stay here with you however much I want to."
He was Will, yes - but he wasn't. Not really. Not anymore. No.
"Stay," he begged. No.
"I love you, dammit, more than you'll ever know," Nico finally said, his voice cracking. He kissed him, and the world stopped for just a moment. No.
"Nico," Will said, hands curling around the flowers. The goodbye, the thank you. No. He reached for the Ghost King's jacket just as he faded into shadow.
And then came the terrible, crushing feeling of falling. Where, he didn't know. There was a ripping sound as fabric tore, the whoosh of wind, the weightlessness. A pair of dark eyes met his. Then he slammed into water, cold, unforgiving, and white.
After all, a voice in his head whispered as he was swept under and away by a current. A hero's story always ends in tragedy.
