Betrothed

by TsukinArchangel

The price of love has never been cheap. Love is a hard thing to come by, even harder thing to keep. It's something that comes with sacrifice. But some sacrifices are higher than others... is the price for this love worth it?

3. Sins of Forbidden Love

A/N: OH. MY. GOD! ITS DONE! PT 3 IS FINALLY FUCKING DONE! *weeps with joy* ANyway thanks to Encantadora Rosa, and Nick and all my other friends for being there for me when I'd wanna rage and just getting me back on track! So now without further ado (I think 5 months is kind of a long enough hiatus don't you?) Here is pt3 of Betrothed: Sins of Forbidden Love! UNBETA'D CHECK OUT ME OTHER FICS TOO! ALSO LEAVE A REVIEW PLEASE! YOUR REVIEWS ARE WHAT MOTIVATE ME PEEPS! That and I'm curious as to who's your fav char, moment, place atm by the end ;3

Warnings: None

-Betrothed-

Sins of Forbidden Love

Olympus was under attack.

Fire sprung from the hilltops, leaped from building to building; screams echoing across the countryside and down the cobble-stoned streets, streams of blood seeping between the cracks, turning the ground a dirty brown as it mixed with the dirt and ash around it. A river of crimson flowed down the pathways, following the ever rising symphony of despair; leaving only destruction in its wake. Metal cladded boots and steel tipped spears, armor as black as night, capes that blotched out the moon, the air steadily growing hazy, smoke billowing in the air; the sky a deep crimson red, the flames reflected in its distortion.

Children screamed for mothers, mothers screamed for their children, begged for their safety, yet their cries were ignored. The only pity they obtained was through the kiss of death; a final pain as cold steel slipped through their flesh before the life left their eyes, their souls slipping away from the world they had known as their home. The black knights moved steadily through the carnage, silent as wisps, deadly as a plague, as dark as the endless sky. The front runners, the elite of Kronos' army, they were the ones that had no story, for no one lived to tell it, they were death incarnate; the hand of Kronos when he himself was not there.

The Order of the Dark.

The Hands of Time.

The Red Widows.

A rouge hourglass stood prominently on their chests, an emblem that instilled fear into the hearts of any who laid eyes upon it, some infernal magic twisting the small seal into something chaotic - evil - demonic in nature. A device used in the guise of Medusa, coiling that petrifying emotion into all who opposed them. Warping their emotions, grappling with that force of intimidation and pulling from the very core a phobia so dark they begged for death.

Death had become the only release in there eyes.

There had been none who could withstand their might. There would be none. Could be none. Shall never be one. For they were like the shadows, darkness only hid its face, and light - light only made it stronger. Always by your side they stayed - forever aware of your presence while their enemy remained oblivious to theirs. Until the last moment, until they no longer remained.

Another spark lost to the wind.

One that would never catch.

The peasants ran towards their castle. The symbol of hope they now took solace in. They ran for the circular walls that protected their royalty, knowing that in this time of crisis they would be saved from this plague by their might. Nothing could breech the walls of Olympus. Nothing the three kingdoms could throw at them. Nothing from this world. Nothing from heaven or Earth.

The final peasant crossed the threshold of the gates. The last survivor to make it to this oasis of hope. The Red Widows stood outside and watched as the gates began to close, their archers taking position upon the battlements above them, arrows tipped with tar and lit with fire. They took aim, drawing their bows back, feeling the tightening of the wood in their grips as their eyes scoured the darkness for a spot of crimson.

The Widows did not move.

Not even after every last one of them had a bowmen with an arrow knocked and ready to fire at their heads. They stood their ground, unwavering in their determination, they surrounded the castle. They stood just outside those golden gates, the gates that to this day had never been beaten down or broken. For nothing from this world or the heavens above could break them.

Yet the Widows remained. They felt no fear, they felt no shame, they felt no remorse, the felt nothing at all. They did not fail, they did not back down, they did not return without their prize. They were the right hands of Kronos, his avenging fist, and executioners blade. The bowmen drew their strings taut, their eyes locked on their targets. Nothing from heaven or earth could breech these walls. They let their arrows fly.

Well the Widows weren't of either.

Hell had been unleashed upon the Shining City.

-Betrothed-

Blackness. Dark and unforgiving. Spinning. Falling. Drowning. Flying. Twisting through oblivion. Unsure of up. Unsure of down. His body cascaded forward. Or was it backwards? His skin tingled, his flesh... if he could see it, standing at attention, goosebumps on every folical. As if struck by lightning.

Through a vacuum. Down a shaft. Squeezed through a straw. Molded. Melded. Mended. Broken. Pain traveled through his core. Tears flung themselves into the darkness. Nauseating. Mind numbing. Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

Disoriented beyond belief, words echoed through his mind, traveled down his spine, up his arteries in his veins his nerves, his being. Until it was properly installed into the recesses of his mind.

Thump!

Bump!

Flash!

Crash!

Faster and Faster. Higher and Higher. His mind was shutting down. His body was creaking. Aging. Dying. Cracking at the seams. Break. Break. Breaking. The pressure built. Moving through his tongue, a hot orb. A glob of suffocating fluid. Expanding. Spreading. Growing. Seeping in every pore. Hot pain. The feeling of gravity being reinstated. The feeling of being put back together. An agonizing glue as everything was forced into its spot, like a jigsaw where every piece was wrong.

Sound didn't permeate this space. Life didn't exist. Time stood still. Only night stayed. Night and shadow.

Nico fell. Nico grew. The universe was his oyster. Air grew scarce. His vision blurry. He gasped like a fish. His mind begged. His lungs screamed. Spots of darkness over layed the night. His eyes grew heavy. Tight. His limbs sluggish. Like lead.

Oblivion swallowed him.

-Betrothed-

... and if through despair one sings

The parable of darkness swells free

A light I can no longer see

A spirit tainted beyond belief

My heart is tainted

My dreams impure

Regret colors my fingers

Loathing tarnishes my soul ...

Tyson's fingers moved across the strings, strumming them, his voice a depressingly melodious swell over each sweet, pure note the instrument intoned. A crystal pinging noise; it was clear and strong, a drastic contrast to the words that left his perfectly pink, expertly puckered lips. Like the naive child it sung out free of sorrow, free of the burden that darkened the singer from which the song drew its power from, its soul. The notes floated and melded, harmonizing in a synchronistic union, one that went beyond that which could be easily seen. That which could be understood with the naked eye. Or even those who believed themselves experts of the laws of the spirit.

Indeed it was as if a cloud stood over him, forcing him to bask in a spirit crushing, mind numbing, tear inducing gray. One that made all colors seem to blend, to melt into pastels, sucking away the life and jubilation that at one time might have been attributed to him. Though it can also be said (and would be true) that even in his better days he remained caustic and narcissistic. It can only be blamed on the fact that everything was handed to him on a silver platter. A mistake the royals were blind to fix, in reality blind to even see.

No, they had been too busy running the kingdom, fulfilling everyone else's desires: "Oh mi'lord please spare us some seed for our farms." "Oh! mi'lady my wee little welp is ill, please spare 'im a doctor!" Ever the caring dictators, the positive monarchs, the ones that ruled the people into a golden age. Yes they had been too busy for poor little Tyson. The King's Bastard. The Mistake of the Kingdom. An embarrassment. A well kept secret. Those days had been the hardest for the boy.

It wasn't like the King and Queen had purposefully neglected him, it just slipped their minds - and that made it all the worse - he hadn't even been on the agenda. They left him to the wet nurses, the maids, the servants and butlers. They were the ones who attended his every need, fulfilled his every desire, filled him to the brim with anything his mind could think of. There were no limits, no end to what could be accomplished with a few choice words... well when he finally learned to talk.

That was the other thing, for the longest Poseidon and Sally feared him mute and dumb. He did nothing but stare into space and scream. They thought his lack of mental development meant him less capable than other children. Another reason to keep him hidden. A subconscious truth that the royals played into against what reason told them.

In all actuality it was just the only way Tyson knew to get his parents attention. All he wanted was to be loved, to be noticed. Held. Sang to. Spoken to. By his parents.

No amount of material wealth could mask that single base urge.

It can be supposed that Tyson's seemingly uncharacteristically self centered ways can only be explained as another form in which the now walking and talking older boy lashed out. An act. Another way he felt he could gain attention. For that's what he craved; by this time Triton had been born, another distraction from himself, and Triton, unlike himself, was not a disappointment.

Time passed and slowly yet surely Tyson did more and more to try and show himself worthy of attention. He showed an interest in the arts, excelling in music; he would try to perform for his parents but they would always brush him aside. They didn't have time for trivial things like entertainment. It was not becoming of a royal to be so invested in comedic interests. It was not befitting of a future king (for at this time he still was the heir). He should be spending more time learning strategy and combat, less time in the clouds and looking pretty. There would be no time for that in war.

It broke Tyson's heart it did. It hurt all the more knowing that he couldn't truly hate his parents either. They never beat him, never denied him his clothes or make-up or any of the other myriad of things most would deem "queer" or "unusual" or "unnatural" for a boy to desire. He couldn't hate them, because... they wouldn't listen.

They never listened.

Only Percy would.

Tyson stopped playing and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, baby soft smooth skin brushing away the salty liquid sorrow that threatened to spill from the confines of his seeing orifices. And returns the guilt. The stabbing pain that lodged itself in his chest like a poisoned bolt. A thing that ate at the inside of ones body and mind until they went insane. He betrayed his family yes, but his family hadn't ever really cared about him. All of them but Percy, and Tyson had ruthlessly stabbed the sea prince in the back with hardly a second thought. How could he?

His shoulders began to shake, a deranged smile on his lips. What was wrong with him? Was he going crazy? Ha! A bubbling laugh. Forced through sealed lips. He laughed through his tears, a hysterical sounding psychosis of the spirit. Or perhaps the mind. It was easy. Obvious. He knew why. Because he was jealous, because his youngest brother had something he did not. He had love. Percy'd always been loved; he was father's favorite, he was a favorite among the servants and even his mother had a special place just for him in her heart.

Tyson placed the lyre in his hands shakily to the side, resting it beside him and bit his lip. Blood welled where tooth met flesh, pushing, ripping, puncturing through sensitive nerve endings and tissue to the soft insides below. He still couldn't help the anger that swept through him at the thought of everything that went Percy's way. He could do no wrong, and wrong refused to follow him. Or even show him its blasted face. Yet everything Tyson did ended in disappointment or an upturned nose or a downtrodden expression.

What did he ever do to deserve that?

Live?

Red hair hung low over his face. Tyson's mouth set in a trembling line. An aura of darkness settled over him. Wind shifted the pages of his notebook, ruffled through his clothes and caressed his cheeks. It made him feel even colder. Emptier. Just like the city in which he resided.

Tartarus had claimed his soul.

-Betrothed-

"...s he dead?"

"I don't know, give me space."

Fingers gently pressed against his neck, someone's warm breath tickling his cheek.

"He's still breathing... and he has a pulse... "

"That constitutes as alive right?"

The light moved above him, hitting his eyes, and Nico felt the air shift around him; the person must have moved.

"Yes Frank,... for his kind it does."

"His kind?"

"Human Frank, you know what a human is, I take you to the market all the time, don't play dumb."

"Hmmm, Hazel?"

"What?"

"Why doesn't he wake up? And... how'd he get here if he isn't like us?"

"I don't know," Hazel's lips quirked into a playful smirk. "Why don't we ask him? Ikni!"

A shock. Hazel's eyes flashed gold and a feeling like a thousand volts of lightning surged through him. Sudden and direct; Nico gasped, eyes flying open, back arching, a burst of energy pushing against his chest, pressing down against the garbs that donned his back. A heady out of body feeling filled his senses, the air becoming thick, palpable, like an invisible film covering everything in its wake. Intoxicating, sweet and sour, dark and light, mysterious and seductive.

Just out of his reach.

Out of his grasp, out of his control, fleeting, ephemeral; it was over. The power dissipated disappearing, reverting to that natural state of untapped potential. Draining away. His mind cried out "No!", his body hungered for its touch, for the feeling of security and strength it gave him. A feeling that, now gone, left him powerless; empty. Worthless. Nico breathed, the near high his body felt siphoned away, his muscles ached, his mind cried out for more. He was like an addict that had gotten his first fix. Never to be satisfied by a lesser substance again. He would do anything, pay any cost to feel that power again.

Nico sat up shakily, the thin fabric blanket draped across him from shoulder to foot, slipping from his shoulders and pooling down at his middle revealing the damaged shirt underneath. He rolled his neck, wincing slightly as the movement worked the stiffness of the hard stone floor out of his muscles, his arms almost giving out from the simple action, his coal black eyes taking in the room he now resided in.

It was a simple place. One room made of stone, a thatched roof supported by wooden timber, glass-less open aired windows, a light covering of straw strewn about the floor to retain just a mere fraction of the heat the cold threatened to take away. A stone hearth rested behind him; he could hear the crackle of flames and the warmth against the nape of his neck, pinpricks of sweat beginning to pool there. A wooden table sat in one corner a shelf of books beside it. Many more lined the walls adding a certain livable clutter to the place, adding character and inciting more curiosity in his ever suspicious mind.

"What was that?" He asked, voice raw and raspy from the lack of use.

The dark skinned girl, one who appeared to be only slightly younger than himself if at all, looked up, her diaphanous garb leaving little of her physique left to the human imagination. The fire glinted off her golden eye shadow, dark chocolate eyes staring into him with the wisdom of a girl more than twice her age. Her hands lay in her lap and her hair rested on the top of her head in a neat bun, strange markings, characters he'd never seen before, crawled their away across her flesh. He gulped - even as he watched they began to fade away, leaving her skin as silky smooth as a babies bottom.

"What are you?" Slight fear evident in his eyes though his voice and body showed none of it, an aspect of his father's training surfacing as he dealt with the mysterious girl.

The girl, Hazel, he remembered another person saying her name - a boy - one who he now spotted slouching against the far wall beside a large bed on the other side of the room now bathed in shadow, cocked her head to the side and fixed him with a curious glance. "We could ask you the same thing."

Nico's face scrunched in confusion. "What do you mean? I'm human. You said it yourself."

"You heard that hm? Well then-," she clapped her hands together, "I beg to differ. You most certainly are not 'human'." Hazel paused again before continuing. "At least not in the traditional sense. Not anymore."

She stood and for a second her form shifted, a temporary transparency a flash, as if seeing through some sort of veil, Nico blinked, surprised and it was gone. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd imagined it. "Then what am I?"

She reached over him, her gown swishing over her body forcing Nico to turn away, grabbing the tea pot that rested on the hearth as a light blush dusted his cheeks, one that could be easily blamed by the heat against his neck, and hidden by the shadows dancing on his face.

"Frank dear, please bring me the cups, we can't be ungracious hosts now can we?"

The boy huffed and pushed himself away from the wall before strutting over to one of the cabinets by the table and taking out a tray of cups, the gentle clinking echoing in the room. Nico's eyes followed his movements, it was slightly comical seeing him do this considering the vast amount of muscle that rippled right under his skin. It was like watching a bear pick up a flower. Or maybe cuddling a bunny rabbit it didn't intend to eat. Something ridiculous like that.

Frank quickly closed the space between them and placed the tray on the ground beside Hazel who elegantly began pouring tea into the oddly pristine china cups. Nico kept quiet, watching the dark steaming liquid fill the cups one at a time. Hazel hummed quietly to herself and placed the kettle back on the hearth behind him.

"Tea?" She asked.

"What am I?" Nico repeated, his voice hardly more than a growl, ignoring the extended cup in front of him.

Hazel cocked her head again. "No tea then?" Nico glared, and Hazel shrugged, retracting her hand and placing the cup to her lips. She raised an eyebrow and took a sip. "Mmm - delicious - isn't that right Frank?"

Frank fixed a steely stare on the young di Angelo boy - not even taking a sip - before nodding in response, finally bringing the cup to his lips.

Nico made a face, lips scrunching in an obvious look of irritation, his fingers drumming on his lap while he watched them slowly drink the tea from their cups. "Are you going to answer my question?"

Hazel continued to sip, quietly and delicately bringing the cup to her lips, before finally setting it aside, empty, on the tray. She looked behind him, glancing momentarily at the hearth before focusing her attention on Frank, waiting until he set his cup down to begin speaking.

Nico's face remained an impeccable mirror of disdain as he watched the chocolate skinned girl's mind work in front of him. Why wouldn't she just give him a straight answer? He'd already waited over five minutes for her to finish her blasted tea! He was growing restless, the metaphorical ants on his legs pattering across almost every inch of him. He needed release, a release from this blasted conundrum that was the mystery of what he was.

Nico huffed, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips, before growling, "just tell me dammit."

Hazel looked at him, surprised by his outburst and replied evenly. "Well that's the simple part- you're an Adept, Nico di Angelo, first prince, or rather, Lost Prince, of Tartarus." She smiled, the shock written on Nico's face mildly amusing. "Welcome to the realm of the Gods."

-Betrothed-

The ride back to Elysium was a quiet one.

But it was anything but peaceful.

Again Nico's head rested against the window pane. Agian he was unable to look out. Again his wrists and ankles were bound in chains. Again his silver crown of thorns bit into his scalp. The carriage lurched, bounced and lunged across the cobbled streets, the sound of wooden wheels on stone echoing in a muted fashion through the few cracks the sound could find.

Nico's eyes traveled across the carriage - face still glued to the cool glass that fogged momentarily every time his breath left his nose - settling on the slender curly blonde lad that was now across from him. The new variable, the thing that had changed. Apollo, Second Prince in the line of Castellan. Nico huffed and maneuvered himself into less of a slouch, carefully trying not to jar his chains against his wrists any more than necessary; they were raw enough as it is.

Nico tried to relax, tried to school the calm and cool, apathetic, exterior he had mastered long ago and wore like coat on a rainy day - something he did as easily and automatically as breathing - and felt the velvet softness of the plush seat cushions beneath him. But it was no use, no matter how he closed his eyes, how he tried to ignore the sharp bite of metal on flesh or the rub of wood against the junction of his knee, these things continued to come back, to mock and humiliate him.

Remind him he was worthless.

His breath began to come in shallow, and he bit his lip, forcing down the nauseating panic that welled within him - that threatened to spill from his lips and further ruin the imagine he tried to maintain.

His fingers glided against the steel of his ring absentmindedly.

Oh Percy, if only he was here now. He felt the groves against his thumb, felt how perfectly smooth it was now in places were his fingers had worried away the inscriptions. But he knew them by heart anyway. Imagining Percy's voice, imagining he was here, if just for a moment gave him the strength to continue on for just a little while longer.

His finger made its way to the engraved trident. He felt the prongs underneath his finger, the deep groves that had yet to even begin to wear.

But for how much longer could he resist? There was no denying it now. He was breaking. Falling. Drowning. Deeper into the darkness he went, further from the light, further from the goal he had in mind. He could hardly even remember what love felt like. All that was left was anger and a boiling rage that craved nothing but blood.

"Oi desmoí ti̱s oikogéneias eínai ischyróteroi apó tous desmoús ti̱s moíras." The words left his lips almost subconciously, slipping from his grasp like invisible threads of string.

The ledge he grabbed for and just barely missed.

Apollo looked up, Nico's soft voice jarring him from his thoughts. "What?"

Nico opened his eyes. "Hmmm?"

He could see Percy's smile now, seductive, and sure; hear his timbre, remember the feel of his breath as he whispered those words in his ear after a moment of bliss.

"What did you say? Didn't sound like the Common Tongue."

Nico's eyes focused back on the curtain blocking his view of the outside. "It wasn't."

Apollo scoffed. "That much was obvious," he paused. "Are you going to tell me what it means?"

Nico smirked a very Percy-like smirk, one that quickly faded. It wasn't like Apollo would know. "No."

Apollo rolled his eyes. "It's a long ride you know."

Nico nodded. "I do."

Apollo shrugged and opened the book he'd been reading back up, "if you want to talk I'm always willing to drop the teachings of Socrates... there're only so many questions you can take in a day." he mumbled, more to the book than anyone in particular.

Nico glared. "I don't need your pity," he growled under his breath, eyes blazing and jaw set.

Apollo waved a hand noncommittally, eyes not leaving the page. "That pride of yours will be your downfall."

"I'll be sure yours comes first."

With that last scathing remark, the carriage fell back into silence. Nico staring at nothing, Apollo reading a book. His mind wandered back to Percy, something it tended to do ever more frequently, seeing that it was the one thing that kept him sane. Human. He knew what the inscription meant. It was engraved in the ring, part of the area that had been worn away.

The bonds of family are stronger than the bonds of fate.

If only that were true now. If it were he wouldn't be stuck in Tartarus, his family wouldn't be dead, and he could still be with Percy at school, or in Atlantis, living happily as can be. Worry free and in love. The way they had been for that first six months.

Before everything went to hell.

"I'm not like Luke you know, I don't want to hurt you," Apollo said without looking up from his book. "I don't hate you."

Nico scoffed. "And a hog doesn't shit."

"Well, it's true, take it or leave it."

Nico snorted. "I don't think so, hogs shit like the rest of us."

That had Apollo looking up. "What?"

"You said it's true," Nico smirked. "Last I checked hogs had asses too."

Apollo cracked a smile. "I feel like you just tried to make a joke and failed miserably. Am I right?"

"Perhaps," Nico conceded with a light chuckle, "joking was never my specialty, that was Percy's depart-" He trailed off, eyes growing melancholy, jovial mood dissipating quickly. "That was his area of expertise."

Apollo regarded him silently before sighing and closing his book with a snap; Nico looked up. "You two were really close weren't you." It was more a statement than a question.

Nico sighed, wishing he could run a hand through his hair, but knowing it was impossible. "Yeah," he said, there was no point in denying it, honestly he'd figured they all knew. He had been kidnapped in Percy's room, in Percy's bed only wearing pants and underwear.

Percy's underwear.

"You could say that."

Apollo looked at him. "I'm sorry." His voice was soft and Nico could see a flash of guilt in his eyes.

Nico huffed. "Thanks, but a sorry doesn't change anything," He glanced back at the curtained window, not wanting to see Apollo's despaired expression. What right did he have to look depressed anyway? It wasn't he who was forced to stay here against his will. "I'm still stuck here, forced to lie to my people," Nico's face contorted with disgust. "I don't deserve this crown, even if it is nothing more than a prop now."

Apollo's eyes continued to bore into him. He cleared his throat and Nico dragged his eyes away from his sightless view; Apollo's voice coming out as a whisper when he spoke. "If I could help you I would."

Nico scoffed before turning his dejected gaze on Apollo. He sighed. "But you can't."

Apollo matched his stare. "No," he let out a breath. "I can't."

"Then that's it isn't it."

Apollo gulped. "Yes... I guess it is."

-Betrothed-

"Adept?" Nico's brow scrunched in confusion. "What the bloody hell is that?" He probably would've commented further by inquiring into whether they were truly sane or not, but considering the fact he had just witnessed the girl's magic first hand, even seen the marks fade from her otherwise unblemished flesh, well... to question her sanity would be the equivalent of questioning his own.

And he had no desire to believe himself crazy.

He had enough problems as it was without adding that on top of them.

Hazel leveled her gaze on him, dark eyes filled with more wisdom than he felt comfortable with seeing in a girl her age. It made him feel naked -inferior- and he hated it. "Your pride will be your downfall di Angelo, unless you learn to quench its thirst." She said as she flicked her wrist, the tea kettle and cups hovering away from the platter to some some other corner of the room. Nico's eyes followed the movement, innately fascinated by the girl's power, still honestly not sure whether he was dreaming or not.

If this was heaven, Nico was feeling jipped.

Big time.

"I'm not dead am I?" Nico asked gesturing to himself, dark brows lifting in inquiry. "Adept's not some perverse name for Angel is it?"

Hazel laughed; it was an annoyingly pleasant sound. "Why you're as ridiculous as expected."

Nico glared. "What's that supposed to mean."

"Nothing, just-," She took a breath and wiped her eyes, mouth twitching slightly as she tried to resist the urge to smile. "You're very original in your way of thinking. You're not a narrow-minded tactician of the physical world like your lover, Perseus Jackson. I like it. Respect it even. It shall prove to be of more use to you than you may think. Perhaps even your greatest weapon."

Nico frowned, his thumb immediately beginning to worry at the ring on his finger at the mention of Percy. "Percy's not... narrow-minded, he's the smartest man I know - wait... Jackson? Percy Jackson? His last name is Jackson?!"

Hazel smirked in his direction again, her hand reaching out to grab a cup only to stop midway, remembering they were no longer there. She frowned, and Nico got the distinct feeling that tea was more than just a drink for her. It was almost like she drank it just to irk him to some new profound height; acting as her device for dramatic effect. And now it was gone. A dark smile spread across Nico's face. Boo- hoo.

"Yes, Jackson, third son of Poseidon and Sally Jackson, third in line to the throne of Atlantis, indeed one of the smartest people alive in the three kingdom's, yet extremely, unbelievably dense. His views of reality are blinded to what he reads, what he see's and what he hears. If there is no proof, no scientific, or logical explanation then it does not exist. It is a flaw. A thing that will prove to be a hindrance to him just as your pride will be to you."

"Two sides of the same coin is what you two are. And for each strength you two have comes a weakness. Be glad you are not Percy, for the greater the strength, the greater the weakness. The greater the Achilles heel. And Percy... his weakness's are great. His burdens greater."

"You ask me what an Adept is. Well. It is one who bears a great burden. One who's choices will effect your world in one form or another. One who'll steer the human race into a new era." She paused to breath and Nico remained silent, willing her to continue. "But there is more to it than that, both you and Percy are Adept's in your own respective ways, each of you shall bear a mark, one you bear already, and together you will move the world. But you- " Hazel jabbed her finger in his direction, and Nico instinctively moved back, "you are even more special, you have been granted extra time. The God's have seen fit to extend your life. And the privilege to use their sacred art. The power that created the world."

"The thing you call... magic."

For a moment everything was still. Not a creature breathed, not a thing moved. Everything was silent. Still. Waiting. Even the fire quieted in anticipation.

Nico gulped and ran a shaky hand through his bangs."No way- I don't - I can't - Percy should - ," Nico took a breath and ran his tongue over his lips nervously, hand tugging gently at his hair as he tried to get his point across. "I don't deserve it. Take it back."

Hazel laughed, holding her arms out in an open gesture. "Well, I'm not a God, not even close, nor do I control what they do, I'm merely their eternal messenger," She smirked and in that moment Nico saw a flash of dark humor that he had seen so often in his own family, "besides even if I could - which I can't - I wouldn't change a thing, I rather do enjoy the sight of your squirming, it brings me great-" She made a noise in the back of her throat and spun her hand in thought, "amusement." She finished.

Nico huffed and glared, crossing his arms over his thin frame. "Fine," he paused and set his jaw looking off to the right - away from her, eyes settling on some random object, a vase filled with god knows what. "At least tell me what the Mark is. What does it do?"

She clapped her hands together. "Oh that's easy!" She beckoned him over with her pointer finger. "Get up and turn around." She demanded.

He made a face, "bossy," but did as he was told.

Hazel only smiled and placed a delicate hand on the middle of his back. "But you asked, it's not like I'm telling you to jump off a cliff."

The raven haired boy's brows scrunched. "How the hell did you even come to that conclusion?"

"Isn't that something humans say to one another? 'If everyone jumped off the cliff would you follow?'" She looked over at Frank who just shrugged. "Don't look at me, I go out less than you do."

Nico sighed. "It is but... it had nothing to do with the situation."

Hazel hummed in thought and tapped a finger against his back, Nico made a small noise of protest in the back of his throat. "I'll keep that in mind. Now then... this- this might hurt. A lot."

"Wait, wha- OW!" Nico flinched away, the sudden searing sensation coursing through him. His body tensed and tingled at the point of contact and he felt a bottled up energy flowing within him, just beneath the surface. He gasped, it felt like he was going to explode.

"Lift up your shirt."

He gasped. "I- I can't."

Hazel frowned. "Of course you can."

Nico shook his head, body trembling, the pressure building, swirling, whirling moving within him like a hurricane, searching eagerly for an exit but finding none, just remaining. Growing stronger. Pulling him apart, pushing at every seam in his body, wanting out, wanting to be free. He realized what it was. It was the same feeling he'd felt only moments before when Hazel had forced him to awaken. His wish had been granted, he had the power, but now it was out of his control.

Hazel put a hand on the back of his neck, felt the sheen of sweat beneath her fingers; felt below that, felt the thrum of power she'd awakened within him from a simple touch. She often times forgot how fragile the human form was, how... squishy, and fleshy, how easily broken. She'd knocked on the doorway that connected the young prince to the world of the arcane - a wild new found power - and forced it open.

Nico had no way of coping, no way of channeling, no way of forcing it back and it was eating him alive. Even if he remained in this world between worlds that Hazel lived in, the force would eat at his sanity, claw at it, choke him between its fingers and his mind would turn to mush. Even as it was, the moment he left this place the magic would be even more volatile, more uncontrollable than before, for that was the nature of his abilities. The form it chose to take, the form that his will commanded it to be.

A force of destruction.

A tool for vengence.

An energy to be controlled by that base feeling of hate and anger, by the swallowing madness that seeked a foothold in his mind; by the darkness of his soul.

She trailed a finger down his neck, and rubbed gentle circles on his back. "Breath," she whispered. Hazel could see the marks against his flesh, flashing an angry red, pulsing black and crimson, churning like the murky depths of a mountain of fire, chaotic and untamed.

Nico took a shaky breath and cried out as another spasm of pain wracked through his body.

"Breath, Nico, breath," She commanded. "Open yourself to me, don't fight the touch, let me help you."

Nico whimpered and his spine tightened to the point Hazel worried it would snap. He felt her touch, and he tried to relax but he couldn't. He could feel the undercurrent of what was happening too, he could feel her trying to enter his subconscious pass between those layers of his mind meant to be private. There were things he didn't want to recall, things he didn't want to remember-

Things he didn't want others to see.

She pushed and pushed, but his will was unyielding, he could already feel the memories swirling within him, feeding the flames that licked at the recesses of his spirit - feeding his determination - devouring his sanity.

"You have to control it Nico, it is within your control, if not the Gods wouldn't have deemed you worthy of wielding it. Don't fight the flow."

"I'm," gasp, "trying."

She hit him on the back of the head. "No you're not, you're fighting it, the power isn't something you fight, you and it are one and the same, an extension of your basest will and desires, listen to it and find that you are of one mind."

"What does it want to accomplish?"

"I- I don't-"

Another slap. "Then shut up and listen, or do you want to end up insane? If so, by all means continue with what you're doing."

Nico gritted his teeth. "Fine." If one thing could be said about him it was his stubborn spirit. He was not one to give up easily; the perk of retaining his sanity was just a plus.

A really, really big plus.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the swirling masses, the shadowy figures, hazy, murky hardly definite, but he knew who they were innately. He knew it was his family all over again. The moment of their death. Fire. Fiery emotions. Broken thoughts. But they all came to the same conclusion.

Revenge.

Kill the one who killed his own. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Balance and reconciliation. It's what the arcane craved, the same thing he wanted. To raze the world to the ground. No. Shake his head. Not the world. Tartarus. Kronos. Kronos. Only Kronos. Sweat built on his brow. The core was the same. They both wanted to achieve the same thing, but at the same time it was startlingly different.

Nico saw what he had to do now. Nico was the trigger - the sight and the battery of the weapon. The weapon didn't care about what it killed. What was in it's way as long as the one it wanted dead was dead. Nico had to guide it, to pull the leash taut when needed and stop it from running wild. That was the agreement, the bargain, the gamble. Could he accept it? Could he control - no - lead this volatile force on the path of just retribution?

Yes.

His power was chaos.

Destruction.

The end.

It was death.

And he would be the one to unleash it upon the world.

-Betrothed-

Apollo sighed - straight blonde wisps sticking up at mildly haphazard angles, and rolled his neck, locking Nico's door with one hand whilst the other massaged the back of his head, his mind elsewhere as he recounted the conversation that had taken place on the carriage ride back to the castle Elysium. The Lost Prince's words ate at his conscious mind like a degrading sickness. But it wasn't just the words that had affected him now was it? It was that sad, lonesome, broken look that had accompanied it, the look of someone just barely hanging onto the hope that somehow things would get better but at the same time realizing that no, nothing will. That things would only get worse from here on out.

"But you can't"

Three simple words that held more weight than a ton of bricks. It was true wasn't it? He couldn't do anything, anything at all without risking the wrath of his father's rage. Apollo flinched and rubbed his elbow, wincing at the very thought of it. He remembered the one time he dared cross his father on a matter he was adamant about very clearly. How could he forget?

He'd left a mark.

Still, the golden haired prince couldn't help but wonder how he'd feel in Nico's position. Would he be fairing any better? Probably not. In all honesty he'd probably be far, far worse. The raven haired lad was tougher than his slender figure let on. He radiated authority... a certain regal charm... power.

Apollo knew Nico wasn't one to crack easily and knowing that even this prideful figure was slowly breaking was enough to make himself sick. What could Nico have possibly seen that would send him into such a state of trembling complacency whenever Kronos walked into the room? Apollo feared he didn't want to know.

In a way he looked up to Nico. He idolized him slightly, it was hard not to. He was just the type of person you couldn't help but want to please despite how sour of a mood Nico could be found in, but again could you blame him for having a certain cynical outlook after everything he'd been through?

Apollo's footsteps echoed in the near empty hallways, the hefty book filled with the teachings of philosophers he could care less about slowly began slipping from his grasp. He adjusted it with a slight grunt, temporarily switching hands to wipe a sweaty against the fabric of his tunic before looking up at his surroundings. Somehow he'd wandered to some less used part of the castle, a place he had yet to properly explore. Nothing looked familiar. He made a face. Wonderful.

He sighed, he supposed he could backtrack if he really wanted to, but he was a curious soul by nature and he wondered what secrets this wing of the castle may have.

"I should've left this blasted book in my room." He mumbled as he trudged up a flight of steps. In all actuality he could probably just leave it on the steps and come back to get it later. That would probably be a good idea considering there really were no other markers to remind him of which way he had come from. It wasn't like it really had a high chance of being stolen, the fine layers of dust that covered everything told him that yes, indeed, no one had been down this passageway for many years. Still the notion didn't sit well with him, his stomach twisting in a mildly nauseating manner, the Gods know why.

Was Apollo a coward? Was he truly that afraid to do what his heart told him was right? He must be, how else could he explain away the fear that accompanied him where ever he went. The feeling of cold icy dread crept along his spine, the fear that his father would see him do something he wasn't supposed to, and reprimand him. Scold. Punish-

Abuse.

He almost felt a need to laugh, there he was, too afraid to even leave a book he didn't remotely care about on the ground for five minutes. If he was too scared to even do that, how in all the land was he supposed to help a prisoner? His father would know. Know that he tried to help him, know that he thought of treason, patricide. That's how he justified his cowardice. His father always knew. Always.

Another turn and Apollo barely noticed as the corridors grew slightly dimmer -marginally so. Strange grotesque shapes, statues of horrible atrocities, tortures of the most gruesome sort began to line the walls, glass less open aired windows sending chilly drafts into the corridor. Apollo licked his lips, and resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself, an aborted motion that saved him from having to collect the tome in his arms from the floor.

The way the thin light slipped and slid across the walls, the ceiling, illuminating the... unique- artistry while warping their shadows - pulling and compressing - lengthening and stretching - casting some of the bloodier aspects in shadow whilst others even more disturbing were thrust into horrible clarity, sent chills down his spine. What could this wing have been used for? What had been its purpose?

Had it been a realm for inquiry and torture? That seemed like the most logical conclusion, the lack of light, the way windows were positioned -forced to, at all times, cast shadows across all surfaces, releasing the inner demons of the subconscious mind - how this wing felt utterly isolated from the others - ostracized, all of it supported his assumption. Either that or the di Angelo's had a very peculiar sense of beauty and decor.

That thought managed to bring a small wobbly smile to his face, began to shed some light in the darkness, make the shadows seem less ominous. He focused on his breathing, the steady in and out, the chill it left in his lungs, the heady rush that kept him alive. Yes, that was the one comfort he had, the sounds of his feet against hard stone old as the castle itself, the echo as it reverberated from one wall to the next, tangible, there, real. What was real was what there was to fear, these shadows were nothing but that, shadows, his subconscious run wild. Focus on the actual, the tangible and fear takes a back seat.

A light at the end of the hall, the wind whistled across its opening in an almost mournful sounding cadence, pitches rising and falling in a dynamic not unlike an eulogy for the dead. It sent cold tingles down his spine. Yet he moved towards the pale light, had he not just had the revelation that he would not fear what could not hurt him? His legs carried him towards the exit, the glow weak and flimsy and dour as if even the light of this damnable place had resigned itself to a fate of utter defeat and despair.

He scoffed. When had he gotten such a depressing outlook on life? When had he even begun to see things in such morbid colors, words, phrases? Was it before his father had left his first true mark? Was it when his father began conquering people? When he forced them to move, when his brother began to emulate their father in every way, becoming the cruel sociopath his father wanted them to be? Was it before Tartarus? Was it after? Was it Atlantis? Was it Elysium? Was it himself?

So many variables, so many conclusions, so many possibilities, but did it really matter when it began? He didnt' think so, all that mattered was what he'd do with it, with the knowledge he now contained.

He stepped out of the dank dark, and followed the mournful moaning of the wind.

No.

It wasn't the wind.

It was a voice, a human voice.

Tyson's voice, a voice of someone whose heart may be even more conflicted and weighted with guilt than Apollo's own.

And if through my pain restitution could be gained

Apollo walked steadily forward, the innocent lilt of the red haired prince's voice masked something darker, sadder, full of a weight a childlike voice should not contain. Something that basked in the shadows just beneath the surface.

If through sin punishment was detained

But Tyson was no child now was he? No he was as old as the rest, yet fate had dealt him a lucky hand, one that had kept him sheltered and naive, a world were all went as he liked it. As others grew accustomed to the world, he became more withdrawn from it, safe behind his masks of make-up and clothes of silk. Hmm... perhaps he wasn't so lucky after all.

If envy colored the world white

Apollo felt something stir in his soul, something that made him glance behind him, the words that fell from those lips, colored his skin a ghostly almost transparent shade. Could Tyson realize he was there?

Would my soul not be claimed as pure?

Pure or impure it did not matter now did it? Sympathy begets good intentions, yet sympathy does no more than that. It was but a feeling a thing to motivate action, yet more often than not it was pushed aside, locked away - eyes made blind to it as they tried their damnedest to forget.

Yet it is known through trials and trails long past

To not know what they knew. To not do what they were compelled to do. To see the horrid face of evil and let it have its way.

That reality scorns sinners till the last

Apollo gulped and licked his lips. He was no better than his father now was he? He was just as he was meant to be. The good son. The son that did not interfere. The son that saw the evils around him and did nothing to stop them. Blind. Unaware. Oblivious. His fists clenched.

If fear holds my heart

It sent nothing but hot blooded anger through him.

If bad imprisons good

In a raging cacophony of confusion, one in which views of reality inverted - became a world in which dark was light and light was dark - would that not then be the apocalypse? If all morals where thrown to wind, if all order was turned to chaos, would that not in itself be some sort of hellish rapture?

Does that make me no better than a devil?

Indeed it did. Did it not? And that was probably the saddest truth of all. If he was to have no guilt in his heart - no regrets - then he had no choice. He must swallow his fear, no not swallow... embrace it, face it as it was, understand it and then accept it. If he tossed it aside he'd be exposed, and where his father was concerned being exposed was the same as being dead.

Apollo's eyes snapped up.

"But you can't"

His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists.

Yes he can.

-Betrothed-

"No, Nico, focus you're killing - not helping - it!" Hazel reprimanded, smacking him lightly on the top of his head. Nico gritted his teeth, sweat trailing down his face and exposed chest, muscles tense with the amount of focus he was putting into the task at hand.

His arms trembled lightly, and his hair was matted to his head, the hot sun beating down on him. He was supposed to be transferring the life of one thing to another, but all he seemed to be able to do was drain it; keeping it to himself.

"This... t-this isn't as easy as it looks," Nico grunted out, once again opening the flood gate, that invisible "third" all - seeing - eye that he knew his magic resided in, reaching out with tentative fingers as he grasped at the new seed placed in front of him. He took a breath and closed his eyes, felt the world shift as his sense of reality moved to that higher plane, the plane that all things were connected to, the plane of the Arcane.

At first the incoming waves of nausea had been too much, and the moment he'd enter that dual sense of reality he'd be knocked back out -reeling - gasping for air, vomiting on the grass, body wracked with seizure like spasms, his body unable to withstand the strain it left on him. But that didn't last forever. No, if anything can be said about humans it is their ability to adapt, to grow, to be able to withstand what they previously thought they couldn't.

And Nico was nothing if not persistent.

So it grew easier. Each time the shift became a little less harsh, and he lasted in its realm a little longer, until finally he could do it with hardly any effort at all.

Nico sighed, and waited for the slight dizziness to subside, a part that no matter how good he got at Shifting would never go away - a sensation that was not entirely unpleasant- waiting for that little electric tingle that traveled across his body and made the hair on his arm stand on end settle into something no more obvious than a low hum around his body.

He opened his eyes, and blinked, letting them focus again as the dual images from the two planes merged into something constant that his feeble human mind could process.

Hazel nodded and tapped Nico's empty hand - lightly placing the other seed in it- when he opened his fist. "Ready?"

Nico took another breath, saw the red and black molten like runes sliding sluggishly across his skin and nodded. "Yeah."

"Begin."

Inhale. He felt the pull, the darkness settle over the seed in his right hand, felt the greedy tendrils of death grab at it, forcing its way through its crisp pure form. It ravished the seed, ripped it apart, he felt his power chuckle with glee, he imagined it having a sadistic grin as it moved through it, taking the life it craved. It left the one, drained to nothing, lifeless, the small seed that never had a chance to grow - and entered himself. He felt a surge of energy and gasped, felt as it revitalized him; the arcane within him letting out a satisfied sigh.

Nico bit his lip, life now swirling within him, life that wasn't his own and he redoubled his efforts, as he felt the arcane try to devour it fully. No. That wasn't what he wanted. Move. Move out of him. Move to the other hand. Up and out. Listen to him. He was the trigger. The control, not the arcane. He commanded it, he guided it, it shall listen. It must listen.

"Out damn you," he growled out.

Down from the right arm. Up through the stomach. Across to the left arm. Down again, moving, moving, moving. Closer. Through the wrist. Up to the hand. Almost there. Almost. Listen. Listen. LISTEN!

Nico broke skin, his lip now bleeding from the force of his bite. Blood dribbled out of the wound and down his chin and Nico forced harder still. Come on. Come on.

"Listen to me dammit."

A bead of sweat, his body shuddered as the arcane fought his will. Nico grasped at the life just there under the surface, held it, grabbed the speck he could, and tossed it out of the confines of his body. His vessel, and into the direction of the seed.

Nico let out a shallow breath and dropped to a knee, hands trembling, skin a pasty, ghostly pallor breathing rapid and shallow. Nico stayed there for a moment, resting his head on the crook of his elbow, shakily - with the last ounce of control he had - closing the floodgate of that volatile force that resided within him.

Hazel waited for Nico's breathing to grow more regular, for the color to return to his skin before speaking.

"Congratulations Nico."

Nico lifted his head shakily and looked up at her, that small action seeming almost too much for him to handle.

"W-what?" He asked weakly.

"You succeeded." She clapped lightly a small smirk on his lips. "Look."

Nico looked down and opened his fists. In the right there was nothing but a black charred looking mass, Nico sighed, he'd already known he could do that. His affinity was with death, taking was what it did, ending lives was second nature to it. Simple as breathing.

"Other hand."

Nico gulped and opened the other and saw a small sprout from within the seed. His eyes widened, and an almost soft expression crossed his lips. He'd done it, he'd given something life. If only a little.

Death was Ragnarok. The end. Clearing away all life as they knew it. But yes, as it killed as it took it gave room for the new, the better, the more advanced and it was through this that he was able to do this, even if it was harder. For Death was an agent of life, they worked hand in hand, an equal exchange. Their powers melded into one, like Yin and Yang, a force of unity and harmony.

Nico let out another breath and fell onto his back shielding his face with his arm, letting the cool breeze wash over him. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to hear. He just wanted to be.

"I didn't succeed." He murmured after awhile. Hazel raised an eyebrow though he didn't see.

"I only won."

Hazel smirked. Nico was beginning to understand after all.

-Betrothed-

High Commander Athena Chase, First of her name, Wife of Deadulus Chase, mother of Annabeth Chase - betrothed of Perseus Jackson Third Prince of Atlantis - stood atop the battlements looking over Olympus, her home, her city - the place she was sworn to protect - and resisted the urge to weep. She was the strategist, the first ever woman assigned to her post and she dishonored them all by not having the foresight to stop this calamity. She should have foreseen the threat and been able to prevent things from going so horribly wrong. Her hands tightened on the rail before her, keen gray eyes swiveling left and right as she watched the hills slowly be devoured by the red hot tendrils of flame; pitch black smoke billowing through the sky, the smell rancid and bitter, burnt flesh and charred bones all mingling together.

"CLOSE THE GATES!" She roared watching the last of the civilians run through them. "ARCHERS AT THE READY!"

Well the last that she could afford to let enter.

The gates began to close, the archers readied their bows, arrows dipped in tar and lit with fire illuminating the sky around the walls with an almost heavenly looking halo. And to some it may have been, to those inside it was a beacon of hope - to those left to die it was but a reminder of what they had to lose.

The Red Widows continued to surround the castle, numbers growing, obviously undeterred by the arrows aimed dead at their armored helms. All they did was stand in a ring, swords sheathed, shields down, surrounding the golden walls, staring up.

Waiting. Patient. Unmoving.

"I don't like this," A voice - gravelly with age - yet still strong and confident called from behind her, "I've seen too much of war to not know a trap when I see one."

Athena turned, eyes quickly registering the man now in front of her, mind cataloging his wrinkles - skin toughened by air, eyes perpetually squinted from years under the wrath of the desert sun - his hair still full a-top his head yet windswept and gray, black eyes beady and sharp, full of a wisdom and intelligence that rivaled her own.

"Chiron," She said after a moment, mouth twisting into the slightest of grimaces, bowing stiffly, sparing just the most minute attention to courtesy before turning back around to gaze upon that sinister circle that surrounded the walls. "I know. I don't like it either."

Chiron hummed and finished walking up the steps, only a little out of breath - a feat that was impressive for a man his age, though it came as no surprise considering his nickname as the Stallion, a man whose heart was as tough as any horse's - with a stature and strength to match. It was said that before he became the King's royal adviser he was sometimes mistaken for a Centaur, his affinity with his horse so fluid that they were thought to be one being.

One destructive being.

"And what do you propose to do about it High Commander?" He asked, tone none too kind, gesturing to the outer wall, metal boots clinking on the stone floor as he moved to stand beside her - gold and silver armor clattering lightly in his wake.

Athena said nothing, just surveyed her surroundings, knowing that her next choice would make or break this battle. She could feel it in her bones. She sighed. "What other option do I have?" she said turning her head to look at Chiron from the corner of her eye. Chiron grunted his ascent and Athena nodded - expression turning stony even as her stomach twisted with dread. Her hand raised. She wet her lips. Her voice rang out loud and clear - her call growing in strength as it was echoed across the wall, turning into one dynamic voice.

"FIRE!"

It all happened so fast. Arrows were loosed from bows, flames flying up and plummeting down to the ground, so quick, so powerfully, so many that they were inescapable. Athena watched, Chiron saw, and the archers ignored, already knocking the next volley of arrows, but the Adviser and the High Commander...

They felt fear.

For they saw, they saw what happened in those final moments - they knew those arrows were inescapable -

Yet they never reached their targets.

"By the Gods - "

CRACK!

A sound that froze every breathing thing upon the wall.

Athena shook. Chiron paled. An archer screamed.

Everything went to hell.

-Betrothed-

"You needa slow down man, you're eating like a man starved."

Percy paused mid bite, cheeks bulging - and glared at the servant in front of him... he thinks his name was Grover. "I am starved."

Grover rubbed the back of his neck and looked away sheepishly, cheeks starting to burn a dull crimson. "Well yeah - but you know it would kinda suck if you ended up choking and dying before you could even save Sab- I mean - Nico."

The sea-prince swallowed and set down his fork, turquoise eyes looking beyond him. "I don't even know if he is alive," he murmured, almost to himself. Percy picked up his fork - took another bite, and set it back down, skin paling - everything tasted sour now.

Grover looked up and floundered, quickly striving for something to say that might avert his prince's declining mood, lips working as his mind spit out the first thing that came to mind. "Pineapples!"

Percy looked up, ebony hair bouncing to the side, eyes and lips widening into a surprised "o", he managed a weak grin. "Pineapples?"

Grover had the decency to blush and nodded, rubbing the back of his head again in that nervous, jittery way he had and nodded. "Er... yeah... pineapples... I uh... did you want some?"

"We don't have any."

"You can dream right?"

Percy laughed, a small contained sound, it was clear his inner demons where still there, but at least he wasn't letting them consume him like before. "Yeah... I suppose I can." The sea prince finished the last few items on his plate and pushed it aside, face instantly losing its jovial appearance - the mask of the young adviser - the prince - falling into place. He stood and brushed his robes free of crumbs, before running a hand through his hair - fixing his gaze on Grover.

"Take me to my brother." The King, he finished in his head. Triton is now King of Atlantis. He gulped and gripped the table for support. He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around that fact. His father was dead, and now it was up to them, a boy barely seventeen with no true knowledge outside war tactics and his own countries affairs - and a brute of a man barely two and a half summers older, who knew even less than he did.

But his mother would help them, he knew she'd pick up the slack. He just wished he didn't have to abandon her so soon after the death of her husband - his father.

He shook his head, now was not the time to be feeling overwhelmed, he'd already had a week of being useless and weak - now it was time for him to be strong. He took a breath and his eyes steeled as he released his knuckle whitening hold of the table. Strong for himself. Strong for his father watching from the stars. Strong for his brother and strong for his mother. Strong for his country.

Strong for Nico.

Grover rushed forward and grabbed the plate from the table, putting it back on the cart and nodding emphatically. "Of course! You're brother - the... er... King - he told me to take you to him when you finished eating anyway... though... if you don't mind me saying... you might want a bath first... "

Percy looked down at himself, took in the dirt under his nails, the smeary un-even tan of filth that covered him, the servant was right, this was no way to carry himself - especially if he wanted anyone to take what he had to say seriously. He sniffed the air, nose wrinkling in distaste - besides - the stench was starting to upset him.

The ebony haired prince nodded his ascent. "I reckon you're right. Have a bath drawn for me Grover."

The servant bowed, a surprised look crossing his face, he obviously didn't expect Percy to remember his name. "Of course mi'lord."

The door closed and Percy sighed, dropping back down into his chair, running a hand across his face before turning to look out his window. He was stressed to say the least, it had only been a few days since he'd finally pushed himself out of his stupor, and yet he was already back into the politics of the realm. He supposed it was to be expected of him.

Only this time there was no one but himself to make Triton see sense.

The outside was chaos, the wreckage from the attack had left them in even worse shape than he'd initially thought. His mother had told him the stores and treasury had been ransacked but somehow... his mind just hadn't put the two together, he blamed it on the fact that up until recently he'd been in a virtually catatonic state. That they were know truly destitute. His kingdom had absolutely nothing left, if Kronos decided to attack again - Percy didn't want to think of the outcome.

Grover returned, the door creaking slightly at the intrusion. "Mi'lord your bath's ready."

Percy turned away from the window and nodded, trying for a smile... he hoped it worked. "Thanks." He stretched and stood before walking briskly towards the exist, Grover sidestepped quickly as Percy strode into the adjourning room, beginning to disrobe before he'd even reached the edge of the pool, clothes dropping haphazardly to the ground without any pretext.

"Have these burned and set a fresh pair outside the door," he said whilst walking into the pool, hand gesturing vaguely behind him - water steaming and inviting - a warm relaxing caress against coiled muscles. He didn't wait for a response, he just lowered himself into the water, letting it wash everything away.

My hair is getting long he thought to himself, eyes drawn to the dark strands now in his face, he grabbed a few between his fingers - Nico'd always tried to get him to grow his hair out more... Percy brushed the strands aside and reached over to where a bottle of scented oil and soap lay, and lathered them up between the plush was cloth to the left of him.

Slowly the water around him leeched him of his color - slowly the muck and grime from a week of nothingness was washed away - leaving behind startlingly pale (for him) skin. It was still far darker than Nico's own creamy tone but the decrease in his tan was startlingly. It was just another reminder of all that had changed in the past days.

He washed his hair and trimmed his nails, brushed his teeth, cleaned himself until he was red and raw - until steam no longer rose from the pool and the bubbles had all vanished. Percy sighed and climbed out, rolling his neck and pulling his hair back into a short stubby, sorry excuse of a ponytail and walked out the bathroom, towel draped around his waist, hanging dangerously low on his hips. It was a move that if Nico was here would leave the boy staring hungrily in his direction.

Percy set his jaw, and tossed the towel to the ground.

Well Nico wasn't here.

Percy dressed quickly.

-Betrothed-

"We'll have to tax them," Triton said, hands folded in front of him, "there's no other way to pay for the damages."

Percy grimaced and shook his head, his brother was being hard headed again, why couldn't he just see damn logic? "No, if we tax them then we lose the support of the people, our hold here is weak enough as it is."

Triton sighed, hand running down his face and tugging at his beard. "Then what the hell would you have us do Percy? Look around. We. Have. Nothing."

Percy open and closed his mouth angrily, eyes flashing before turning away - it wasn't often he was at a lost for words. "I don't know."

Sally cleared her throat, as mildly amusing as it was to watch her two remaining sons bicker over economic affairs, and as much as they really ought to learn how to figure these things out on their own, they really needed to rectify the problem at hand. Prefferably now. They couldn't continue much longer the way they were. It was either they come up with a solution now or risk losing their position of power to rebellion, something they really didn't need.

"You're both right," she mused aloud, "we have nothing, and we can not by any means tax our people." She looked at each of them in turn before continuing. "But there is a way out."

Triton raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be mother?"

Sally sent a sidelong glance in Percy's direction. "We borrow."

Dead silence. Percy gripped the fabric of his robes tightly. This could not be happening, if his mother was suggesting what he thought she was...

Percy licked his lips. "From who?" he whispered.

"The Chase's."

Triton looked between them, realization dawning on his face as he figured out what that name meant. The Chase's. Annabeth's family. Percy's marriage.

"I'm not married yet." Percy managed weakly.

She shrugged. "We ask to move it up, once you and Annabeth are properly united you'll have access to their families wealth - the extra treasury is just what we need."

"Mother I - " Triton began.

Sally groaned, looking between her two sons, one looking decided apprehensive, the other like he was about to be sick. "Oh what's the big deal? I thought you'd be happy Percy. Finally getting an excuse to see your beloved again."

Percy's stomach twisted at the word "beloved". "What about the quest father commanded of me?" He tried, desperately trying to avoid the coming request.

She waved a hand. "Do it on the way, do it after, I don't care, just get the money. We need it."

The sea prince looked over to his older brother, a last ditch attempt, one last silent plea, but there was no kindness in his brother's eyes anymore. No. There was just the face of a king.

Percy sighed in defeat, vision swimming slightly. "I'll draw up the proposal."

Sally smiled, Triton merely nodded, and conversation resumed around him, but he couldn't keep up, he could only murmur his consent and sit there stunned.

He was to marry Annabeth.

He was supposed to marry Annabeth.

He should have been happy.

But all he could feel was dread.

-Betrothed-

Annabeth stood behind her door, knife in hand, heart pounding erratically in her chest and took a breath, lip pulled tight between her teeth, ears straining to hear over the cacophonous noise of the outside. She wasn't crazy, she knew she'd heard someth-

Creeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak!

A footstep.

Annabeth dropped to her knees and quickly wiped her sweating palms against her dress, setting her knife down as silently as she could, closing her eyes, breathing. In. In. In. In.

One.

Step. Closer this time.

Two.

Another footfall, this one even closer - from the sound of it a couple yards away at most. She grabbed her knife, shaking hands steadying as she took her last breath, centering herself completely.

Three.

She opened her eyes and swung the door open, letting it slam against the wall with a loud bang. She could tell from the sound of the steps that at least one of her attackers was female - about her weight - probably a tad shorter, meaning she was nimble and probably had good reflexes. She flung her dagger, aiming low, not intending to kill, only to wound, and propelled herself forward, down the hall, turning her body so her shoulder was in front of her and barreling into her would be assailant - blonde hair swirling wildly in her wake.

A surprised gasp was all she heard before they were both going down, Annabeth already unsheathing another dagger from her right legs ankle sheath and laying it across the girls neck.

"Annabeth! Annabeth!" The girl beneath her gasped. "Get the hell off me!"

Annabeth blinked. "Thalia?"

"The one and only," she grumbled and Annabeth quickly got off her friend and back on her feet, re-sheathing he knives.

"Oh, by the gods, I'm sorry, I didn't realize - I thought - it was dark and - "

Thalia pinched the blonde's lips closed. "Shut up. It's fine 'kay? I get it, we're under attack and all that jazz."

Annabeth nodded and Thalia let go. "Where's Jason?"

Thalia groaned, Annabeth winced, she guessed that was probably the wrong thing to say.

"Off being Mr. Hero and honor and all that," She grimaced. "He's going to get himself killed."

"I don't think so, I mean, I've seen Jason fight, and the chances of him dying are fairly slim, excluding factors like friendly fire and freak accidents."

Thalia blinked then laughed. "You really are Athena's daughter, but seriously you don't know what it's like out there... their are these... these men clad in black armor - "

"The Red Widows, yes."

Thalia paused again. "How - never mind - anyway, they've breached the walls and they... they're kind of indestructible."

Annabeth hummed and began walking down the hall. "I don't know about that."

"Where are you going?"

The blonde turned and smiled faintly at her friend. "Why to the library. I am Athena's daughter after all."

-Betrothed-

Sins of Forbidden Love

-End-

A/N (PT2 ):

And there you have it! PART THREE OF BETROTHED DONE! Sorry Rosa... Jason only got mentioned in this part. But hey if you noticed Percy didn't get much either this time around, sooo NEXT PART we get more of Percy's side and yes there'll be more Jason :3. So yeah as you can see this part was a lot of character development for the characters in Tartarus, the fall of Tyson, Apollo's descision, the flashbacks slowly bringing you to where they are re-united in Atlantis a year and a half ago! Yes Also you now know what Nico and Percy are, and you can expect was epic magic action starting soon! Uhm yeah SO SOOO SOOOOOO SORRY FOR THE WAIT! And hopefully i didn't lose any of the twenty people reading this lol, but like omg SCHOOL, and this fic I love it but its SOOO draining, i just dont have the time to finish it as quickly. Yeah, i'm sure you noticed (maybe) but this chapter IS shorter than the previous... and oh yeah that reminds me. I fail. Nope. This is no longer going to be 3 parts... I kinda expect it to be around 7 now (oh god can I even come up with enough "Sins of... " names? Guess we'll see) But yes! I'm sorry Annabeth is kinda OOC. But hey i kinda like her even though I kinda hate her at the same time, she's a bit of a badass huh? Oh and POOR PERCY now reminded of his obligation to family and marriage. Now Triton why don't YOU marry Annabeth? EASY CAUSE THEN WE'D HAVE NO STORY LOLLLLL! Okay. enough rambling. Tell me what you think OF course this is unbeta'd. Fav char, fav moment thus far, anything confusing, and FALLING INTO NOTHING! NEW CHAPTER SOON.

Pt 4 of Betrothed: Sins of Forgotten Love (SPOILER!IT STARTS WITH POSEIDON'S FUNERAL!)

Coming... prob by christmas lets just try and finish Falling Into Nothing first huh?

And Telmah, that'll be coming soon too ;3

THANKS FOR READING AND THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE!

-ARCHIE

*phew i can breath again.*

PT 4 TEASER: (Changed my Mind due to chronology issues the Thalia/Jason/Annabeth scenes have to come b4 Poseidon funeral)

-Betrothed-
Sins of Forgotten Love

"So, tell me again why the hell we're barricaded in the bloody library when there's a bloody war going on outside?" Thalia hissed - eyes fixed on the large stained glass windows across from her - fist closing a little tighter around the hilt of her spear every time there was a sudden flash or an especially heart-wrenching scream or an explosion that rocked the very ground she stood on. Light filtered through their panes - distorted in a sluggish and frightening manner; sweat pooled between her fingers. "I really hate to be the voice of reason here, but need I remind you that we're surrounded by bloody books with fire less than a fucking foot away? I'd prefer to not become barbecue a week before my nineteenth birthday." Never mind the fact she may die tonight anyway - hacked to pieces and left on the side of the road for the crows and rats - but she preferred not to think about that.
It was easier that way.
"Oh, do refrain from using the word 'bloody' if you could Thalia dear, we have enough blood on our doorstep as it is." Annabeth murmured - squinting in the dim light since they (Annabeth) felt it wiser to not light any candles in fear of alerting the enemy to their presence -and flipped another page in the enormous tome before her. "Libraries hold power, they hold knowledge, and knowledge is what we need right now, knowledge in whatever dark powers those Red Widows use to keep themselves immortal. If we can find the source of that arcane energy we can find the weakness. That, my friend, is reason."