Chapter Text
Somewhere deep down, Nico knew this was how it would end.
Stupidly. Insignificantly. Like the school bus careening off the cliff or the mindless spread of mutated cells, like the silent loss of thousands every single day, he, too, would be wiped from the face of the Earth with little regard to the dramatics of the life he had lived.
The life he had lived--it was a funny little thing. None of it was linear. Years of it were spent looking back, puzzling together the missing pieces, studying the lines of his own history. Eventually, when he had it, some three years ago, everything made sense for a brief second. The end of the Second Giant War. The way the two demigod camps raised their glasses in his name and cheered, and that was when Nico felt like Jason.
Not Jason Grace, but Jason the Argonaut, stealing away the golden fleece. Only he had no Medea, and perhaps that was a good thing considering what happened to Jason afterwards.
Now, too, he felt like Jason. But not Jason the Hero, he was Jason the nobody: Jason who died sleeping under a rotting beam of the Argo when it fell on him and crushed him instantly.
Stupidly. Insignificantly.
And he was going to die now, out of carelessness. How many times had he been warned to moderate his shadow travel by Jason, by Reyna, by Annabeth?
But he always played loose and fast with his life. And now, it was finally over.
Sorry, Hazel , he thought as the pain rocketed through his fading physical body, the darkness splicing through him. I guess I’m missing your 17th birthday.
He couldn’t see much, mostly because he was blinded by the pain. Half his cells ceased to exist, while the other half were ripped apart by misplaced shadow. His corpse-- because, let’s face it, it was essentially a corpse already-- was being thrown every which way. He had the vaguest sense he was falling, what was left of his inner ears screaming with the force of air against his side.
The pain was made worse by his clothes accidentally phasing into his body, haphazardly incorporated into his internal organs. Nico didn’t even bother screaming. It would all be over soon enough. He had long ago asked the question: How much pain can I take before I finally, mercifully die? He figured this was it.
The end of Nico di Angelo. Unceremoniously landing somewhere in the United States (with his luck, maybe a random field in Kansas) while his body was both ripped in half and faded out from the physical plane. Dying from his own callousness, because he shadow-traveled too much in one day.
Yeah, maybe he should have just told Hazel he’d be late. Or turned down Hades’ request to gather that single mother of four who fled from Charon’s line at the last minute and tried to haunt her ex-husband’s media company in Helsinki.
Yeah, he had tried to shadow-travel 4000 miles to Helsinki from New York City, to the underworld, then back to New York City, then 4000 miles back to Berkeley. With a cold. After he had a shadow-traveling accident attempting something similar last week, and his body was still recovering.
Why did it matter? Now that he was finally about to die, he could just work for his dad in peace in the Underworld. No more of the absurdity of life.
As his consciousness was about to fade, though, he caught a whiff of the sea breeze.
Strange . Maybe he overshot instead, and this was the pacific ocean. Not a bad way to go.
The wind whistled in his ears. His nervous system had clearly stopped working from the neck down, because could no longer feel any pain.
His eyesight still blurry, he managed to vaguely make out the fast-approaching sand.
If he had enough consciousness left, he would have smiled. Finally, the suffering was over. Almost eighteen years of throwing all he had at life, pleading for something in return, and he had never been given anything back.
He hit the ground, and one last bolt of pain-- the last one, thank the gods --struck him before he lost consciousness.
His eyes flickered open, and he was immediately pissed off.
This wasn’t the underworld.
“Finally,” a voice grumbled as Nico’s eyes struggled to adjust to the bright, brilliant sunshine above him. “You’re awake.”
He could see the edges of palm trees. He could smell the salt of the ocean. He could taste his own fucking annoyance.
He tried to sit up, and was immediately met with, “Don’t try to sit up.”
“Alright--” He started coughing, the pain he thought he was free from flooding his senses fresh anew.
“Don’t try to talk either.”
Gee, thanks . He was no wimp. He decided to talk anyway.
“Where…” his muscles seized, but he forced the rest out, “am I?”
He could hear the eye roll emanating from all sides, even though he didn’t know where the person (Person? Creature? God?) was standing. “I’ll explain later. Just keep resting and I’ll get you off this island and back to your hero business in no time.”
Hero business? It had been years since he’d been up to any hero business, unless you counted hauling the ass of various ghosts back to his father.
He decided to sit up anyway.
“What in my father’s name are you doing?” asked the voice as Nico’s brain tried to barrel roll out of his skull and his ribs burned like the Phlegethon, so hot he went cold (Nico would know, purely from experience).
He groaned, trying and failing to turn his neck as the vertigo threatened to topple him over. “Who… are you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” they said, and Nico caught a flash of blond hair darting around nearby, picking up a needle and loading it with anesthetic. “You’ll be good to go in a few days. Until then, I need you to not make your condition worse.”
Nico vaguely realized what they meant, and even as he fell backwards, unable to hold himself up, he tried to protest. “Hey, watch it--”
But then a needle was sinking into his arm, and he fell asleep again.
When he came to again, he was even more angry than before.
This was a gentler awakening at least-- his eyes flickered open underneath the warm glow of the sunset and he felt the prickle of fresh linens rubbing against his bare arms.
Wait-- bare arms ?
He sat up so fast his head nearly snapped off.
“Ow!”
“What is wrong with you?” came that voice again as Nico rubbed his neck. Before he knew it, a guy about his age was in front of him, removing Nico’s hand from his neck to inspect it.
Nico flinched, immediately slapping away the guy’s hand and ignoring the violent complaint of his muscles that followed. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he said, stepping back and crossing his arms. “The sooner I heal you, the sooner you can get off this island and go finish whatever quest you were on.”
Nico’s mental fog cleared just a bit, and he got a better look at who he was talking to. It was someone around his age-- maybe seventeen or eighteen, but there was a look in his eyes (almost the exact same shade of blue as the sky, so much so that it looked like they were holes in a canvas someone forgot to fill in) that made him seem older. Ancient, even.
He was wearing a Greek chiton, simple and breezy and stark against his warmer skin. Golden curls splayed out like rays of light around his face, which was tanned like he had spent every day of his life on a beach.
If this was where he lived, that seemed entirely probable.
Nico frowned. “I’m not on a quest.”
The boy waved his hand. “It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me.” He continued to study Nico with those unsettling eyes, slowly walking in a wide circle around him. “I underestimated how close you were to death. Unfortunately, you’re going to need to stay here for a few more days.”
Nico’s eyebrows furrowed. “I wasn’t trying to be opaque. I’m really not on a quest.”
The boy looked up at him and shrugged. “Okay. I guess that’s weird but, why do I care? Maybe the Fates just wanted to save you. I stopped asking a long time ago why they sent certain people to me.”
Send people to you?
“Where’s my bomber jacket?” Nico asked, looking down at the white linen pants and t-shirt he was wearing. “Who are you? What is this place?”
He looked around. He was lying in a soft white hammock made of the same fabric of his new clothing. Rolling, gleaming sand stretched out for half his vision until replaced by the soothing glide of clear, aquamarine water. Stratified, metamorphic rock jutted from this sand further from the shore, layered over in the thick umber trunks of palm trees and the luscious green of tropical foliage. It looked like a true and rightful paradise-- right down to the odd seashell glittering by the coast and the flapping of seagulls in the cloudless sky.
“I gave you new clothes, your jacket was unsalvageable.” He pursed his lips as he studied Nico even more, like he was a specimen of some kind. Nico tried not to squirm. He hated feeling judged. “I suppose the edgy teenage boy getup wasn’t just a costume?”
“Okay, asshole, answer the question,” Nico said, clenching his fists even though the soreness of his body reminded him that he wasn’t in the position to start fights. “Who are you, and where am I? Why didn’t I die like I was supposed to?”
The boy snorted. “You say that like you wanted to die.”
I did , Nico thought, but he figured that burdening this annoying stranger with his suicidal tendencies would not help his edgy teenage boy first impression. Nico watched as the guy gathered various supplies--ambrosia, bandages, syringes--from a flat slab of rock that was being used as a table.
“That paper bag has some food,” he said, pointing to where it sat on the rock. “Eat that and stay for two more days until your strength is back. I’ll send meals.”
Nico opened his mouth to ask more questions, but the boy just went right on talking, facing the sea in the distance rather than Nico himself.
“My apologies, but there’s no bathroom. You’re going to have to pick a bush. I’ll send for two more sets of linens, and if you need anything else, you can find me in that cave right over there ,” he said, pointing to a cave opening near the far end of the island. “Please don’t need anything, though. I dislike visitors. Two more sunsets, and you’re all clear to leave and return to whatever not-quest you were on before you came here. If anyone asks what happened to you, just say Apollo gave his blessing and healed you.”
Nico frowned. “I’ve met Apollo. You are not him.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Clearly. I just don’t want people to come looking for me. It ended poorly in the past.”
“Why would--” Nico began to ask, but the boy was already trudging off.
“Wait!” Nico called, but the boy just stormed off faster, not even bothering to give Nico a name.
That was fine, he decided. Why did he care about this guy anyway? Sure, it seemed he had saved Nico’s life, but he was otherwise as unsociable as they come. And it’s not like Nico was happy to be saved either way.
Still, Nico’s curiosity nagged him. Why wasn’t he dead? His demise was almost certain, he practically felt his deathly aura swell to a crest. If this boy had saved him alone, he clearly had some serious healing abilities. That, or he had help.
As Nico tried to cross his legs and sit in a more comfortable position, he ran through the various legends and myths he had memorized, looking for stories of magical healers and tropical islands. Tropical islands reminded him of Calypso, but she was long freed. So who was this?
Some god? Well, Apollo was the god of healing. Perhaps a child of his, or some minor deity? By his looks, Nico figured that he could have easily been some sort of god.
Nico’s cheeks burned at the thought. He was reminded of his switched clothes, and silently hoped he had been magically transferred into his current linens instead of by other means.
He decided not to concentrate too hard on that. Besides, it seemed like he’d never see that boy ever again.
Instead, Nico made the decision to slip off the hammock. He definitely underestimated how injured he still was, because the second he tried to place any weight on his foot, he fell face-first into the sand.
“Fucking Tartarus,” he cursed after spitting the sand out of his mouth, brushing it from his eyelashes and his ratty hair. If mystery boy was going to change his clothes, Nico would have preferred if he’d washed his hair too for the first time in probably weeks. As it was, it was hard to get the sand out of it.
Slower this time, he stood up off the ground with an achy wince. At least the sand shed easily from the linen--it would have been a nightmare to get it out of his jeans.
“Alright,” he voiced to no one, “What now?”
His eyes wandered to the paper bag that mystery boy said contained his dinner. He wasn’t one to eat much--Hazel told him that he had what they call an eating disorder and that these days they won’t put you in the asylum so he should really visit a therapist . But the thought of explaining the otherworldly horrors of his childhood and early adolescence to a mortal therapist, or even abridging them into a more digestible version, seemed far more horrifying than just bottling it up and hoping that the rest of his life would be a little less traumatic.
Still, his stomach grumbled just slightly, and with nothing else to do, he walked over to the rock as fast as his aching joints would allow and lifted the bag.
He opened it and was sorely disappointed. It was a sandwich-- a healthy one. Whole grain bread and fresh vegetables and everything. Nico grimaced and put it back down on the rock. He’d definitely rather starve than eat cardboard-tasting, life-prolonging sustenance.
He moved to leave the rock and find something interesting, but at the last second, his eyes caught on an engraving at the base of it.
He leaned down.
O θέλημα , it read. Of Thelema .
Thelema, divine will.
Thelema was also a name. Nico’s mind latched onto it, searching the repository of his memory. She was a minor character, from the old mythology. But he couldn’t quite place her. It was far too obscure.
Frustrated with the tiny clue that had piqued his interest and left him at a dead end, he gave it up and stood. He felt sleepy already, though he had just woken up. Maybe Mystery Boy was right about the rest.
Nico suddenly realized that he probably shouldn’t refer to him as Mystery Boy . This implied a mystery that could be solved. No, perhaps, he could be the Island Douchebag . Yeah, that was better.
He knew he ought to rest, but as the sun firmly kissed the darkening sea, he set out towards it. He was mostly just curious about the water--He wasn’t one to swim, but he wanted to see if the current was as warm and tropical as it looked.
The sand dampened underneath his bare feet, cold and clammy like clay, and Nico silently wondered what happened to his converse. They were a battered pair alright-- Jason had begged him to buy some new shoes--well, clothes--and he said he would, as he so often did. He said he’d do lots of things that he didn’t do, like sleep or eat or stop cutting long, thin scars down his biceps. But for some reason, he could never bring himself to actually do it . He just didn’t care enough.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love his friends, it was just… Well, he didn’t even know. Everything was hollow all the time, like the Fates had gotten to the climax of his story but forgotten how to write the ending. Nico figured that his brain was probably just permanently broken. Maybe it was a human ailment. Maybe the deep, nagging loneliness set in his bones would disappear when he finally died and joined his father in the underworld.
And now here he was, sitting down at the edge of the shore, still fucking alive . What a sick joke. He had been so ready, and yet…
Nico trained his eyes on the blackening horizon and sighed.
The sun moved here, he observed: This was not Ogygia, Calypso’s island. Nico wondered if that meant time passed like normal. Did that strange guy age, if he wasn’t a god? Did he die? If Nico stayed here, would he age or die?
It was a ridiculous thought, because of course Nico planned to go back the second he was cleared to. He actually would have preferred to go back now, but he had no idea whether it was possible. He absentmindedly tried to reach for shadows to escape, but the searing agony that overtook him reminded him that that probably wasn’t such a good idea.
Instead, he drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, watching the sea lap up the shore. The sound of it was relaxing enough, and soon he found his eyelids fluttering shut. Nico did little about it--he didn’t really care if the tide rose overnight and drowned him. He figured that was a less painful way to go.
Head drooping against his arms, he fell asleep.
When he woke up, he was on the hammock again.
He groaned as irritatingly bright morning sun glared in his eyes. Sitting up, he noticed a small note on his lap--written on cardstock with fancy, barely legible calligraphy of sepia-toned ink.
Please do not fall asleep by the water , it said. You could have drowned.
I noticed you did not eat dinner. If you are such a picky eater, you might as well come tell me what food it is you want. That sandwich was vegan, gluten free, halal, kosher, the like. I don’t see what the problem is.
Nico read through the note once, twice, a third time. Each read made him more pissed.
“Why the fuck do you care if I’m a picky eater?” Nico grumbled, tearing the note in half and tossing it into the sand. “Just let me die and get out of this hellhole.”
His initial plan was to wile away the time by staring off into the distance and contemplating the purpose of his existence. Three years removed from the worst of it, he laid in the sand and flicked through the memories in his head like a grungy middle-schooler proving themselves by grinning through a horror movie. The acid air of Tartarus, the lack of air in the jar, the slow and painful torture of grief and loss and loneliness--it was all a little silly now. He chuckled, amused, at his own traumatic story. It seemed the world had dragged him through the mud, beating him up as hard as they could, and yet in the cruelest joke of them all, he had outlived so many better people. Now, he was just a month or so away from being eighteen. Eighteen . A year he never thought he’d see.
He had been fine coasting through life before, as it wasn’t so bad. Sure, the nightmares and constant flashback triggers and ever-persistent numbing cold in his heart was far from ideal, but they weren’t much worse than the traumas themselves had been, so he didn’t mind. At least he could look forward to seeing Hazel, or the Argo II reunion parties, or playing with little baby Chuck, or meeting a random interesting ghost while helping his father. But as adulthood approached, it became increasingly clear that everyone expected him to… well… keep going. Reyna told him to apply to New Rome University, and he said he would, but it was already mid-December and he hadn’t sent in the application. He hadn’t even started it, as much as he told Chiron he was “working very hard on that essay”.
Connor told him he ought to get his driver’s license, and Sally Jackson even offered to sit in the car and teach him, but Nico just told them I have Jules-Albert and ignored the rest. Piper floated helping him set up a profile on a queer dating app once he turned eighteen, and Nico felt like throwing up. Hades quietly suggested taking up his mantle in the underworld full-time after completing his college education, and the thought of completing his college education had his head spinning.
He just didn’t want to. It was too much. The very thought of it, of living for that long, was worse than the Acheron. He wanted to curl up into a ball and die. He wanted to claw his way back in time and hide under the covers of Bianca’s bed like a little kid, crying about some weird, strange monster that he saw on the street before he knew of any other horrors, as Bianca called for his mother and his mother sat by him, sweetly stroking his hair, promising him that he would be safe, that she would keep him safe, forever and ever for the rest of his life.
He bit back the tears that prickled in his eyes. That was the worst part. None of his pain and suffering brought him to tears anymore--it was the memories of happiness that truly haunted him, because he knew he would never truly feel that way again. Though he might laugh at a friend’s joke or crack the occasional smile, it was never with the same lightness as before.
He could never ever go back.
“Hey, you.”
Nico quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and sat up. Just behind him, the mystery douchebag had decided to return.
He was glaring, too. “I set out breakfast. You haven’t eaten. Did something change recently? You seem to be a demigod, and last I checked, demigods need to eat.”
Nico rolled his eyes. “Why do you care? You don’t care enough to tell me your name, or even ask for mine, but for some reason you’re so attached to saving my life?”
The boy set his hands on his hips, against the silky fabric of his chiton. “It’s my job! I swear to all Olympus, no one has been this irritating in hundreds of years!”
Nico narrowed his eyes. “So you are immortal. Is this your island?”
The boy stopped rubbing his temples and set his steely blue eyes back on Nico. “Just tell me what you’d rather eat, and I’ll get it for you so that you can gather your strength and be out of here. Unless you’d rather stay here longer, staring at the sky like an idiot?”
Nico gritted his teeth, but he had a point. There was no point in arguing when he had better places to be. If time worked differently here, he could seriously be worrying Hazel with his absence.
“I’ll take anything carcinogenic,” Nico decided. “The more toxic, the better.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “How very emo of you. I’m not giving you that.”
Nico crossed his arms. “Fine then. Then pasta.”
The boy raised an eyebrow. “Pasta?”
“And none of that American shit,” he said with a pointed look. “I’m Venetian. I want it to taste like my mom’s cooking. Better, even. Maybe then I might eat it.”
The boy’s lip quivered, like he found this funny. His eyes glimmered too. “You’re being difficult on purpose, aren’t you?”
Nico tilted his head. “Don’t think you can do it, golden boy?”
“I am a god,” he said, his expression turning more serious, more firm. “Other than leaving here, I can do whatever I want.”
I can do whatever I want. It was phrased almost as a threat, but it made something inside Nico jump a little as the boy turned and walked off.
A god , Nico thought. I guess I was right .
Nico’s eyes stayed trained on his shrinking figure as he walked away. Once he was gone, Nico turned back to look at the flowing sea.
It seemed Mystery Boy was trapped here, much like Calypso was in Ogygia. But the similarities to Calypso’s story ended there. The historian in Nico, the one always asking dead people about their lives, really wanted to know everything. The rest of him, however, found it difficult to care about anything.
Still, two days on the island didn’t seem too bad. Maybe his sister would be happy that he’d finally gotten some sun.