Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Love is a dangerous thing..

Being objective, the Trojan War was started by Aphrodite, as the Trojan War was started from a simple love—a golden apple, a beauty contest, a promise of the most beautiful woman in the world. But the Trojan War persisted because of a different love entirely: nationalism, pride, love of one's people. A love that so many people seem to dismiss, as if it doesn't count. That love isn't thought of as love at all, because love is supposed to be irrational and love is supposed to be complicated, and loving your country shouldn't be either of those things. It should be simple, straightforward, a matter of duty and honor.

Familial love occupies a strange middle ground. We can accept its irrationality—the way a parent will burn down the world for their child, the way siblings will destroy themselves trying to protect each other. We nod knowingly at these extremes because blood, we tell ourselves, justifies madness.

But romantic love? Romantic love is the least rational, the most nonsensical, the most utterly bewildering of all the forms love can take. Yet it's the one that is ascribed most with the word "love" itself, as if all other forms are merely derivatives, shadows of the real thing. Romantic love makes people stupid. It makes them reckless. It makes them willing to die for someone who might not even know their name.

Maybe this is why Aphrodite is deemed one of the cruelest gods. Her domain, while not able to bring a city to ruin through sheer force like Ares or Zeus, brings down a civilization with just the meddling of a tender, fragile heart. Countless deaths, caused by love. Nico’s death was caused by love, caused by his own fragile heart.

… 

Well “death” was a lie Yet plummeting into the deepest pits of hell probably wouldn't bring about anything else. Death was coming. It was just a matter of seconds now.

The air around him was thick with the smell of sulfur and ancient earth, the kind of smell that spoke of things buried deep and best left undisturbed. The wind howled past his ears, a sound like the screaming of the damned, and somewhere far below—impossibly far below—he could hear something massive shifting in the darkness. The walls of the chasm rushed past in a blur of black stone and red veins of what might have been lava or might have been something worse. and all because he loved Percy.

Well, "love" would be a lie too. Truthfully, he didn't know if he loved Percy Jackson.

Correction: He didn't want to love Percy Jackson.

He hoped—desperately, pathetically hoped—that he just liked him. Liked how tall he was, so strong and masculine and commanding. Liked the smirks Percy gave, those lopsided grins that made Nico's stomach flip. Liked the way his biceps flexed in battle, the way he could see his muscles flex through his clothes. Liked the way everyone liked him, how people gravitated toward him like he was the sun and they were planets with no choice but to orbit.

Liked the way Percy was so mature and so much more mature than him. Liked how he tried to seem less mature to make Nico like him. Liked how affectionate he was with the people he cared about; how affectionate he could've been with Nico, if things were different. If Nico were different. If the world were different.

Liked the bad jokes Percy made, the ones that were so terrible they looped back around to being endearing. Liked the way his hair looked after he'd been in the water, dark and messy and perfect. Liked his voice, especially when it got low and serious. Liked his hands, the calluses on his palms, the way his fingers moved when he was fidgeting with Riptide. Liked the scar on his palm from the River Styx. Liked that he smelled like the ocean.

Liked the way Percy's eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, really laughed, not the polite chuckle he gave strangers but the full-body kind of laughter that made his shoulders shake. Liked the freckles scattered across his nose that you could only see up close, the ones that darkened in summer. Liked the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was thinking, leaving it sticking up in all directions. Liked the scar on his chin from some childhood accident he'd mentioned once. Liked the way his shirt rode up sometimes when he stretched, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the muscles of his abdomen.

He didn't want to like him either, really, really didn't want to. 

In fact, he hated Percy.

He hated that Percy was so confident, that he walked through the world like he belonged in it, like he had every right to take up space and be heard. Nico hated that Percy was so attractive, that his face was the kind of handsome that made people do double-takes, that made Nico's mouth go dry. He hated that Percy towered over him, that the height difference was so pronounced it made Nico feel like a child. He hated that Percy made him feel so insecure, so aware of every one of his own inadequacies.

He hated the dreams he had of Percy, the ones that left him sweaty and flushed and aching when he woke up tangled in his sheets. The fantasies that haunted him at night, unbidden and unwelcome, where Percy's hands were on him and Percy's mouth was on his and Percy wanted him back. The cold showers that happened after, where Nico would stand under the spray until his skin went numb and his teeth chattered, trying to wash away the wanting.

He hated that people liked Percy, that he was so effortlessly charismatic, that anyone who had interacted with Nico would probably drop him in a second to be with Percy instead. He hated that Percy would probably be with anyone else at the drop of a hat. That he was so unlikable and Percy wasn’t

He hated that Percy was a guy, that Nico shouldn't like him, that there was no chance in hell that Percy would like him back. Percy was straight. Percy loved Annabeth. And even if Percy weren't straight, even if by some miracle he liked guys, he wouldn't like Nico. He hated that every whisper he'd ever heard about how he was weird, and a freak, and wrong were right. He hated that there was another thing that made him different, unnatural. He hated that loving Percy proved all of them correct.

He hated that Percy had robbed him of his sister. That Percy had been there for Bianca's last moment, not Nico. That Nico never got to say goodbye and Percy did. That he heard her last words from Percy and not from her. That Percy was sorry. That Percy's apology was sincere and heartfelt and genuine. That Nico couldn't hate Percy for it, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much easier it would be if he could just hate Percy for taking Bianca away.

What Nico hated most of all was that he didn't hate Percy, not at all, not one bit.

So he loved him.

Because Aphrodite is cruel.

And that realization—that terrible, inescapable realization—was the last coherent thought Nico had before the world started ending.

The House of Hades loomed behind them, a structure of impossible geometry and malevolent architecture that seemed to shift and breathe in the corner of Nico's vision. They'd been standing at the edge of the chasm for what felt like hours but had probably been minutes, trying to figure out how to proceed, when the ground had started to tremble.

The cliff they stood on was ancient stone, cracked and weathered by millennia of exposure to the poisonous air of Tartarus. Veins of some luminescent mineral ran through the rock, pulsing with a sickly green light that cast everything in an otherworldly glow. The edge dropped away into nothing, into a darkness so complete it seemed to have weight and substance, like you could reach out and touch it.

The air tasted of copper and ash. Every breath burned slightly going down, as if the atmosphere itself was hostile to mortal lungs. In the distance, the landscape of Tartarus stretched out in a nightmare panorama—rivers of fire, forests of glass, mountains that screamed. The sky, if it could be called that, was a roiling mass of red and black clouds that occasionally split to reveal something worse beneath.

So Nico is falling.

Nico is falling for Percy.

And Percy is falling for Annabeth.

And Percy is reaching up to Annabeth.

And Annabeth is reaching down to Percy.

And Percy isn't reaching for Nico.

And Nico is closing his eyes.

And Nico is starting to cry.

And Nico is losing consciousness.

And Nico passes out.

Love is so very cruel.

It happened so fast, and yet Nico could remember it in excruciating slow motion for whatever remained of his life.

One moment they were standing on solid ground—or what passed for solid ground in this place—the next the earth was crumbling beneath them like sand through fingers. The tremor that had been building suddenly reached a crescendo, and the ancient stone simply gave way, fracturing along invisible fault lines that had been waiting for this exact moment to fail.

Percy was struggling to hold onto Annabeth even with all of his strength, every muscle in his arms straining, his face contorted with effort and desperation. The cords of his neck stood out, his jaw clenched so tight Nico could hear his teeth grinding even over the sound of crumbling rock. Annabeth's hands were beet red, the skin stretched tight and bloodless at the knuckles, and her fingers were visibly dislocating from Percy's sheer determination to hold on, the joints bending at angles that made Nico's stomach turn.

"Percy, I can't hold on," Annabeth gasped, her voice breaking. Her blonde hair whipped around her face, and there was blood on her temple from where falling debris had struck her.

"Please—" Percy's voice was raw, desperate in a way Nico had never heard before. Percy, who had faced down Titans and gods and monsters without flinching, sounded terrified. "Please, just hold on, I've got you, I've got you—"

"I can't," Annabeth pleaded again, sobbing, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the blood and dirt. "Percy, you have to let me go, you have to—"

"No!" The word was torn from Percy's throat, primal and absolute.

Then the ground under Percy crumbled completely and they began to fall.

Nico didn't think. He just moved.

Later, he wouldn't be able to explain what possessed him, what instinct or impulse or divine intervention made his body act before his mind could catch up. He lunged forward, his body acting on instinct, and his hand closed around Percy's wrist. The impact of catching Percy's weight nearly dislocated his shoulder, sent a spike of white-hot pain down his arm, but he held on.

For a moment—one perfect, crystalline moment—he had them. He had Percy. His fingers were locked around Percy's wrist, he could feel Percy's pulse hammering against his palm, could feel the warmth of his skin, the slight dampness of sweat.

"Percy, you need to let go! You can't pull me up," Annabeth cried from below, her voice distant and distorted by the wind.

"I won't abandon you!" Percy shouted back, his voice fierce and final. "I won't, I won't, I won't—"

Nico felt Percy's grip slipping from him, felt Percy's skin sliding against his palm, made slick by sweat and blood from where the rocks had cut them both. So he gripped harder, his fingers digging in until he knew he'd leave bruises, until his knuckles went white and his hand cramped.

"Percy, don't!" Nico wanted to say I need you, wanted to scream it, wanted to pour out everything he'd been holding inside for so long. But the words stuck in his throat, trapped behind his teeth, useless and unspoken.

"Nico, let GO!" Percy's eyes met his, sea-green and wild with panic. "Let go, you can't—you'll fall—"

But he didn't. He couldn't.

And when Percy tried to push himself into the Pit, tried to throw himself away from Nico to save him, tried to use his free hand to pry Nico's fingers loose, instead he just pulled Nico in with them.

Nico's heart dropped, along with his body.

The sensation of falling was immediate and absolute—the ground disappearing, the air rushing past, gravity claiming him with greedy hands. The wind screamed in his ears, tore at his clothes, whipped his hair into his eyes. His stomach lurched into his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to grab for something, anything, but there was nothing to grab, just empty air and the terrible certainty of the fall.

He wanted to scream, wanted to flail around, wanted to do anything, but he was too petrified to move. His body locked up, frozen in terror, every muscle rigid with fear. His lungs forgot how to work. His heart forgot how to beat. Time stretched and compressed, became meaningless.

The walls of the chasm rushed past in a blur of black and red, close enough that he could have reached out and touched them if his arms would obey him. The temperature dropped, then spiked, then dropped again as they fell past different strata of this impossible place. The air pressure changed, making his ears pop, making his head pound.

And for a second the world stopped, and he could only hear the rushing winds passing him, a sound like the end of everything, like the universe taking a breath before the final silence.

He only heard his rapid, heavy breathing.

in—out

He felt his breathing, that’s all he could feel.

in—out

in—out

in—out

in—out

in—out

in—out

in—out

in—out

in 'n out

in and out

Inhale and exhale

.

..

.. 

 ..nico

nico

Nico.

"Nico."

"NICO!"

And Nico finally registered Percy and Annabeth's voices calling out to him, cutting through the roar of wind, cutting through the paralysis that had seized him. Percy's voice was close, so close, right next to his ear.

"Nico, can you shadow travel us out of here?" Percy's voice was urgent. "Nico, I need you to focus, can you shadow travel?"

"I—" Nico's voice came out as a croak. He swallowed, tried again. "I need us all to be together," he heard himself say, though his voice sounded distant, disconnected, like it was coming from someone else's mouth.

Percy hurriedly pulled him and Annabeth closer, dragging them into an embrace, holding them tight against his chest. One arm wrapped around Nico's waist, the other around Annabeth, pulling them into a tight knot. Nico could feel Percy's heart hammering against his cheek, could feel the warmth of his body even in the freezing air of the fall, could smell the ocean-salt scent of him even here, even now, even mixed with the sulfur and ash of Tartarus.

He’d never want to think of this but for one moment—one brief, perfect, terrible moment—Nico was exactly where he'd always wanted to be. In Percy's arms. Held close. Protected.

It was the cruelest gift Aphrodite could have given him.

And Nico tried. He really did.

He reached for the shadows, felt them respond to his call, felt the darkness rising up to meet them. The shadows of Tartarus were different from the shadows of the upper world—older, hungrier, more aware. They wrapped around him like living things, like they recognized him as one of their own.

But he just wasn't strong enough.

The combined weight of three people, the speed of their fall, the sheer distance they needed to travel—it was too much. His power flickered and sputtered like a dying flame, like a candle in a hurricane. As their feet flickered in and out of darkness, as the shadows wrapped around them like grasping hands, he was able to sink their combined mass for about half a second, halfway into the shadows.

Half a second. Halfway.

Not enough.

And in that singular moment everything happened at once:

Percy pushed Annabeth through the shadow, using the last of Nico's fading power to shove her to safety. Nico felt the shift in weight, felt Annabeth's body slip away through the darkness, felt the shadows accept her and carry her up and away.

“Annie, meet us at the Doors, we’ll find the

Nico's head fell back, his strength completely spent, his vision going dark at the edges. Black spots bloomed across his sight. His limbs went numb. The shadows released him, slipping away like water through his fingers.

Percy let go of him, his fingers releasing Nico's shirt.

And the last thing Nico saw was Annabeth leaning over the precipice far above, her hand outstretched, her face a mask of horror and grief. And Percy reaching up for her, reaching away from Nico, his arm extended toward the light, toward safety, toward the girl he loved.

The last thing he heard was them yelling each other's names as if they were willing each other together, as if the sheer force of their love could bridge the distance between them. "Percy!" "Annabeth!" Back and forth, a desperate call and response, a prayer and an answer.

Not his name. Never his name.

The last thing he felt were the tears welling up in his eyes—warm, so warm against his cold skin—and the cold, endless abyss swallowing him up, pulling him down into darkness so complete it was like being erased, like being unmade, like ceasing to exist.

The last thing he felt was dread. Cold and cruel..

The realization of his death settling into his stomach like a stone. This was it. This was how it ended. Not in battle, not in glory, not in any way that mattered. Just falling into the dark, alone, unloved, forgotten.

He realized that death wouldn't even reunite him with his sister, because Bianca had chosen rebirth. She was gone, truly gone, living a new life with no memory of him. She was probably a child somewhere, laughing and playing, with a new family who loved her, with no idea that she'd once had a brother who would have done anything for her. And he doubted that Hades would ever let him see his mother, not after everything, not after all his failures, not after he'd rejected his father's offers and chosen his own path and ended up here anyway.

He realized that he had barely gotten to even live.

He had barely created a relationship with Hazel, his other sister, the one who'd been given back to him like a consolation prize, like the universe saying sorry about the first one, here's a replacement. He'd kept her at arm's length, too afraid to let her in, too afraid to lose someone else, too afraid that if he loved her she'd be taken away too. And now she'd never know why he'd been so distant, would probably think he hadn't cared about her at all.

He'd never made any real friends, never let anyone get close enough to matter. He'd built walls around himself, thick and high and impenetrable, and now he'd die alone inside them.

He'd never held hands with someone who wanted to hold his back, never felt the simple comfort of fingers intertwined with his own, of someone choosing to touch him, to be close to him.

Never got a first kiss, never felt someone's lips against his with affection instead of obligation or pity. Never knew what it was like to be kissed by someone who wanted to kiss him, who'd been thinking about it, who'd been waiting for the right moment.

Never had a first time, never knew what it was like to be wanted, to be chosen, to be loved. Never felt someone's hands on him with desire instead of disgust. Never heard someone say his name like it meant something, like it was precious.

Never got to travel the world like he'd dreamed about as a child, before everything went wrong. Never got to see Venice again. Never got to imagine his mother and sister living with him, got to carry their memory with him.

Never got to figure out who he was, who he could have been, if he hadn't spent so much time hating himself. Never got to make peace with being different, with being wrong, with being the kind of person people whispered about.

Never got to tell Percy. Never got to say the words out loud, even just once, even just to hear how they sounded. I love you. Three words he'd never said to anyone, three words that had lived in his chest like a caged bird, beating its wings against his ribs, desperate to escape.

Never got to have a life at all, really.

He would say his life flashed before his eyes, but what life did he have? What was there to flash?

A childhood cut short by his mother's death, by the car crash that had taken her and left him and Bianca alone. The smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, the way she'd sung to him in Italian—all fading now, becoming less real, less solid, until he wasn't sure if he was remembering her or remembering the memory of her.

Years in the Lotus Casino, time stolen from him, decades passing in what felt like days. The games and the food and the music, all designed to make him forget, to keep him trapped. And it had worked. He'd forgotten his mother, forgotten his sister, forgotten himself.

His sister's death. The moment Percy had told him, the way the world had tilted and gone gray. The anger that had consumed him, the grief that had hollowed him out. The years he'd spent blaming Percy, hating Percy, wanting Percy dead—and then the slow, terrible realization that he didn't want Percy dead at all, that he wanted Percy in ways he couldn't name, couldn't acknowledge, couldn't bear.

Wandering alone through the world, through the Labyrinth, through the Underworld. Always alone. Always on the outside looking in. Always watching other people live their lives while his remained frozen, stuck, going nowhere.

Being afraid. Of his father, of his powers, of himself. Of what he was, what he wanted, what he could never have.

Being angry. At the gods, at fate, at the world for being so cruel, so unfair, so determined to take everything from him.

Being so, so lonely. The kind of loneliness that ached, that had weight and texture, that followed him everywhere like a shadow. The loneliness of being the only one, of being different, of being wrong.

Loving someone who would never love him back. Watching Percy and Annabeth together, seeing the way they looked at each other, the way they fit together, the way they were meant for each other in a way that was written in the stars. Knowing that he would never have that, could never have that, didn't deserve that.

Falling into hell.

That was it. That was all he got. Sixteen years old and this was the sum total of his existence. This was his legacy. This was what he'd leave behind—nothing. No one would remember him. No one would mourn him. He'd just be gone, erased, like he'd never existed at all.

And maybe that was better. Maybe it was easier this way. Maybe it was what he deserved.

The darkness swallowed him completely, and Nico di Angelo let it.

And then he passed out.

Falling into Tartarus takes 9 days and nights. That's just how Tartarus made it, giving himself some poetic description. No one going into Tartarus feels the days and nights though. It varies person to person, case by case. For the truly determined it could feel like hours, minutes, or - for the most determined - seconds. While if you didn’t want to fall in it would take longer, weeks, months, years, centuries, millenias, and some never reach the bottom, the fall never ends. That’s if you don’t die from the fall, the fear gets to you or the pressure does. However, most commonly, you don’t remember the fall, you just pass out

For Percy it lasted 9 minutes. Short, probably from his determination to get to the doors of death and see Annabeth again. 

Nico passed out the entire time, but that doesn’t mean the fall was instantaneous. In fact, without any intervention Nico probably wouldn’t have woke up and never stopped falling.

The gods communicate through dreams because they have to. Because appearing in the flesh would incinerate most mortals on contact, turn their minds to ash, their bodies to vapor. Dreams are the compromise—the buffer between divine and mortal, the thin membrane that keeps power from annihilating the powerless.

In dreams, the gods control everything. The setting. The weather. Whether their children can speak or only listen. What they wear, what they see, how they feel. In dreams, the gods are directors and their children are actors who don't know their lines, stumbling through scenes they didn't audition for. It's easier that way. Cleaner. No arguments, no accusations, no mortal rage spilling over into divine spaces.

Except the gods can never fully contain what they are.

Their power leaks. Bleeds through the dream-barrier like light through cracks in a door. They can control the script but not the atmosphere, not the weight of their presence, not the way their very existence presses down on mortal consciousness like a hand on the back of the neck.

Ares appears in his children's dreams and they feel fear—primal, animal fear that makes their hearts race and their hands shake even as they sleep. It doesn't matter if he's smiling. Doesn't matter if he's offering praise. The fear comes anyway, uninvited, because that's what war is. That's what he is.

Aphrodite manifests and her subjects feel emotion crash over them in waves—desperation, jealousy, longing, sometimes hate. Rarely love, which is the cruelest irony of all. She can't stop it. Can't dial it down. Her presence is a mirror that shows you everything you want and can't have, and the reflection burns.

Athena brings fearful reverence. The kind that makes you want to kneel and run at the same time. Wisdom is terrifying when you're confronted with how little you know, how small you are, how easily you could be crushed under the weight of her intellect.

Every god carries this overflow. Every divine being radiates something mortals can't help but feel, can't help but absorb into their bones.

Primordials are worse.

Primordials don't just leak power—they are power. Raw, ancient, incomprehensible. They don't have to try to overwhelm you. Their existence is the overwhelming.

Nyx is why humans fear the dark. Not because darkness hides danger, but because darkness is her, and she is vast and cold and utterly indifferent to whether you live or die. Gaea is why you feel small standing at the edge of a canyon, why the scale of nature makes something in your chest tighten. She is the earth and you are nothing, a speck, a breath, gone before she even notices. Kronos is why thinking about time—really thinking about it, about eternity, about your own insignificance in the endless march of seconds—makes you want to scream or weep or both.

And Tartarus?

Tartarus is the feeling of falling and never hitting the ground. The certainty that you are alone, that you have always been alone, that you will die alone and no one will remember. He is the void that swallows meaning. The dark that devours and erases and makes it never existed.

Annabeth felt it from the edge of the pit. Felt it as she fell. Cold crept up from her feet, wrapped around her ankles like hands, pulled her down and down and down. The fear wasn't in her mind—it was in her body, physical, real, freezing her from the inside out. It only stopped when Percy grabbed her hand, when his warmth traveled down to her waist and drove the cold away. Percy felt it too, that same creeping dread, but Annabeth's presence—and later, the thought of seeing her again—kept it at bay.

Nico had no anchor.

Nico could only let the darkness in. Let it seep into his mind, his consciousness, let it fill every empty space inside him because he was so full of empty spaces, so hollow, so used to being alone that he didn't know how to fight it.

And Tartarus poured in like water into a drowning man's lungs.

The primordial's presence filled him. Every fear he'd ever had, every moment of worthlessness, every second of believing he was wrong and broken and unlovable—Tartarus took those and amplified them, turned them into truth, into gospel, into the only reality that existed.

This is what it feels like when a god—when something older and darker than gods—gets inside you.

This is what it feels like to be overcome.

They fell.

Annabeth and Percy fell together, hands clasped, fingers interlaced, holding on.

The air screamed past them. Wind tore at their clothes, their hair, their skin. It pulled at them like it wanted to separate them, like it wanted to pry their fingers apart and send them spinning into the dark alone.

But they held on.

The darkness swallowed them whole. Thick and wet and suffocating. It pressed against their faces, filled their mouths when they tried to scream, coated their tongues with the taste of ash and copper and something older, something that had no name because it existed before names were invented.

They fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Annabeth's stomach lurched. Again. And again. The feeling of freefall never stopped, never let her adjust, never gave her body permission to accept this as normal. Every cell screamed that this was wrong, that humans weren't meant to fall forever, that there had to be ground somewhere.

But there wasn't.

Just more dark.

Just more falling.

The cold came next.

It started at their feet. Crept up their ankles like fingers made of ice. Wrapped around their calves, their knees, their thighs. It climbed their bodies slowly, deliberately, taking its time because it had all the time in the world and they had nowhere to go.

Percy felt it in his bones first. A deep, aching cold that settled into his marrow and made his skeleton feel brittle, fragile, like it might shatter if he moved wrong. His teeth chattered. His jaw clenched. He couldn't stop shaking.

Annabeth felt it in her chest. The cold squeezed her lungs, made each breath harder than the last. Her heart slowed. She could feel it—the rhythm changing, the beats coming further apart, like her body was forgetting how to keep her alive.

This was what Tartarus felt like. Not the place—the being. The primordial. The ancient thing that existed before existence had rules, before reality had structure, before the universe decided that things should make sense.

This was divine overflow at its most raw.

This was what happened when something older than gods touched you directly.

But they held on.

Percy's hand in Annabeth's. Annabeth's hand in Percy's.

The warmth of skin against skin. The pressure of fingers squeezing tight. The reminder that they weren't alone, that someone else was here, that they existed because someone else could feel them existing.

The cold reached Percy's waist and stopped. Couldn't go higher. Annabeth's presence pushed it back, drove it down, kept it from reaching his heart.

The cold reached Annabeth's ribs and stopped. Couldn't go further. Percy's warmth traveled through their joined hands, spread through her chest, protected the parts of her that mattered most.

They fell together.

And the falling continued.

And still they fell.

And that was only for being seconds in Tartarus.

When they broke out of it and Percy pushed Annabeth to safety, he still persisted.

He held on to the point of delusion.

Percy thought of Annabeth's voice. The way she said his name when she was annoyed. The gray of her eyes. The feeling of her hand in his, right now, right here, the only solid thing in a universe of falling. He held onto her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to himself.

The void wanted him.

They could feel it. A pull. A hunger. Something vast and empty and endlessly patient reaching for them, trying to unmake him, trying to erase the parts of him that remembered being human.

But he held on.  

Nico fell alone. 

He was away from the cold grasp for slightly longer than them, he knew how to keep Tartarus away. He was able to keep him away for just enough time to save Annabeth 

But after Annabeth left, and being confronted that Percy wasn’t comforting him, and even without Annabeth he wouldn’t care for him. He felt so alone.

No hand to hold. No warmth to anchor him. No voice calling his name to remind him who he was.

Just Nico.

Just the dark.

Just the falling.

The cold came for him immediately. Wrapped around his ankles, his legs, his waist, his chest. It didn't stop. Didn't slow. There was no one to push it back, no presence to drive it away. It climbed and climbed until it reached his throat, his jaw, his face.

It filled him.

Seeped into his skin. Soaked through his muscles. Settled into his bones. The cold became part of him, or he became part of the cold—he couldn't tell the difference anymore.

The fear came next.

Not the fear of falling. Not the fear of dying.

The fear of never having mattered at all.

The fear that he was wrong. Broken. Unlovable. The fear that everyone who'd ever left him had been right to leave, that he was the kind of person meant to be abandoned, that his existence was a mistake the universe was trying to correct.

Tartarus took those fears and made them true.

Made them gospel.

Made them the only reality that existed.

Nico fell.

And fell.

And fell.

And the falling never stopped.

Time dissolved. Seconds bled into hours bled into years bled into nothing. He couldn't measure it anymore. Couldn't count the heartbeats or the breaths or the moments of consciousness between the moments of not.

There was only falling.

Only dark.

Only the void opening up beneath him, around him, inside him.

He tried to scream but the darkness filled his mouth. Coated his tongue. Slid down his throat. It tasted like ash and rust and the particular flavor of despair—bitter and metallic and wrong.

He tried to breathe but the air was too thick. It had texture. Weight. It pressed into his lungs like mud, like he was drowning in something that wasn't quite liquid and wasn't quite solid, something in between, something that had no name.

His body started to dissolve.

Not physically. Not yet.

But the sense of his body. The certainty that he had arms and legs and a torso and a head. That certainty began to slip away.

He couldn't feel his fingers anymore. Couldn't confirm they existed. They might be there or they might not—the darkness gave him no feedback, no sensation to prove one way or the other.

His legs disappeared next. The feeling of them. The weight. The knowledge that they were attached to him. Gone.

He was just a consciousness falling through nothing.

A thought with no thinker.

A scream with no mouth.

And still he fell.

And still the darkness pressed in.

And still Tartarus poured into him like water into a drowning man's lungs, filling every empty space, every hollow place, every part of him that had ever felt alone.

This was divine overflow.

This was what happened when a primordial touched you directly.

This was what mortals weren't designed to survive.

Nico let it in.

He had no choice.

He was so full of empty spaces. So hollow. So used to being alone that he didn't know how to fight it, didn't know how to push back, didn't have anyone to anchor him to the world of the living.

So he let the darkness in.

Let it fill him.

Let it become him.

And the falling continued.

Forever and ever and ever.

Nico woke up.

Except he didn't know if he woke up.

Didn't know if this was waking or dying or something worse. Something in between. Something that had no name because no one had ever come back from it to give it one.

His shirt clung to his back. He thought it was his back. Thought he still had a back. The fabric stuck to skin he couldn't feel, couldn't confirm was there.

Sweat soaked through the cloth. Cold sweat. Hot sweat. Both at the same time, which shouldn't be possible but was.

The wetness spread. Ran down his spine. Pooled at the small of his back. Dripped into his eyes, stinging, salt and fear mixing together.

He tried to blink it away.

His eyelids felt heavy. Disconnected. Like they belonged to someone else's face.

His breathing came in short gasps. Quick and shallow. Each breath brought no air into his lungs. Or maybe he had no lungs. Maybe he was just the idea of breathing. The memory of needing oxygen. A ghost going through the motions of being alive.

He was shaking.

No—shuddering.

His whole body convulsed. Like he'd been pulled from freezing water and left to seize on a dock somewhere.

But there was no dock.

No water.

No body, maybe.

Just the sensation of shaking. The concept of trembling. Happening to a collection of nerves that might not be attached to anything anymore.

But he wasn't cold.

He was burning up.

The sweat kept coming. Rivers of it. Dripping down his temples—did he still have temples?—pooling at the small of his back where his shirt stuck to skin that might not exist.

Where was he?

The question echoed in his head. Found no answer. No surface to bounce off of. Just fell into the same nothing that surrounded him.

Nico tried to sit up.

His body didn't respond.

His arms lay at his sides. He thought they were at his sides. Thought he still had sides. Dead weight that he couldn't lift, couldn't move, couldn't even feel except as a distant ache that might be memory instead of sensation.

He couldn't feel the ground beneath him.

Couldn't feel anything beneath him.

Was he lying down? Standing? Floating in some vast emptiness like a piece of debris in an ocean with no surface and no floor?

His sense of up and down had abandoned him.

The darkness around him was absolute.

Not the darkness of his father's palace. Not the darkness where shadows moved with purpose and intention. Not the darkness where the dark was alive and aware and sometimes friendly.

Not the darkness of night. Not the darkness where stars eventually appeared if you waited long enough. Not the darkness where your eyes adjusted and shapes emerged from the black.

Not even the darkness of Tartarus.

And he knew that darkness. Had catalogued it in the brief moments of consciousness during the fall.

Tartarus was loud.

Monsters screaming in the distance. Their voices raw with hunger and rage and the particular madness of eternal imprisonment.

Deep, resonating thuds of titans wandering the wasteland. Their footsteps shaking the ground hard enough to rattle teeth.

The hiss and crackle of the rivers. Fire and lamentation and forgetfulness all running together.

Tartarus was fleshy and dry at the same time. Like the inside of a corpse. Particles of decay floating in the air. Coating your tongue. Getting into your lungs.

This wasn't that.

This was completely still.

Completely absent of anything.

This was silent.

Completely silent.

Utterly silent.

Impossibly silent.

The kind of silence that made you doubt you'd ever heard sound at all. The kind that made you wonder if noise was just a collective hallucination the living agreed to believe in.

The kind of silence that had weight.

Presence.

It pressed against his eardrums from the inside. He felt like he was highl.

Nico tried to swallow.

His throat clicked. Dry. Painful. The sound of flesh sticking to flesh.

The sound should have echoed. Should have bounced off something. Should have proven that space existed around him.

But it didn't.

It just died in the air. Swallowed by the dark like it had never happened at all.

He wanted to scream.

Wanted to shout into the void to see if anyone was there. If anything was there. If he was anywhere at all or if he'd finally slipped through the cracks in reality and ended up nowhere.

But his throat had locked up.

Muscles seized tight with terror.

Fear had its hand around his windpipe and it wasn't letting go. Wasn't giving him permission to make sound. To confirm his own existence through noise.

Was he dead?

The thought came suddenly. Unbidden. And he couldn't push it away once it arrived.

Maybe he'd hit the bottom of Tartarus and died on impact. His body shattering against ancient stone while his consciousness kept going. Kept falling. Fell right through death and out the other side into this.

Maybe this was what came after.

Not Elysium or Asphodel or even the Fields of Punishment.

But this nothing.

This absence.

This void where you waited alone in the dark for Thanatos to remember you existed and come collect what was left.

Maybe he was nowhere.

Maybe nowhere was a place you could be.

His chest tightened.

Pressure built behind his ribs. Squeezing. Crushing. Like someone had reached inside his ribcage and wrapped their fist around his lungs.

It felt like a hand pressing down on his sternum. Pushing the air out. Making space for something else. Something worse.

He tried to breathe deeper.

The pressure increased with each attempt. Punishing him for trying. For wanting. For still being enough of something to need air.

His heart hammered against the inside of his chest. Frantic. Desperate. Trying to escape the cage of bone that held it.

Each beat hurt.

Each pulse sent pain radiating through his torso like his heart was too big now. Swollen with fear. Taking up too much space.

He couldn't move.

Couldn't scream.

Couldn't breathe right.

The silence pressed in on him from all sides. A physical thing now.

And he was drowning in it.

And still the silence continued.

And still the pressure built.

And still he couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't confirm he existed.

Forever and ever and ever.

Then he saw it.

A flicker in the distance. A shape. Wavering.

Nico's eyes locked onto it. He couldn't look away even though every instinct screamed at him to close his eyes. To not see. To not know.

The shape flickered in and out like a dying flame.

One moment it was there. A pale smudge against the black. The next it was gone.

Then back again.

Closer.

The pressure on Nico's chest increased.

He wanted to cry. To make some sound to release the pain building in his ribs. But before he could stop himself a different sound came out.

A yelp.

Pathetic.

The figure's head turned toward him.

Nico's blood went cold.

He stood frozen.

Wait.

He was standing?

When had he stood up?

He had no memory of standing. No memory of his legs straightening. No memory of his body rising from the non-ground.

But he was standing now.

The figure began moving toward him.

Each step it took made the pressure on his chest worse. Like the air itself was being compressed. Like the space between them was collapsing.

Nico's knees buckled.

He collapsed.

Hands clutching at his chest. Trying to claw away the invisible weight crushing him.

The figure kept coming.

And coming.

And coming.

As it got closer, Nico could see it more clearly.

The flickering stopped.

The shape solidified.

It was male.

Broad-shouldered.

Tall.

Impossibly tall.

A beard hung from its face. Long and wiry. Dragging along the ground. Dragging through the darkness. Trailing behind like it was caught in water.

The hair on its head matched the beard. Long. Tangled. Blending into the black around it until Nico couldn't tell where the hair ended and the void began.

Its eyes were the same.

Black.

Not the black of a pupil but the black of nothing. Of absence.

Nico stared into those eyes and saw no reflection. No light. No recognition.

Just empty sockets that somehow still looked back at him.

The skin was wrong.

It was white. Not pale and sickly, but an impossible white that glowed faintly against the dark.

And it sagged.

The skin hung off the figure's face in loose folds.

The area under its eyes had fallen so far that Nico could see underneath. Could see the veins attached to the eyeballs. Thin red threads pumping blood in slow, rhythmic pulses.

Nico's stomach turned.

The figure took another step closer.

The pressure on Nico's chest became unbearable.

He gasped. Mouth open. Trying to pull in air that wouldn't come.

His vision started to blur at the edges.

As the figure approached, its body became less visible.

A dark mist rose up from the darkness and wrapped around it. The mist clung to its legs. Its torso. Its arms. Until only its head and unkempt hands remained visible.

The closer it got, the quieter everything became.

Nico hadn't thought it could get quieter. But it did. The silence deepened.

He didn't know how. The previous silence had been absolute. Complete. Total. But this was deeper.

The air stagnated. No vibration. No movement. No anything. Just completely void of everything.

And it got colder. Not the cold of winter or even the cold of the deepest ocean. This was the cold of nothing. The cold of a place where warmth had never existed and never would. It seeped into Nico's bones. His bones couldn't even shiver. Could only stay still from the intense cold.

The figure stopped directly in front of him. Nico looked up from where he knelt on the non-ground.

His neck craned back. The figure towered over him.

Up close, Nico could see the skin on its arms.

It was flaking off.

Pieces of it peeled away and drifted down like ash. Disintegrating before they hit the ground.

Underneath the skin was more skin. Gray and mottled. Already beginning to decay.

The smell hit him then.

Rot, old rot..

Nico's lips moved.

He didn't mean to speak but the word came out anyway.

Barely a whisper.

“Tartarus”.

The figure's blank face shifted. Slowly—so slowly—its mouth curved upward. A smile. A cruel, cruel smile. Nico tried to back away. His body wouldn't move. His legs were locked in place. His hands still clutching his chest.

Tartarus's mouth began to open.

Like a human would. Lips parting. Jaw unclenching. Then the jaw dropped lower.

And lower.

And lower.

The mouth opened wider than possible. Stretching the crease where the edge of his lips met his cheeks. Splitting his cheeks. Widening his smile. Wider than the face. Wider than the head. Inside was another void. Not darkness—void. Nico stared into it and felt his mind start to slip. There was nothing in there. No throat. No teeth. No tongue.Just an infinite emptiness.

The mouth kept opening. It grew larger than Tartarus's body. Expanding outward. The edges of it stretching and distorting until it was all Nico could see. He felt himself being pulled toward it. Not physically. Maybe physically. He couldn't tell anymore. But something in him was being drawn into it.

His thoughts.

His memories.

His sense of self.

All of it sliding toward the mouth like water down a drain.

Tartarus's hands reached out from the sides. The fingers were too long. The joints bent in too many places. The skin hung off them in strips. Revealing bone underneath. Bone that was black and porous. Rotting for eons. The hands reached for Nico's face.

Nico wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to do anything but kneel there and wait to be touched by those impossible hands.

The fingers were inches from his skin. He could feel the cold radiating from them. Could smell the decay.

The void of the mouth pulled harder.

Nico's vision started to go dark around the edges. Not the darkness of the abyss but the darkness of unconsciousness. His body was shutting down. Trying to protect him from something it couldn't process.

The fingers touched—

And Nico jerked.

Upward.

His body convulsing.

Arms flailing against something.

Someone.

Hands on him.

Warm hands.

Real hands.

Or dream hands.

He couldn't tell.

He screamed.

The sound tore from his throat. Raw. Hoarse. Like he'd been screaming for hours. Days. Maybe he had been.

"Nico—"

A voice.

Familiar.

But the void had voices too. The void could sound like anyone. Could trick him. Could make him think he was safe and then—

"Nico, relax!"

Hands on his shoulders. Gripping. Holding him down or holding him together. He thrashed against them.

"Get off—"

"It was just a dream!"

Dream.

The word echoed.

Dream dream dream.

But which part was the dream? The falling or the waking? The void or this?

His eyes flew open.

Mist.

Everywhere.

Swirling. Shifting. Gray and white and silver. Moving like it was alive. Like it had intention.

Like it wanted to swallow him.

Nico's breath caught.

The mist pressed closer.

"No—"

"Nico."

That voice again.

He turned his head.

Hazel.

Sitting beside him. Her hands still on his shoulders. Her face close to his.

Or something wearing Hazel's face.

The void could do that. Could make him see what he wanted. Could show him his sister and then take her away again. Could make him hope and then—

"Where—" His voice cracked. "Where are we?"

The mist shifted.

Hazel's face blurred at the edges.

"It's just a dream," she said.

Her voice sounded wrong. Too calm.

"You're not real."

"I am." She pulled him closer. Her arms wrapped around him. "I am, Nico. I promise."

The warmth of her.

The pressure of her arms.

The smell of her—earth and metal and something sweet he couldn't name.

Real or remembered?

He didn't know.

"The mist," he said. His words came out slurred. Confused. "It's—"

"I'm controlling it."

Nico pulled back. Looked at her face.

She looked exhausted.

Dark circles under her eyes. Deep. Purple. Like bruises.

Her hair pulled back messily. Strands falling around her face.

"How long—"

"It's been over a week."

The words hit him.

A week.

He'd been falling for a week.

Or dreaming for a week.

Or dying for a week.

"I've been holding the mist around you," Hazel said. Her voice shook slightly. "You kept—the nightmares wouldn't stop."

The mist swirled.

Nico watched it move. Watched it curl around them like smoke. Like fog. Like the void made visible.

"Is this real?"

Hazel's hands tightened on his shoulders.

"Yes."

"How do I know?"

Silence.

Long silence.

She didn't have an answer.

Neither did he.

The mist shifted again. Closer. Pressing in.

Nico's breathing quickened.

"I need—" Hazel stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I need you to tell me where the Doors of Death are."

The Doors.

Right.

The quest.

The war.

Gaea waking.

All of it still happening while he'd been falling through nothing.

"Why?"

"So we can save you."

Save him.

The words felt hollow.

"Percy hates me," Nico said.

The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he was stating the weather. Hazel's face did something complicated. Something he couldn't read.

"He doesn't—"

"He let me fall."

"Nico—"

"We were the only one falling and he reached for her. Not me. Her."

Silence again. Hazel's hands dropped from his shoulders.

The cold rushed in where her warmth had been.

"I can't save us," Nico said. "I can't—I can't do it again."

His voice broke on the last word.

Something cracked inside his chest.

And then the tears came.

He tried to stop them.

Tried to hold them back.

Tried to keep his face neutral, his expression blank, his voice steady. But he couldn't.

The sobs tore from his throat. One after another. Each one leaving him more raw than the last.

His whole body shook with it.

He couldn't stop.

Couldn't control it.

Couldn't make himself stop breaking in front of her. Shame flooded through him. Hot, thick shame. She was seeing him like this.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Crying like a child.

He turned his face away.

Tried to hide.

But Hazel's arms were around him again. Pulling him close. Holding him tight.

One hand in his hair. Stroking. The gesture achingly familiar. Their mother used to do that. Bianca used to do that.

"I need you to try," Hazel whispered.

Her voice was desperate now. Shaking.

"We need you. I need you."

Nico couldn't speak. Couldn't form words through the sobs.

"You're the only family I have," Hazel said. "I can't—I can't do this without you."

The only family.

The words echoed.

He saw himself in them. Saw the kid he'd been when Bianca left. Saw the way he'd begged her not to go. Saw himself alone. Always alone.

He couldn't do that to Hazel. Couldn't leave her the way everyone had left him. Even if he didn't believe he could survive. Even if Percy didn't care. Even if he was going to die down there in the dark. He couldn't do that to her.

"The Nekromanteion," he said.

His voice came out hoarse. Broken.

"In Epirus. You'll—you'll feel it. It'll call to you."

Hazel nodded against his shoulder.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

"I'll try," Nico said.

The words felt like a lie. But he said them anyway.

"I'll try."

Hazel's arms tightened around him.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you."

The mist began to fade. Slowly at first. Then faster.

The gray lightening to white. The white dissolving to nothing. Hazel's arms loosened. Her warmth slipping away.

"Hazel—"

But she was already gone. The mist faded completely. And Nico was alone.

In darkness.

Again.

You need to try.

Hazel's voice echoed.

Again and again.

You need to try.

You need to try.

You need to try.

The words crescendoed.

Louder.

Louder.

Until his body began to tremble. The darkness shaking. Dissolving. Breaking apart with each violent shake. Until he realized, the shaking wasn't the darkness. It was hands.

Real hands.

Shaking him. Hard.

"NICO, WAKE UP!"

Percy's voice.