Chapter Text
If Annabeth had known it would cost her everything: her boyfriend, her place at camp, her reputation, her mind, her soul, and eventually her life; she would have never spoken to her mother that night.
She stares at the withered, rotting hand extended, waiting to be taken, for the deal to be closed, unnerved even more than she normally is by the sight of the perfectly manicured nails; up, up, up, up, Annabeth raises her eyes to stare at that horrendous thing, up to the face of this Wretched Creature, tearing gaze away from rotten flesh to stare up, up, up, at the rotten eyes of this brilliant Architect of her demise, who hates her more potently than any one or thing before, who loves her even still; it has to love her, it must, you see, to have done what it has, to have come to know her so thoroughly, to remain so enraptured by her.
She had, of course. Spoken to her mother and in so doing cost herself everything, that is. But we're not yet to this extended hand offering a deal, are we? Let's back up. Back and back and back to before the start. To a few minutes before it all went wrong, when Annabeth steps off a ledge she can never climb back onto.
For this story does not have a happy ending.
Do you hear that? You read the summary and the warnings to get here. You opened this story. You must not expect a happy ending. You must not even hope for it, else she drag you down with her.
But drag you down where? Well, to describe that, we need to go back. As I said, we need to back up all the way to
Annabeth
𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱
Annabeth has been avoiding her mother. Petty? Perhaps. Warranted? In her mind, yes. Annabeth is her most accomplished daughter in the last thousand years, even before she retrieved the Parthenos. But that conversation in the subway had still occurred. She'd had to listen to someone near identical to her mother talk about how much of a disappointment she was. All because she wasn't willing to kill people on sight! It had put a bitter taste in her mouth. It had gone away after a little while, of course. She had work to do, and she couldn't let her feelings get in the way.
It had come back, of course, when Athena had chosen to honor a Roman Praetor with a cutting of her cloak, and not her. Annabeth had done the work of finding the statue, of beating the trial, of defeating Arachne. Of helping design the ship that lifted the Parthenos out of the hole it was stashed in.
Reyna had done good work; Annabeth can easily admit that. It's enough to swallow the bitter taste for another while. To be clear, Annabeth isn't bitter towards Reyna. She deserves the cloak. Annabeth's bitterness is aimed towards the utter lack of apology from Athena.
For that is really where the issue lies. She still disproves of her relationship with Percy, she's not apologized for declaring she is no daughter of hers, nor for destroying the functionality of her invisibility cap.
Frankly, there's very little Annabeth can receive from Athena, and she's quite happy with keeping that stance as it is.
It's the stance she holds when Percy invites her to a festival on Olympus. He'd mentioned how Poseidon had invited him, and Hermes had dropped off an invitation for them both that same day, as Percy had also said.
It's the stance she holds when Aphrodite helped them dress to hide their recovering bodies. It's the stand she holds as Percy mutters to her that this is the last hour they're staying. She's noticed just as keenly as he has, Poseidon's absence. It's just like that god. He might be a bit better than the rest; but slightly better than the rest only results in Percy getting his hopes up and crushed in a cycle.
You'd think Percy would have learned Poseidon wasn't going to live up to his promises by now, wouldn't you?
That she has nothing to receive from her mother is what she believes as Athena heads straight for them, bright eyes boring into her. She stops in front of them, hands latching behind her back. She's in a brand-new dress. It shimmers with intricately woven images, a few well-selected pieces of armor strapped over her body. Athena's helmet sits casually atop her head as it always does.
Her face is set in hard expectation, clearly about how this conversation will go. She's only an inch or so taller than Percy, and thinner at the shoulders. Well, she should be thinner at the shoulders. Percy's current illness makes him thinner and weaker than he ought be.
"Annabeth, my daughter," Athena says. Well. Decent start. It's not an apology, though. "I have need to speak with you in private."
Athena proceeds to stare at Annabeth, evidently saying that she'll apologize in private. She stifles a sigh, remaining calmly neutral. If Athena is going to apologize, then she wants a trustworthy witness to corroborate the event for posterity.
"Anything you have to say to me, you can say with Percy here." It's not her most eloquent response, but one that will suffice.
"Not this time," Athena fires back. "The subject isn't one to broach when he is listening."
Annabeth isn't going to yield that easily. "I trust him, mother." The hit lands - Annabeth can see it in how the goddess shifts from one foot to another by a fraction.
"By request of his father."
Right. Of course. Because Annabeth believes that.
"It is a delicate subject that Poseidon wishes to broach with Percy in his own time," her mother continues.
Annabeth promptly glances at Percy. If Poseidon was the one to invite him, he might have already spoken of this mystery subject. But Percy just shrugs.
"It isn't a violent subject," Athena cajoles. "Not a quest, errand, or prophecy. A handful of minutes of your time is all I require."
She sighs long and slow. While she has low expectations of her mother, this sideways approach is honestly intriguing. If she's aiming to apologize in private to avoid any embarrassment, Annabeth guesses she can play along. "So long as it's not something insane. Percy?"
He hears her request to hang about Olympus until she's done with a smile. "I'll wander around," he says with a nudge. "Try to find Dad, see if he'll 'broach the delicate subject' with me too." Goodness, she loves him for the playfulness he's trying to pull up for her, with his little head waggle on 'broach the delicate subject'.
Just a breath more irritated, he says, "he was the one who invited me, and I haven't seen him once so far."
Typical, she thinks. Her mutter of that thought goes unheard, and the two of them watch as Percy wanders off. She turns back to Athena. "Well?"
"Follow me," she says briskly. They walk through the halls, passing partygoers without acknowledgement. Annabeth doesn't recognize where they're going. The first sting of nerves arrives as the halls quiet and empty.
“They will lie to you,” Athena warns quietly, as they turn the last corner. She nods her understanding, though she doesn’t know who ‘they’ are.
Annabeth can hear raised voices inside the room they come to before they get there. Interestingly, the loudest of them is Poseidon's. The voices cut off abruptly a few seconds before Athena reaches for the handle.
The room looks near abandoned, lacking decoration for the festival. The door is the only entrance into the room, including windows as entrance. The only furniture is a dirty table, and the only interesting feature of the floor a duo of steps elevating a strip of floor at the back of the room. Annabeth has seen similar with choir rooms, though there is normally more space on the highest level.
The people here, or, rather, gods, more immediately demand Annabeth's attention. Poseidon's chest heaves with his breaths, fists clenched at his sides. The air is thick with humid salt, and his bared-teeth glare nearly drives Annabeth right back out of the room.
Hades is here too. He has his hands braced on the table, weight on them. He, too, is shaking with anger, aimed at her mother. His is more restrained, more as a heavy war bow at full draw. It's like staring down a dragon that's not yet decided if it wishes to eat you. He hasn't even moved or spoken, yet.
"Will the two of you get out already?" Athena's irritated snap is paired with an eyeroll. Hades' splayed hands on the table clench.
Poseidon snaps back, speaking in a language Annabeth doesn't know. Athena responds in kind, and the three gods begin arguing rather loudly above her head.
Annabeth's attempt to gracefully exit until this is over with and they can proceed with civility is halted by Athena's hand on her upper arm. The grip is bruising. Annabeth tries and fails not to make a sound at it.
To her surprise, for she'd thought Poseidon's opinion of her still foul, he steps forward. He pries Athena's bruising grip off her, bodily stepping between them. Athena spits some nasty remark, and Poseidon's shoulders stiffen. The offense rolling off him is near tangible. After a moment of tense silence, both Poseidon and Hades staring at her, Athena follows her first blow with another.
Poseidon spits on her face. "Hades warned you," he says in English, seething. "Of how thorough a mistake informing her is. Of what will inevitably happen. Do not come crying to me when it does!" With that, he strides for the exit. He turns right at the door, glaring at Athena and her. "And both of you, keep your filthy paws off Percy like you fucking promised!" The entire room shudders with the force of the slammed door.
Athena's disgusted sound is undercut by Hades' low words. In English. To Annabeth.
"Your mother does not know all. It would do you best to leave. Now." He speaks with dangerous softness, sharp contrast to the yelling he was doing just a minute past. It comes across, to Annabeth's ear, almost gentle.
Athena hisses, hand closing around her arm again. "Still you attempt to control the fate of my child!"
"I attempt to perform the duties I am responsible for," Hades snaps back. He finally straightens from his resting at the table. Annabeth automatically takes a step back from the dragon. That is as far as she can go, tethered to her mother as she is.
She chides herself, mentally. Where is her spine? Since when does she remain silent in the face of anger? "What are you talking about?" she asks as steadily as she can. Hades takes a slow step forward.
"You must not know of it," he says.
Athena advances on him, dragging Annabeth with her. "Both you and your son! You aim to strip my daughter and I of the kleos we are owed for your own gain!"
Hades' face twists into an ugly expression of fury. It stays that way for a few seconds, then smooths back into the controlled glare from before.
Then, again, he addresses Annabeth over Athena. His hand comes to her shoulder, and his fierce gold eyes bore into hers.
"I warn you one last time, child," he says. He entirely ignores Athena's protests at the touch he gives her. "Leave."
"You face my anger if you do," Athena immediately tells Annabeth. "We can fix this, together. I know it, daughter mine. We do not need them; we are enough on our own."
"You will not face her anger, I guarantee it as one of the God Kings," Hades says quietly. "Follow my advice, and you carry my protection."
Annabeth looks between Hades and Athena, thinking rapidly. She knows how rarely Hades leaves the Underworld, so this must be something important to him. But Athena knows her far better than Hades.
Athena holds eye contact, imploring. "You have lived up to my expectations time and again, Annabeth. I am certain you will do so again."
Annabeth has little to receive from Athena. She's been firm in that belief since the subway. But...
Oh, to have that expectant, proud gaze back on her. Athena said this isn't a quest, nothing that requires a prophecy. And he only knows her as the upstart brat who broke into his realm at twelve years old. Is her reputation as Hero and Architect enough to offset that? Can she trust that his intentions are honest? Athena had warned her ‘they’, clearly Poseidon and Hades, would lie. Can she trust that?
She thinks of Poseidon swearing at her just now, how he has ignored Annabeth's offers to redesign his temple. How he still disproves of her dating his son. It's a clear statement of how he thinks of her.
"Mom," Annabeth says. Athena hears it as the choice it is. She turns expectantly to him.
"She has decided of her own free will," Athena snaps. "Now, unhand her."
He bows his head, eyes closing in a moment of what can only be grief. "It is a terrible mistake," he says again.
Athena's spear materializes and comes to rest at Hades' throat in the same motion. The sorrow freshly welled dries up in his eyes immediately.
"The King," Athena says, stressing the first word, clearly meaning Zeus, "ordered us to remain focused on our own. I suggest you leave me to mine and find where your son has tottered off to."
Hades shakes his head. He turns back to Annabeth one last time. "Your mother brings upon you a fate I would not wish upon the worst in my care. I am sorry, child." His 'sorry' carries over to the deep apology in his eyes, sitting right alongside the anger. It’s more persuasive than anything he’s said. He leaves without another word, the door closing near silently behind him.
Annabeth makes for the exit, something in her soul hollering. It's a hackle she's never felt raised before. A fear of a breed she's never tasted.
Athena's hand on her arm stops her from leaving. Her field of vision is engulfed in blue. She automatically recoils, and the sight resolves into a blue hat. A Yankees baseball cap, to be precise. She looks at her mother with uncertainty, still with two-thirds a mind to leave.
Athena only lets her take it from her hands when Annabeth stops leaning for the exit. "You may keep it as payment to listen to me," Athena says. As soon as she accepts it, Athena lets her go.
She walks to the table, carelessly tossing her spear down. She sits with a groan, scrubbing her face. What a change in her, from arguing with her rival and a god who has never favored her, to only in front of her daughter. Annabeth watches Athena calm down for a moment, then copies, sitting across from her.
"A week and some days ago, Hades called a meeting of the Olympic Council," Athena says. She speaks solemnly, in the way she does when she's telling Annabeth that this, here, is more important than the norm. "As a god with dominion over the soul, he was first to notice what has happened to his son, and thus to you and Percy Jackson."
Annabeth's hackles, which have stayed raised, shiver. It's an odd sensation, deeper than instinct. It reminds her of running through Nyx's House, knowing that whatever was in there had watched them sprint for their lives. "Mom, I'm not sure I should hear this, if both Hades and Poseidon think it's a bad idea."
She turns her new cap over and over in her hands, nervous for a reason she can't articulate. She glances over her shoulder. It's just them in the room. She knew that.
Athena wrinkles her nose. "Poseidon always thinks he has the right of it, and this is far from the first time he has butted into my business simply to make things harder for me. As for Hades? His recent hunger for glory is one I find disturbing. Do you not remember the tale of his son trapping Percy in his dungeons? We have never been allies. Left unchallenged, it would be a simple matter to claim the glory of not just transporting the Parthenos, as you failed to do, but finding it in the first place."
Annabeth lowers her head to hide her face. How embarrassing. Moreover, it's in keeping with the Hades of myth, to forever hold a grudge against, to forever trip up, a hero who traveled to his domain. Athena is wise, and she knows those two gods better than Annabeth. She always knows better than Annabeth.
"Alright. What did he find?" She asks. Athena is only bribing her to listen, not to agree to anything. She can seek Hades out after this, right?
"Tartarus himself has wounded your soul, Annabeth," Athena says. She passes a hand through the thin dust on the table as she says, "a seed of rot planted in your soul, meant to drive you mad and turn you into a creature of the Pit’s nature."
The dust hits Annabeth's nose. It smells of the garbage from the alleyways she used to sleep in, as a little girl. Her mind, reminded of the Pit, automatically adds on the smell of sulfur.
"Annabeth?"
She checks over her shoulder for whoever whispered her name, but again there is nobody there. Static spreads through her limbs in a wave, leaving behind several muscles threatening to cramp. Her head, which has been hurting on and off throughout the day, grows dizzy and light.
"Mom," Annabeth whispers. She shivers with dread, with the sensation of freefall in her stomach. It thankfully only lasts a few seconds. "I don't know if you should have told me that."
Athena waves a hand, lets it rest over her spear. "Nonsense. You are a brilliant young woman, and I cannot imagine how you could tackle this without knowing exactly what you are fighting." She smiles warmly at Annabeth. "As I said. You have met my high expectations before, and I know you can do so again. We are enough, together. We can fix whatever illness this seed of rot causes."
Annabeth exhales slowly, trying to steady her nerves. Despite the smile she manages in response to Athena's, she cannot help but feel that the world around her has shifted, somehow.
She doesn't know which would be the correct description: that her skin suddenly fits differently over the muscle and sinew underneath, or that the color grading of everything has changed. Like a film put over a movie.
"Are you saying that's why I've had such trouble sleeping and eating, lately?" Annabeth asks. "Because I'm already sick with this rot?"
Athena nods. "Likely. Now, Hades told us he experimented on his son."
What?! Hades took a knife to his own kid?! No wonder Athena thinks tackling this themselves will turn out better. However, Athena is still speaking, so she sets her thoughts aside to listen.
"-during which he found that proximity helps. You are a daughter of mine, and thus proximity to me will, allegedly, prevent the spread of illness through your soul. I assume that close contact with my own divinity will strengthen yours, and thus allow your soul to fight it off."
Annabeth shifts in her seat. "You said it was also meant to drive me mad. Is close contact also going to help with my mind?"
Athena shakes her head, leaning forwards conspiratorially. "That, of course, is little worry. You are an intelligent, strategic, wise young woman, and I expect that you will be able to keep your mind in good order." She smiles warmly again. Expectantly. "I will, of course, offer advice on keeping your mind in order. If you need it, that is.”
She nods slowly. "I can do that, of course. But, Mom..." She takes a steadying breath before she asks the most immediate question on her mind. "You said it affected me and Nico and Percy. Is it affecting all three of us in the same way?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because Percy... He developed a new demigod ability while we were... down there. At least, I thought it was a demigod ability before this. Is that because he's sick too?"
Athena thinks for a moment, then shakes her thoughts away to answer. "If it is an ability brought by the rot, then it is not your concern. When Hades informed the council of this, Lord Zeus decreed that each parent focus on their own. Leave Percy to Poseidon, and Nico to Hades."
"Filthy paws," Annabeth mutters. It makes Athena snap her fingers and point.
"Ah, that. Yes, Poseidon wishes me to tell you: he wants you to hold your tongue about this." Athena gives her a mildly pitying look. "He thinks Percy will fare better without knowing of the rot and does not want you to inform him."
“How can he fight it, if he doesn’t know he has it?”
“Precisely my argument. But, Poseidon is always stubborn, and Percy is not our responsibility. Focus on yourself.”
Athena begins speaking of making space in her temple for Annabeth to visit regularly, and she lets it wash over her as she thinks.
She was right. Percy shouldn't be able to wield poison – it’s something the Pit forced on him. Which means that, the more he uses it, the sicker he will become. She takes comfort in that promise he'd made her. Percy keeps his word.
Athena eventually runs out of things to talk about, and Annabeth takes the opportunity to stand. One polite self-dismissal later, and Annabeth is opening the door to go and find Percy. They need to talk about this as soon as possible.
She nearly walks face first into a black chiton. Hades is waiting a step outside the door, face set in a deep frown.
"She told you?" Hades asks.
Annabeth nods. "The rot, yes."
Hades sighs, sweeping past her back inside. Annabeth turns to watch and finds him the only occupant. Athena and her spear are gone.
“Then you carry a much heavier burden, for the knowing,” Hades says. She thinks it's to himself, until he casts a look over his shoulder at her. "With a much slimmer chance of pulling through."
Annabeth hitches a shoulder, hands grasping her elbows. "Mom implied you told her the wrong information, because with me out of the way, it's simple to claim credit for the work I did to find the Parthenos."
Hades thins his lips. "Do you really think," he says slowly. Again, quiet in a dangerous manner. "I would abandon my duties as the King who watches over the souls of the Underworld for a simple grudge?"
Annabeth hesitates. Well, when you put it like that... But- “I’m not a member of your kingdom yet.”
Hades shakes his head. "Death comes for all mortals, and I am not in the business of making more work for myself." He tips his head to one side. "Speaking of mortals who belong to my kingdom. Do you really think I would withhold knowledge of this from my own son, if I did not think it was the best decision?”
“You didn’t tell Nico? Even after you cut him up?” Annabeth says. She regrets her careless phrasing when Hades’ expression darkens with fury.
She backs out of the room, away from the dragon that's decided she looks tasty. He'd promised his protection earlier, and now she's wondering if it doubles as a promise of wrath should she inform Percy or Nico.
Perhaps she should hold her tongue.
She looks for Percy, trying to ignore the feeling she’s done something incredibly stupid.
Hades
𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡𖢻♡
Persephone is the one who suggests how to drug Nico. She's still up on Olympus, monitoring the situation as closely as she can from the distance. She sends Hades a box of various treats and includes a note. Nico reads it over his shoulder, like they'd expected, and accepts her invitation to join Hades in tasting the chocolates and candies of all sorts.
Hades can smell the anesthesia on specific pieces, of course. It's a simple matter to sit the boy down on the steps of the palace and trade off eating a bite, then handing a bite of drugged food to him. Nico doesn't taste or notice it until his eyes are blinking rapidly. Dizziness is one of the symptoms of the anesthesia, and Nico evidently deduces what's happening because of it.
He tries for alarm, then, but it's too late. Nico rises and bolts, but only makes it a foot off his seat before his balance fails him. Hades catches him, setting a hand over the boy's eyes. He presses his aura down on him, and Nico can do little to resist the order to sleep.
He tries valiantly, plucking at Hades’ hand, reaching for a sword left inside the palace. Hades hushes him, holding him close until he's well and truly asleep.
It's the closest he's come to Nico's soul since he returned, and Hades barely restrains a repulsed shudder at the sensation of rot against his aura. Hades presses what might be the last kiss he can, against Nico's temple. It's a show of affection he knows the child will never accept while awake, and depending how this goes, today might have been the last time Nico was awake.
After that, Hades moves with efficiency, with confidence, with surety in his actions he cannot fully justify as having a solution. He knows how to figure out what’s wrong with Nico’s soul. Whether he or any other can fix it is another matter.
Hades carries him inside, the child light enough for one arm even if Hades didn't possess godly strength. The room he'd prepared over the last week stands ready, a table to lay Nico on, another soul lying asleep in a bed in the corner. A second long table, carrying many items; some he is sure he will need – the components of the two spells he will be using – others just in case.
Then, he gets to work. First is managing pain. Nico's physical body won't feel much, not until after, but his soul certainly will. Hades uses the first spell to give Nico's soul an outlet for pain. He connects it to the lovely young soul who volunteered, knowing exactly what she would experience.
For a soul cannot be numbed in the same way skin and muscle can be. Nico’s soul is injured enough as it is, it would be unwise to make Nico’s soul bear the pain of this as well. Hades' only options are to either bear the pain himself or connect Nico's soul to another, let them bear it. The young soul agreed to do this only once, and only for a limited time.
Then, Hades reaches, grabs, and pries. Souls aren't designed for this, to have godly thumbs pushed through outer layers, peel outwards to see what's underneath. He hears the volunteer screaming, pushes it aside as unimportant. There is no real damage in his technique, he knows better, and gentle hands at this point will only prolong. With another apparition, Hades uses the second spell he's spent the past week preparing. It is very old magic, something he has not had need for in a long time.
Finally he delves fully into Nico's soul. He folds himself down and down, until he is a small, unobtrusive figure walking along the fabric of Nico's soul.
Malice.
There is malice etched into the fabric of this place.
Hades passes by swathes of memory, brushes past components of Nico's personality. He steps over deeply held and shattered and unjustified and new and old beliefs littering the ground like clothes tried on and cast carelessly to the ground, as he moves deeper.
He lets Nico’s soul speak to him, lets its aura and its substance wash over him in waves of sensation. Nico is lips curling inwards to contain a laugh, the sound of ceramic shattering at high velocity. He is the call of the void that comes at the edge of a high cliff, the smell of freshly baked bread.
The heat of fire cradled in the hand like a precious secret, and the dim pain of a too-cold drink hitting the back of the throat. He is the swelling of uncontrollable love and lips cracking from dehydration. Nico is all of these things at once and none of them, the echoes of them surrounding him.
Nico is deeply ingrained kindness, generosity intertwined with his love, an appreciation for the smaller details of life. He is bright, rare, gentle, fierce, callous. He is all this and a dozen other things, as with all souls, but especially with Nico.
His soul recognizes Hades as King and Father, brushing softly against him in greeting as both. Far too quietly, for too muddled. There should be more, but it is obscured by the filth and the malice clinging here. He dives to the center of Nico’s soul.
Here lies the most valuable piece. It's a powerful source of magic, the only source of new human souls, the heart from which the rest of a soul stems. It pulses with gentle light in a million colors, seeping warmth and life and magic outwards like a beacon. It is coiled power, watching Hades with the fierce glare of a predator sizing up an opponent. Hades may be welcome here, as a god holding dominion over the soul, but it is a welcome strained by what he finds here.
Nico’s soul has thrown up a protective shell around the delicate, powerful, valuable core. Clinging like mold against it is a rotten mass of magic.
It's a squirming, slimy, filthy mass. Sickly green in some parts, the pink of infected gums in others, shot through with bloody red veins. The mass twitches, contracting in parts like a dead lizard that still has bodily reflexes.
It sends out strings of foul, sulfur-smelling rot like the roots of a plant, out into the stretches of Nico's soul. Now that he’s close, Hades can tell there are two flavors of malice present, one of which is the loathing Nico’s soul has towards this vile intruder.
Hades sharpens his power into a razor's edge and moves to cut it out. But the second he tries, removing just a few handfuls of the rot, Nico's soul shudders. In the distance, he hears his volunteer soul cry out in pain. He stops immediately, bracing.
Nico’s soul attempts to throw him out, the malice here turning against him in a fit of fury. Nico’s soul is incredibly unhappy with the state of things, and it is even more displeased with Hades hurting it.
Not so simple a solution, then. Time to explore further. He spends nearly half the duration of the old spell on wandering, and on soothing the damage he caused. He maps out where the rot has gone and where it hasn't. He learns, as he does, more of the nature of it.
This was planted here on purpose. As punishment. Tartarus did this on purpose, because it hates that anyone mortal walked its lands. It went and found a moment Nico was feeling very alone, very abandoned, in that clay jar, and used that vulnerability to seed his soul with rot.
And, if Hades knows Tartarus, then the placement of the seed, huddled up against the beating heart of Nico's soul, is also intentional. It knows Hades cannot remove the seed of the rot without destabilizing Nico's soul.
How, then, can Hades stop this rot from destroying Nico? Are the parts eaten away during the weeks between the jar and now gone forever? They shouldn't be. Souls are resilient, flexible things, able to recover from astonishing injury. They would not last across so many lifetimes if they couldn’t. Hades must not give up so easily.
He retreats from Nico's soul until he is standing in the form he normally takes, elbow deep in Nico’s soul instead of walking inside of it. He reaches now for the branch of Nico's soul that takes form as Anger. There is a pulsing root of rot wrapped around it, trying to control and strangle how Nico feels the emotion. He gets a gossamer thin layer of power between Nico's Anger and the rot, with some wiggling and twisting. Next is a knife from the waiting tools pressed to his wrist, making a wound no larger than a grain of rice.
Hades allows a few drops of ichor to drip onto the rot. It screams, writhing as most of the ichor is absorbed into it immediately. The root burns, dying quickly. A drop of the ichor soaks through his power, touching Nico's soul. It screams, too. Predictable; ichor is incredibly potent.
The dead root dissolves into fine dust at the gentlest touch. This quiets Nico’s soul, the offense at his presence falling away. It is still displeased with his actions, but no longer struggling to get away.
The result gives him an idea, and not a small amount of hope. Confirmation is needed. It's a matter of a minute to get Persephone's attention, her presence at his side, and a drop of her ichor balanced on his finger.
She lingers long enough to press a kiss to his cheek before she flees back to the mount and her mother, a gift of comfort and strength, a promise of her approaching return.
Hades drips her ichor onto a different area of rot. It beads there, gleaming. Nothing. Hades removes it and drips an equal amount of his own ichor in exactly the same spot. Again, absorption, screaming, death.
Damage to the part of Nico's soul Hades' ichor inevitably drips on.
He reaches for Nico's soul with his aura, reaches for the gold in his blood and the divinity traced through him. It is tired and thin. Not just from the feat he had accomplished, transporting the Parthenos so far, straining his ability to shadow travel to its limits. But, also, from overwork.
His hunch was right. The rot is feeding on Nico's soul, which makes it vulnerable to Nico's soul. Hades' ichor hurt it because Nico's soul carries a touch of his divinity, as his son.
Hades withdraws from his son's soul entirely. As much information as he has gleaned, most of it needs further thought. He takes his time, closing up Nico's soul. Once it is restored as it was and replaced inside Nico's body, Hades picks Nico up, holding him close as he cleans.
His volunteer is limp and exhausted from channeling the pain of it all, crying unceasingly. Hades ensures her soul took no significant damage and sends her off with servants, to be soothed and healed. With that done, he can finally lift the press of his aura, stop smothering Nico's mind and body with the order to sleep. Nico's body needs the rest and so stays asleep of its own volition.
He goes to his bedroom, and lays on top of the covers, his son sleeping soundly in the crook of his arm. He rests his free hand behind his head, as he thinks.
It is interesting, the division of the spread. What most notably presses on his mind is Nico's. The rot was not there. In his memories, yes, and trying to strangle his emotions. But only those parts seated in the soul, some in the fuzzy area of the subconscious that bridges soul and mind, not the mind itself.
The border between the mind and the soul is blurry at the best of times, even with the differences in form, purpose, and function. The mind shapes the soul, and the soul shapes the mind. Is that why the rot takes interest in it? It has feelers pressed against the border between mind and soul, pushing, searching for a way in.
Then again, the mind is Dionysus’ area of expertise. Hades has little need to explore the minds of the souls in his care. He may have simply not known what to look for. Dionysus will be entirely willing to assist, Hades knows, all that needs to happen is the asking. It will be nice to have an excuse to speak with him again, it’s been too long since they had more than passing encounters.
Stagnation! The rest comes to Hades in a flash of realization. Stillness, existence without change is painful for human souls. They crave to change from one thing to another, and doing so is an engine of healing and growth. It normally happens in moderately small amounts in life, with major change saved for reincarnations. The mind is the driving force behind change, and if the mind is lost to the rot, then the soul cannot change.
The rot might be hurting Nico's soul, but even a little change – a little healing – may go a long way. So long as Nico is living and growing and thriving, the rot will never get what it wants. But destroy the mind, the source of change, and there is no hope for the soul. Though, if the mind were the only thing left whole, it stands no chance either.
The short of it is, Hades knows how to fix this.
Nico must never learn of the rot, as knowledge of the rot will almost certainly open a door between the mind and soul, letting it infect him further. In the meantime, he can avoid the anathema of destroying his son's soul by keeping him close. He can feel it already, how Nico's aura is pulling at Hades', tugging at the flickers of divinity leaking off him for itself. How those flickers of divinity are absorbed into Nico’s aura and soul, feeding it.
Directly affecting the rot like he did during his experiment is dangerous. He doesn’t strictly need to, though. Nico's soul should be perfectly able to fight off the rot on its own. It just needs time and consistent help it costs Hades nothing to give.
Nico stirs. As soon as Nico realizes he's awake, he's fighting to get away, hitting out at Hades blindly. He collapses into a fit of coughing in only moments, full-body shivers over taking him. Normal side effects of removing a soul from its living body. Nico is going to feel ill for several days.
"Easy, son, you are unharmed," Hades says gently, rubbing Nico's back.
"I don't feel unharmed!" Nico eyes him distrustfully, renewed fear there.
Hades nods slowly. "I'm sorry, son. I was frightened by the smell of the Pit clinging to you. I needed to check there was nothing piggy backing onto your soul. What you're feeling is just side effects of my handling your soul. You are unharmed, I promise."
Nico's fear towards him softens, replaced by anxiety. "There's nothing there? I'm okay?"
Hades smiles and nods. If ever there was a lie he was fine with telling, it is this. "There is nothing to worry over. You are whole and hale."
His son breathes a breath of relief, then goes right back to anger. "Why did you have to ambush me! I would have been fine with you checking for something wrong if you'd just asked."
What Nico would have done, as curious as he is about matters of the soul, is ask for it to be done while he was awake. Even if Hades then anaesthetized him, his soul would have been trying to wake the entire time. As poor in Nico’s eyes as it makes him look, Hades stands firm in his judgment that an ambush was the safest option.
"I needed to dive deep, son, and such a thing would have been unpleasant, if you knew it was coming," he explains patiently. "Again, I am sorry for the distress this has caused you, but I needed to be careful, and to be sure."
Nico's protests die into sulking. Hades watches him with some amusement. It's clear that he feels used, and an apology is not quite enough.
"How about a deal?"
Nico side eyes him. "A deal?"
"Forgive me my rude behavior, and you get a favor from me."
Catnip. Nico's eyes light up. "You deprived me of a chance to learn about my own soul. Five favors."
"Five!" Hades exclaims. He fully lies back down, crossing his legs at the ankle. "I will take the lack of forgiveness over five favors of your choosing."
The bed bounces, and Nico's face pops up over him. "Three, then."
"Four, if you come and live here at least five days a week."
"One favor of my choosing for each day of the week I choose to stay here."
“I'm not giving you five or more favors," Hades scoffs. "Not when we both know you will not stay five or more days a week, here."
"You just asked for that!"
Hades rolls his eyes. Nico's playfulness is driven to new heights by it, and the boy rolls close against his side, imploring. "It's called haggling, son."
"Three days a week here and three favors."
Hades extends a hand, and Nico snatches it up. "Deal."
"No takebacks," Nico says enthusiastically. The playfulness is already dying out, unable to sustain itself with the weight of all he's been through.
Hades sees it, and the frustration Nico has, that he cannot maintain a good mood for even five minutes. It's not something Hades blames him for. The way Nico's smile slides off his face is half grief from his past, years and days old, and half the rot talking.
So, Hades grabs Nico by the nape of the neck and draws him near. He falls into a story, then another, then another, until sleep claims Nico.
It is only then that Hades allows himself to feel the fear, the anger, and the other emotions stirred up as he'd witnessed the damage. It is only then that Hades allows himself the other worry at the back of his mind.
Nico isn't the only demigod who fell into the Pit.
Annabeth
𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱𓅓𖹭𓅓⚱
The days since the festival have been… strange. Technically, they're all normal days where she follows her normal routine. The new, sicker version of it.
But Annabeth can't stop thinking about the rot. Hasn't been able to think of much else since Athena told her. She woke from a dream of falling, falling, falling into the Pit last night. She could have sworn she was still falling when she sat up in bed, Percy dead asleep next to her. It's just a nightmare, though.
The day after the festival, the Hermes cabin decides to prank her. Not sure why, when the camp has spent the past month treating them like they're made of glass. Well, most of the camp. Clarisse and the Ares Cabin treat them normally. Perhaps that's why the prank; Annabeth can totally see Clarisse or Sherman naming pranking the Athena cabin as their price to join the Hermes cabin for the next capture the flag.
Anyways, they follow her around all day, calling for her attention and then hiding when she turns, so that Annabeth turns to see nothing and nobody. She's incredibly short-tempered by the end of the day, and they won't even admit to it, when she congratulates them on a prank well pulled.
The next day is just a bit stranger. She hears her name called by someone she can't spot, again, but it's less frequent. No, the strangeness of the day stems from the single time she uses the communal bathroom. There's nobody in the women's when she walks in, so she picks a random stall.
She jumps halfway out of her skin when she sees someone in there, standing silently. She backs up a few steps with a quick apology.
...
There's no feet visible under the door. She listens, and she can't hear anything from them. Annabeth pushes the stall door open, arm extended as far as it will go.
The stall is empty. She checks in all of them to be sure, but she's the only one in the bathroom.
It's strange, and it leaves her jumpy for the next hour. But it's just her mind playing tricks on her. Perhaps this is what Athena meant, the rot was meant to drive her up the wall, agitate her. She resolves to let the next incident like that pass her like water off a duck's back. Her mind is hers to command and control.
The day after that, her resolution is put to the test. She's visiting Piper in the Aphrodite cabin. They’re playing with makeup, trying to make the ugliest lipstick combo as possible. She finishes the last stripe on a green and magenta pattern, handheld mirror close up. She pulls back to see the full effect, several lipstick kisses on her cheeks from Piper's last few colors.
Her reflection blinks.
Annabeth chucks the mirror on instinct. It lands on a blanket unharmed, thankfully, so when Piper bursts out laughing, Annabeth can play it off and join in. She's just tired, she tells herself. It was a trick of the light in here, and it's better to play into the joke she'd found a hideous enough lipstick combo that throwing the mirror was the correct response.
She's supposed to be relaxing before she and Percy talk. He'd asked her to talk that morning, and she wanted to be in a decent mood when they did. He said it was about a long conversation he'd had with Poseidon, and she wants to be in a clear head space for when they get to planning how to tackle the rot.
She hopes his experiences with it have been the same as hers so far. It would be nice, for the boys to be able to sympathize and strategize with her about dealing with imagining hearing their names, seeing things from the corner of their eye.