in which nico’s father died && his mom won’t take him home.
“Take me with you,” he pleads. Except Nico doesn’t belong with her, it’s obvious in the cool, passive, stony way she gazes at him. He’s beat and bloody, and fury twists his face into something unrecognizable. She’s indifferent; Nico is anything but. There’s nothing for him here now that his father is gone, though. So why shouldn’t she take him home, drag him under the waves and make him something better? He’ll never be a god himself, but isn’t it his birthright to at least live among them?
“You don’t belong.” Nico’s too busy being hit by the full force of her cruel confirmation to see the odd look in her eyes. It’s something like regret. It’s the same look from the day she handed Nico (a squalling, quarrelsome child then, too) to his father.
Seventeen now, he’s still far from a man. All he knows is the life he and his father fought tooth and nail to have. All Nico knows are the pretty songs he sang, once, to bring food home, and later to bring home something to ease his father’s pain. Funny how she’s here now, wasn’t then. Why had Nico even bothered?
With his purpose gone now, Nico has nothing to do but throw himself against the waves, to call forth any creature with a speck of exceptional blood and, then, to throw himself at any who dared show up. All for a moment of Her attention, His Mother.
It’s a wonder he isn’t dead, too. But nothing in these waters would dare to kill Nico -- not with his mother so close.
A wretched sound claws its way up Nico’s throat, ugly tears stain his face. He spits at his mother’s feet, because he doesn’t have words for the bitter disappointment that’s going to suffocate him, and then flinches when she strikes him across the face for it. Claws cut thin, deep gashes across his face. The salt on her nails makes the sting of it near unbearable.
And just like that, just like she always is, she’s gone. Swallowed by the waves. And Nico is alone on the shore again, blood turning the sand pink.
He feels frail, powerless, and acutely aware that he is not like the others. He has not been lovingly championed by gods; he is no sort of hero. He is the bastard of a nothing-nymph, the child of a ghost story. He will be given no gifts, not by her.
Nico is the product of a careless mistake.
