Chapter Text
At first, Nico didn’t know where he was. He fell to his knees as he made it out of the shadows, dragging himself away from them only to find that it was night wherever he had landed and there was no escape from the darkness. He swore shadows were curling their way up his arms, as if trying to swallow him whole. A strangled sound left his lips as he pushed himself from the ground, his stomach lurching.
Nico stumbled forward, catching himself on a stone wall in front of him and bracing his arms. Before he could even try to stop himself, he vomited down the side of the wall, his chest heaving as he gagged. Bile burned at the back of his throat and his whole body trembled violently, as if every cell in his body was reforming and reordering.
His face crumpled, pain and grief hitting him in wave after agonizing wave as he took a shaky step backwards, hitting another wall. For the first time, he looked around and tried to figure out where he was. He stood in a narrow alley, the architecture of the buildings making the base of his skull hum with recognition even if he couldn’t place it. The air hung silently around him, only the sound of his own labored breathing, he was alone and he couldn’t quite decide if that was a good thing or not.
Exhaustion began to settle in his bones and Nico realized he needed to find somewhere to go, somewhere to hide . He wasn’t sure of the time, so he doubted there was anywhere he could go, but he at least needed to get out of this alley.
Looking in either direction, Nico started walking in the direction of a faint light to his left. Hands shoved in his pockets, his fists were clenched with his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep himself upright. Outside of the alley was an old, stone-lined road. The buildings were tall and almost all stone, decked out with elaborate awnings and windows. He walked slowly onto the road, still not seeing anyone but carefully studying his surroundings.
He paused in front of one particular building, his heart caught in his throat and tears burning behind his eyes for reasons he couldn’t remember. There were flowers at the windowsill, which felt so painfully familiar he nearly couldn’t breathe. His hands were itching to knock at the door, to be let in and wrapped up in a wool blanket, embraced by a woman who smelled like rose and sea salt. He could hear the timbre of her voice, could nearly make out soft words muttered to him. It was like deja-vu carved into his bones, like truths that were meant to be felt and not heard.
But he didn’t know that woman. He didn’t know the house he was staring at. He didn’t know anything.
He turned his back to the building, ignoring the way the color of the stone lingered behind his eyes, and stalked down the road. His chest burned with grief and shame he couldn't explain and it infuriated him.
Nico scowled, his eyes fixed ahead of him until he caught sight of grass peeking through the cracks between the cobblestone beneath his feet. It was curling up and dying, turning black with rot. He paused, staring and looking around. Around him, an arc of death was radiating, killing grass and flowers as wave after wave of pain rolled off of him.
Nico flushed, unsure of what to do. “Stop,” he mumbled.
It didn’t stop. Cracks began to form around his feet and he grit his teeth in frustration. “Stop!” he repeated.
The ground began to shake and Nico was suddenly struck by the memory of the crack in the dining pavilion, of Percy telling him his sister was dead. “I said stop !” he screamed, his voice cracking.
The world seemed to freeze around him, the earth settling and the air becoming lighter. Nico stared, looking around wildly, terror coursing through him, and he broke out into a run. He sprinted down the road, finally catching sight of the end.
Nico had to skitter to a stop quickly, nearly falling into the water at the end of the road. He looked at it for a moment. ‘Canal,’ he thought. ‘It’s a canal.’
He looked up and down the canal, studying the bridges arched across it and the gondolas tied to the sides. ‘I’m in Venice,’ he realized, a sharp pain in his chest.
To his right, a cathedral stood tall. Without really thinking about it, he walked over to it, stopping in front of the large, ornate wooden doors, hand hovering over them. The wood felt almost soft beneath his fingers, so worn it bent to the will of his fingertips. He pushed the door open, stepping in.
The breath was yanked from his lungs at the sight, rows of pews and an altar at the front. Stained glass climbed up the walls, tinted moonlight and candles illuminating the few people kneeling in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer.
Nico felt a hand on his shoulder and he jolted. He looked up behind him, a priest looking down at him with a gentle expression. He spoke slowly, “ Are you alright, my son? ”
Nico knew what he was saying but it felt like the words were filtered through cotton. It took him a second to realize the priest wasn’t speaking English, and he couldn't find the words to respond, though he could feel them bubbling in his throat. “Confessione,” he mumbled.
The priest narrowed his eyes at him, unsure. He slid his hand from Nico’s shoulder. “ You are… here to confess? ”
‘I don’t know,’ Nico wanted to say. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, for mercy and sanctuary. “Sì,” he whispered.
For a moment, neither of them moved and Nico was halfway terrified the priest was going to kick him out. He turned around. “ Follow me, ” he instructed.
Nico stumbled after him, the priest leading him to the confessional booth off to the side. He stopped in front of his side even as the priest stepped in. The son of Hades took a breath, his heart slowing in his chest. He could smell rose and sea salt again and swore there was the ghost of a hand cupping his cheek, the touch warm and comforting. He could hear a woman’s voice again, or at least, he thought he could.
He stepped into the confession booth, sitting down. His feet didn’t quite lay flat on the floor, his toes pointed, and he felt so small. He was hit by the ragged, desperate urge to just act his age. To be able to scream and laugh and be a child . Nico remembered the way Percy had looked at him when the ground split open, terrified, and he knew he would never get that privilege again. He closed his eyes but he was still staring down at his own feet, but dressed differently. It was day now, the light filtering in through the slats in the booth, and though he was still nervous, it felt different. The world around him was muted and hazy, but he knew that he wasn’t imagining the color of his shoes or the way the wood felt beneath him. He was remembering.
Nico opened his eyes, reality crashing back around him. The awkward silence made Nico think the priest had said something. “Cosa?” Nico asked.
“Sei pronto?”
Nico blinked. He didn’t feel ready. He felt like he was going to fall to pieces, like he was going to end up buried alongside his sister and his— he gasped. “P-perdonami, Padre, perché ho peccato,” he whispered brokenly. “Sono passati… non— non lo so dalla mia ultima confessione.”
He scrambled to remember what to say next, his Italian feeling strange on his tongue and terrified of admitting the truth. Could he tell this priest he had gotten his sister killed? That he had felt such burning hatred he had ripped a whole in the ground? That despite all he had done, Percy Jackson still made his heart stutter in his chest in a way that felt sickly exciting and shameful. “Um,” he mumbled. “Ecco i miei peccati…”
He shrunk in on himself, desperately wishing he could just be a child again. He wanted to be held and cradled. Carefully, as if he was afraid himself, he placed his hand on his cheek, chasing the feeling of comfort he’d felt. It made him choke up. “Mamma,” he mumbled.
“Mi dispiace… mi dispiace, mamma," he cried. Half of him was aware of the irony of him crying for his mother in the house of God, the Holy Father, but he couldn’t help himself. “Mi manchi, mamma,” he sobbed. “Mi dispiace.”
He cried, horrifyingly aware of the priest and how incorrectly he was doing this. “Mi mamma,” he breathed shakily. “Mamma ci ha portato a messa. Non ho— non ricordo l'ultima volta che sono andato in chiesa. Mi dispiace. Mi dispiace veramente per tutti i miei peccati.”
Nico sobbed, hiccuping, tears streaming down his face. “Mio figlio,” the priest said, his voice soft and kind. “Dov'è tua madre?”
‘Where is she?’ Nico echoed. He couldn’t even remember her, really. She was in the shadows cast by the flickering prayer candles and the smell of the canal. He swore he felt her when he stepped into the church, saw her in the stained glass. “Non lo so,” he mumbled, repeating it in English, “I don’t know.”
There was silence for a moment and Nico could feel himself trembling, folding in on himself. After a moment, the priest spoke again, his voice soft and heavily accented as he spoke in English. “You are forgiven.”
Nico was confused. He was certain something was missing, that he had to earn his forgiveness. Still, a deep sense of relief settled on his shoulders. “Do you know the act of contrition?” the priest asked.
Nico’s brow furrowed as he nodded slowly. “Sì,” he said. English came to mind first but it felt wrong as he spoke. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.”
Nico took a ragged breath, dropping his head again as he felt his voice tremble more than heard it. “Per favor,” he whispered, pleading. “Padre, per favore, perdonami.”
The priest said the prayer of absolution slowly and Nico listened attentively to each word, his heart lurching. “I absolve you from your sins,” he said, his voice soothing. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
“Amen,” Nico echoed.
“Ringrazia il Signore perché è buono.”
“La sua misericordia dura per sempre,” Nico was barely aware of what he was saying.
“Ti sono perdonati i tuoi peccati. Vai in pace.”
“Grazie,” Nico mumbled, suddenly desperate to escape the confessional booth.
He threw himself from it, stumbling as his feet hit the ground. An old woman raised her head from her prayers to look at him Nico itched with self-consciousness, realizing how strange he must seem. A young boy in the church late at night, asking to go to confession.
Behind him, the priest stepped out as well. “My son,” he said.
Part of Nico wanted to ask him to speak in Italian, but he could barely get himself to look at the man. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Niccolo,” he said before he could stop himself.
He grimaced, the name feeling strange on his tongue but he was certain it was true. “Niccolo,” he said Nico’s name with such care it made the raven’s eyes burn with tears all over again. “I am Father Gabriele. It is good to meet you.”
“Thank you, Padre,” Nico said, his eyes trained on the ground.
“Are you alone, Niccolo?”
Nico gulped. “I— I don’t know.”
Father Gabriele made a slight huffing sound and for a moment Nico was afraid he was upset. “Well,” he said. “Do you know where you are staying tonight?”
Nico flushed and shook his head. “I would like it if you stayed here,” the priest said. “We have more than enough space to house you for a night or two.”
Nico looked up at him, confused and awestruck. He opened his mouth to protest but Father Gabriele cut him off. “Consider it your penance.”
He snapped his mouth shut and then, perhaps against his better judgment, nodded slowly, accepting the help.