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‘No child should ever be so alone.’
The words came unbidden to Dionysus’ mind as he watched the small, dark haired boy sprint toward the forest like the legions of Kronos were on his tail and not just the insufferable Peter Johnston.
No child should ever be so alone.
The words had been spoken to him so long ago, he could no longer recall the name of the mortal woman who’d spoken them to him. Or her face. But he could remember her voice. She said the words to him, back when he too had been a mortal, and of a similar age to the Di Angelo boy. She’d taken him in, fed him, treated him with care. He wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember her name, it wasn’t really important in the grand scheme of things. He was actually more surprised that he remembered her at all, or what she’d said.
Then again, the memory was a tricky thing. It could pelt you with surprises (whether you wanted them or not) at the most unfortunate times. Dionysus knew this from experience. He suspected the Di Angelo boy was about to learn the same lesson.
Being a god who was always down for a good time, Dionysus had visited the Lotus Hotel — and the original island — and he could smell the sweet fragrance of lotus blossoms on the boy’s skin. He had to have been trapped there a while to carry the heady aroma with him after months back out in the world, and it piqued Dionysus’ curiosity. Where had this child come from?
It wasn’t the only smell that the boy carried.
The nose-twitching, mildewy scent of the Lethe was unmistakable. Not much rattled Dionysus’ bones anymore but knowing that one of his youngest campers had been scrubbed in the River of Forgetting did make him pause.
But even that wasn’t his main cause for concern. From the window of the Big House, he watched the small figure disappear between the trees, or between their shadows to be more precise. Even from such a distance he could see the faint shimmer in the child’s aura. They didn’t call him the god of madness for nothing. Nico Di Angelo’s mind had already been interfered with, that much was plain. Now his grief was causing the cracks within it to widen. He would be open to manipulation if found by the wrong sort of monster or demigod. Not that Luke and his band of bright-eyed fools would recognise the child for who and what he was. It had taken even Dionysus a good while to figure it out.
Even Chiron didn’t seem to have a clue. But the thing about madness? It was just about the only thing Dionysus and Hades had in common. (That and their dislike for Zeus, because screw that guy.) Hades’ brand of madness was quieter than Dionysus’, of course, but it was similar enough, and it was curled within Di Angelo’s heart. The child was a progeny of the Underworld, there was no denying it.
Dionysus sighed. Nico Di Angelo was the latest child of the Big Three to surface, which complicated things.
The kid hadn’t looked much like one of Hades’ spawn when he’d arrived. In fact, he’d been disturbingly cheerful and brimming with delight to find himself a demigod. Dionysus wanted to say it was annoying - because he had a reputation to uphold - but the stars that had appeared in boy’s eyes when he realised he was meeting the “wine dude” had softened him.
When Di Angelo managed to hurt himself almost immediately in the arena, Dionysus had braced himself for whining and tears and snot, but the scrawny mortal had been keen to try again, and had practically talked the ear of the poor Apollo boy who’d been charged with patching him up. Dionysus may or may not have overheard them squabbling over the idea that Dionysus, despite being younger, was a more powerful deity in battle than Apollo (a sentiment he agreed with by the way). He’d decided he didn’t dislike the kid.
Then he saw him squatting down by the hearth, talking to Hestia. His usually vibrant, eyes were soft, kind, gentle. His bounciness was subdued as he hugged his knees and talked to her, like he was trying to make himself small and non-threatening, so as not to scare his new potential friend. The boy was worried about scaring a goddess, a daughter of Kronos. He appeared to be offering to help her tend the fire.
No one ever noticed Hestia. Even Dionysus himself sometimes failed to see her until the very last moment. She was quiet and unassuming, usually in the guise of a child, and so she got lost in the sea of youthful faces. But Nico Di Angelo saw her, sat with her, talked to her. And that meant something.
Dionysus’ throne on Olympus had come at the expense of Hestia’s. She had given it up, taken a step back, and Dionysus had never quite made peace with that in his own heart. Hestia was the only goddess he couldn’t be rude to. The only Olympian he would never snub or sneer at. Nico had seen her by the fire and decided: no child should ever be so alone.
And now he had fled into the woods. It wasn’t exactly a safe place for a young demigod at night, but considering the kid seemingly knew everything about every monster to ever be mentioned within Greek myth, he would probably be fine. Dionysus would give him the night to cool down and let out his grief, and then, come morning, he would do one of his least favourite duties as Camp Director.
He would check in with a camper. He would make sure that the bright, vibrant child of Hades wasn’t slipping too far into the domain of madness. Then he’d send him off to the arts and crafts table or something. Kids liked arts and crafts, right? He vaguely remembered that from his years as a human.
*
Nico Di Angelo didn’t come back.
Dionysus pretended to be annoyed about the cracks in the steps of the dining pavilion and nothing else. He blamed Pauly Jensen. He sent his mind out searching for a second or two, looking for the kid, sure that he was hiding somewhere in the forest, but there was no sign of him. Not so much as a flicker of his mind. Only the faint traces of lotus blossom, Lethe water, and grief.
Well, he’d turn up. Or he wouldn’t. Kids outside the camp borders weren’t Dionysus’ problem. He had enough problems to deal with inside Camp Half Blood’s borders. Most of them concerned the Stoll brothers and Perky Jockstone. Nico Di Angelo would either learn to survive or he wouldn’t.
That’s what he told himself anyway. He ignored the old voice whispering in his head. He turned his eyes away so that Hestia didn’t see. He was Dionysus. He didn’t care.
*
Gods don’t change.
At least, not easily, not quickly, not significantly. Their personalities and flaws tend to be set in stone. The brand recognition allows them to endure as deities over the millennia. (Unless, of course, they happen to be turned mortal, flung to Earth, and sent on a quest that almost kills them but allows them to see the beauty and strength in mortal souls and mortal hearts. But that’s another story.) Gods, in general, don’t change.
But. Grief changes many things. Dionysus experienced the death of his son as any true, loving parent does. It scooped out his heart and left a burning, gaping hole all the way to Tartarus behind. His grief for Caster went beyond anything Dionysus could recall feeling - as a mortal or a god. It exceeded even the pain he had felt at the death of his dear friend, Ampelus, which had led to his creating the first grape vines.
The death of Caster consumed him. He could feel the madness beginning to seep from his pores like wine left open to the air, allowed to turn to vinegar. The campers avoided him and he didn’t blame them. He didn’t care. He didn’t want them near.
He nearly lashed out when a small hand came to rest on his shoulder, the touch barely felt through the thin fabric of his Hawaiian shirt.
What stopped him was the echoed sense of loss, despair, and deep cold rage that he sensed beneath the childlike touch.
Dionysus looked up into the eyes of Nico Di Angelo.
His eyes were darker than they had been when the boy first arrived at Camp. His hair too seemed to have been soaked in shadow, matching the discolouration beneath his eyes. Dionysus could smell the insomnia and night terrors that had caused those dark bruises. The kid had changed. The madness had changed too. It was still just a small thing - insidious as a rat scurrying through the walls of the boy’s mind - but it had grown fangs.
Then those dark eyes softened. A smile almost graced the chalky lips. A little of Dionysus’ grief was siphoned away by those small, cold fingers.
“I felt Caster pass. He’s reached Elysium. I thought you should know.”
He didn’t offer condolences or platitudes. Dionysus would have thought less of him if he had. No, instead Nico had taken some of Dionysus’ own pain into himself. A god’s pain. A god’s grief. And rather than offering sympathy he had given closure. What more could a father want than for their son to reach Elysium? Except, perhaps, for them to reach it at an older age.
“Thank you.”
They weren’t words Dionysus gave up willingly. They were precious. But every now and then they were deserved.
He stumbled to his feet and surveyed the Camp in its state of disarray and mourning. There was much to be done. Too much. And he could feel the tug from Olympus - the other gods demanding his presence to discuss this latest escalation - but it was at war with the tug in his gut demanding wine to ease the sharpness of his grief. He cursed Zeus and his punishments. He cursed Kronos. The cursed the gods.
But such self-indulgence could only last so long. There was work to be done. First things first, he turned to the son of Hades, only to find him gone. It was a powerful demigod indeed who could slip away from a god without detection. Di Angelo had learnt at only eleven years old. The kid was like a wisp, fragile yet indestructible.
But even if he seemed determined to disappear, Dionysus wasn’t going to lose his scent again. He would keep an eye on Di Angelo. Eventually he’d make the kid see that he didn’t have to be alone with only the faint scratch of madness for company.
*
“It’s about knowing you have a place,” Dionysus said, breathing out slowly as he gazed at the lapping waves. “Knowing you’re allowed to take up space.”
Nico let out a quiet tut from where he sat beside him in the sand. The boy wasn’t a big fan of the beach. He certainly never dressed for it, but Dionysus could appreciate a demigod who stuck to a solid aesthetic.
“I know that already.” His voice was sharp, lower than I had been when they’d first met. Marked by loss and exhaustion. “I’m here aren’t I?”
Dionysus considered the question. There had been a while, after the battle with Gaea and the transportation of the Athena Parthenos, when Nico had been there without really being there. His feet had disappeared until he could no longer walk. His hands had faded in and out of shadow. He’d dropped spoons halfway to his lips, had been unable to grasp his sword. He had contained so little substance that even Dionysus had been noticeably concerned.
That had been months ago. The kid was doing better. He was more solid, never had to worry about his fingers disappearing in direct sunlight anymore. But he barely ate. He didn’t sleep. The madness had a sharper taste to it, seasoned by the Phlegethon. The stench of Tartarus clung to his dark curls and ice-pale skin. There was a tang, too - of celestial bronze and stale air - left over from the jar. Dionysus had dipped into the boy’s nightmares only once. He had no desire to see them again. That jar had broken Ares when he’d been trapped inside it. How Nico was alive was a mystery beyond Dionysus’ understanding.
Looking at the boy’s eyes, knowing just a sample of what he’d been through, it was easy to forget that Nico was technically only thirteen. Even for a demigod, he’d been tested too much by the world and by the gods. Yet, Dionysus had also seen the son of Hades smile on multiple occasions in the months he had been at camp. To Dionysus’ mind that was a miracle on par with the creation of alcohol.
At first the smiles had been flickering things. There one moment, gone the next. Annabeth Chase yelling an insult at Pinky Jinglesteen was a sure fire way to coax a small grin out of him, and the hijinks Cecil, Lou Ellen, and Will Solace got up to produced grins. The trio were a menace but it was worth it to see Nico almost laugh.
(Dionysus may also have appreciated their fortnightly glitter attack on the Ares cabin. He was a god of chaos and revelry after all. He tried not to let on, though. He didn’t want to encourage that sort of thing. Glitter got stuck in his beard and took centuries to get out.)
Nico had reached a point where he could bicker happily with the Solace boy, and joke about having a mood disorder that required him to sit at the Apollo table. Dionysus knew it wasn’t really a joke. Di Angelo’s moods lacked order of any kind, but they were a lot less violent than they had been when he’d been a homeless, half-starved street urchin being controlled by a narcissistic ghost.
Progress was progress. Nico Di Angelo was doing well. He wasn’t alone.
A quick glance told Dionysus that even if the boy was more stable than he had been, he was still a snarky, grumpy young teenager, in all the best ways. He was currently glaring at the sea as if daring it to come any closer. Dionysus had no doubt the kid could take on the ocean and scare it badly enough to mess up the tides for a century or more. He almost wanted Nico to go for it, just so that he could watch, but he was trying to be a responsible Camp Director (a little bit) so decided not to mention that the sea was the domain of Poppy Jamjar and instead worked on modelling deep breathing techniques.
“You’re not alone, Nico. That’s all I’m saying.” He inhaled the smell of seaweed and salt, and the burnt ozone that clung to the boy’s mind. “You don’t need to carry this alone. Not anymore. No child should ever be so alone.”
The words slipped out. He didn’t mean to say them. He knew from experience that demigods tended not to think of themselves as children. They grew up fast. They had to. For half a second he thought Nico might take offence. But that wasn’t what he saw on The kid’s face. He saw a deep, aching sadness, a pain that seemed to bleed from the deepest recess of his mind.
“Someone else said that to me once,” Nico whispered, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “When I was… little. In the Underworld.”
Dionysus’ curiosity was piqued. “Who?”
“Bob,” he whispered. “His name was Bob. He…” Nico sat so still, for so long that Dionysus checked the beach subtly for signs of Medusa. He could feel something churning within the boy’s gut now. Something unsettling. Something powerful.
“He what?” Dionysus prompted softly.
Nico shivered. “He was my friend. I think he needs my help.”
They sat in silence, mulling the thought over, watching the timid waves as they avoided Nico’s heavy black boots. Eventually Dionysus gave a sigh.
“As long as you don’t go running off alone this time. Take your boyfriend with you.”
“He’s not my-“
Nico’s mouth snapped shut as his eyes widened and cheeks erupted in a fierce blush. Of all the things he had seen in his many millenia of life, a child of Hades blushing was a rare and precious thing. Dionysus laughed.
“Whatever you call him then. Take him along. You’re good for him. And he needs a break from the infirmary.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nico mumbled in reply. “But you try telling him that.”
Dionysus laughed again, long and loud and as obnoxious as he could make it. He was a god, who was going to stop him? Di Angelo meanwhile flopped back into the sand and crossed his arms. It was the closest he ever came to a tantrum and Dionysus was a little disappointed that he’d lost the dramatic enthusiasm of only three years ago.
The boy had changed. But, he still had time to change more, to work through the trauma, to rediscover who he had once been. That was the thing about mortals. They had the wonderful ability to change themselves, and grow in unexpected ways.
Dionysus had stopped growing the day he’d become a god and taken up his throne on Olympus. He’d believed it was just the way of things. Now he wasn’t so sure.
There was a throne waiting for Nico Di Angelo too. Even down amongst the plebs Dionysus had heard the rumours. Dionysus himself was proof that a demigod could become a major deity, so it wasn’t unheard of. Zeus was apparently pissy about it but had decided (for once) not to bully his older brother. Hades was apparently thrilled and embarking on renovations. Persephone was engaging several immortal interior decorators. The whole undertaking would stretch for decades. It was all the talk around the naiad water cooler on Olympus.
One day, Nico ‘Ghost King’ Di Angelo would prove that godhood did not equal a static collection of flaws and unmovable opinions. Dionysus could feel it in his ichor. He couldn’t wait to witness the beautiful chaos. He couldn’t wait to see the child become something divine, surrounded by the humans, gods, and mythics who cared for him. He just hoped he’d be able to drink a toast to the occasion.
“Come on, kid.” He climbed to his feet and pulled Nico up before the boy could complain about being godhandled. “That’s enough navel gazing for us today. Time to get some food into you. At least two strawberries. I insist.”
“But-“
Nico tried to argue but Dionysus wasn’t having it. He slung his arm across the narrow shoulders, feeling the strong, ropey muscles, and the churning power beneath the worn aviator jacket.
“No buts. Not unless we’re having a party. And you’re too young for that sort of party so we’re just going to have to settle for breakfast.”
Nico tried again. “But I’m not that-“
“Oh no. You eat. Two strawberries. Or that ‘Not-my-boyfriend’ of yours will get all puppy eyed and then we’ll both feel bad.”
“Fine,” Di Angelo huffed. Then he chewed on his lip. He twisted the silver skull ring on his finger. It was lucky he’d been too young to play poker at the Lotus Hotel. His tell was rather obvious. “He is… kind of my boyfriend.”
Dionysus snorted. “Given how much you kiss him, I’d hope so.”
There was that blush again. It was pleasing to see colour in the boy’s cheeks. It was good to know he had fellow humans around him, grounding him, and not just gods and ghosts.
No child deserved to be so alone as the son of Hades had once been.