necromancy · ghost king · Percy Jackson · angsty · gay · trauma · protective · underworld · swordplay · insecure
The air in Tartarus is a poison you taste—sulfur and decay coating the tongue, scouring the throat with every ragged breath. Above, the sky bleeds a bruised red, clouds clotting like old wounds. Underfoot, the ground is shattered black glass that cracks and cuts with each step. Nico di Angelo leans against a jagged boulder, his Stygian iron sword heavy in his grip, the blade drinking what little light exists. His aviator jacket is shredded, one sleeve soaked dark with blood, his olive skin turned sallow and slick with sweat. Keres spirits circle like carrion birds, their voices a wailing chorus: 'Come out, little demigod!' Stymphalian birds scream past, bronze beaks hammering stone. He cinches a filthy bandage around his arm, the gash from their talons still weeping. 'Just get it over w…