the world is spinning and he can't breathe through the smoke in his fragile lungs , and he is waiting - for something he isn't quite sure what , but it is brewing in his bones like the beginning of a wildfire.
[word count: around 27,500]
/NICO DI A...
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The thestrals are gleaming masses of skeleton bones and black feathers, their dark aura of death clinging to them the same way his does himself. They have somber eyes and languid movements, elegant movements, wings fluttering with the gentle breeze of a thousand words in the air.
Of course, they notice him; their empty white turn to him with their heavy souls resting on his own, dark feather rustling and darkness seeping from their bones into his skin. They are creatures of the Underworld, though gentle and kind in way he's not sure they could ever be, gleaming claws sinking into the ground in the same way they would his flesh if they wanted to.
Shaking his head, he meets their stares, sending a prayer to an uncaring god that they understand what he's trying to ask, to regard him with an indifference that he's beginning to cherish. It is strange, he thinks, to have his name fall from foreign lips without the sparks of recognition and unease that spikes the lingering pain in his chest. It's strange, but nice, and he can't help but wonder how long he can escape his identity when he's not sure what he is running from.
He glances around, curious to see if any of the students have noticed the gleaming masses of bones and feather, but of course- of course- nobody but him has noticed them, oblivious to the cold creeping up their spine.
All, he realises, but three. The first, he sees, is a boy maybe his age, hair and skin dark, eyes a little empty, as though he's looking at everything but also nothing really at all. As though he doesn't want to look past his fingers but curiosity is prising them away from his skin.
The boy regards the thestrals with a kinda airy glare, all sad and angry but not trying very hard to concentrate, not really, arms hanging limply by his sides, face a little slack with crawling shadows hanging from his eyes; like a spider's legs tearing through his skin, Nico thinks, features as placid as ever but maybe his eyes glinting with something akin to understanding.
For a second, before the boy is swept away into the sea of bodies, his hand twitches, like he is wanting to reach out, maybe to the eerie feathers of the creatures, but he pauses, glancing around again as if afraid anyone might see him.
(But they're far too unobservant and relapsing in their own ignorance to notice him, anyway).
Eventually, as if against his will, his composure folds in on itself, and his fingertips brush against the chilling feathers. The thestral leans into his touch, surprised by the unexpected contact, white, pupiless eyes fluttering shut. Then his hand and confidence drops, a slight realisation of panic, and he's cast away into the crowds and the thestrals are alone in their solitude and silence, again. Nico see's a flash of platinum hair, sweeping shoulders and extravagant robes, and something shoves roughly into his back and his feet are moving, again, again, again, again.
Now, he can see the carriages that the thestrals stand next too, all old-fashioned and lined in silver and reminding Nico of the carriages his mother used to take him to see. Clouds storm overhead, swirling in grey and white and black, like an old photo, Nico thinks, a little sullenly, like even the sky is screaming: you don't belong in this century (you are running out of time).
