01   the spirit of the same womb

Medea blinks into darkness.

Where is she? The smell of corroding metal is joined by the vaguely jarring scent of blood. It's suffocating. She shakes the dizziness from her head. It's suffocating to be trapped within the confines of a minuscule space, only lit by a dying purple glow set against the wall. Medea claws at the base of her throat, chest constricting within the stale air. It's hard to breathe. There's a misshapen lump of a figure by the dull light, folded into themselves, head pressed into their knees. They look vaguely familiar—the build of their long legs and the curling strands of their black hair. Blindly stumbling forward, Medea smooths out her hand to the wall. The glass is cold underneath her fingertips for a moment until it vanishes beneath her touch. She keels over, body falling to the ground, her weight kneeling amongst the dirt and dust.

Medea blinks into the darkness and the darkness blinks back.

Pulling herself from the dirt, she brushes off her knees, feeling the dirt and grime underneath her nails. The daughter of Persephone turns around to find nothing but the distinct lack of a real answer. At least Medea's outside of the space now—lungs expanding and condensing with the opportunity for fresher air. A semblance of hope for safety is nestled in between her lungs and heart.

The figure, still folded into themselves, flinches. Her fingers tighten in their fist, Medea taking a small step towards them as her curiosity gets the best of her. Heart beating faster, her head tips, cocking to the side as her eyes narrow to try and get a better look through the fog.

There's a pouch on the floor by the figure's feet, seeping red juices into the dry dirt underneath it's bottom. It lies partially open; twine undone and curling against the opening where a flash of white paper lies—swirls of black ink barely visible in the purple glow. She takes another step closer, pressing her fingers to the wall. It's glass. Cold underneath her fingertips, Medea feels its immovability. Her unstoppable force is not enough to puncture through the sturdy walls. Nose pressed to the glass, it's only then that Medea gets a good enough look at the figure—black curls plastered against their sweaty forehead; legs crookedly tucked into themselves; the careful dusting of freckles against deathly pale skin.

Medea's breath hitches.

The figure twitches.

Nico.

          "Nico," Medea breathes out. Her breath fogs up the glass, banging a fist against it to no avail. The sound echoes. "Nico? Nico, can you hear me?"

Desperation courses through her body like a raging river and Medea slams another fist against the glass. It doesn't even crack. Her weight isn't strong enough to make a dent in its composition. She tries again. Again and again and again. Again until Medea can feel nothing but the vibrations in her bones and the slick red blood smearing against the glass. There is no pain, only the river of desperation. Desperation for her brother, not by blood, but by choice. And desperation for the only person to ever pay her mind, to begin to attempt to understand her. Nico Di Angelo was the first to promise that he is here for her with no other intentions. That debt will not go unpaid.

          "It's useless."

Medea turns on her heel, huffing through her nose and pressing her bloodied knuckles into her pyjama shorts. Hades stands tall—a startling presence amongst the darkness. He almost seems to meld into the shadows, as if they're a part of him. They spin from his fingertips and shroud his head like a crown. His step-daughter, chin raised, snarls at him with scornful expression. Then she looks back at Nico.

          "What have you done to him?" Medea demands. "What the fuck have you done?"

          "I have done nothing." Hades replies as if it's that simple.

          "Liar." Medea snaps, flashing sharp teeth in the purple light. The shadows grow around her, but she does not flinch, holding her ground.

          "I may be many things, child, but I am not a liar." Hades says sharply. Medea barely holds back a snort as he continues. "I care for my son. You don't have to believe that but believe that I avoid precarious positions such as these." His dark eyes flick to Nico's hunched figure. "I can't tell you where or why Nico is here. I can only show you parts of the full picture. Let me show you parts of the full picture."

          "No. Get him out." Medea insists. "You can get him out. If you actually gave a shit about your son, you'd save him."

Her step-father surveys her, not unkindly, almost with pity. "I cannot."

          "Yes, you can." Medea yells, voice bouncing off the glass and hurtling back at Hades and her. She jams her finger in Hades' sternum and surprisingly doesn't get smited. "Fuck, you gods and your pedestals. It's always, "I can't" when it comes to your kids and never anything different. You were supposed to take responsibility for your kids after the first war. And now, you're just leaving Nico for dead."

          "We're not allowed to meddle in mortal business." Hades replies calmly. "You of all people should be well aware of this reality."

          "Then I will." Medea spits out. She turns, slamming another fist against the glass. "I'm going to get him out."

          "I know what you gave him." Hades says.

Medea stops, spinning on her heel. The pomegranate seeds. "I have no idea what you mean."

Hades looks at her blankly. "Look closer."

The daughter of Persephone frowns, feigning peering into the darkness. Underneath the purple light, there's a handful of red specs laying on the ground. The pomegranate seeds that Medea gave Nico.

          "However many seeds are, however many days he has left." Hades says. "I'm aware that we have had our differences, Medea, but we both care for my son."

Looking at Nico, Medea's expression shifts to something softer than Hades has ever seen on his step-daughter. He presses something into the palm of her hand, small and firm in her grip. Hades closes her bloodied fingers around the object as she looks back to him. Her expression sours, turning something fierce. Something that looks scarily similar to the glare that his wife nails him to the wall with.

          "Take care of him." Hades says. After a moment, he steps back, turning away. "I must leave you now to return to your mother."

Medea purses her lips as the fog fades. Just as Nico begins to disappear, Hades' voice reaches out one last time:

          "Medea, I do want my kids to be happy, and that includes you. Watch out for each other."

Liar, she wants to scream, but Medea holds her tongue. Hades leaves without a trace, and she wakes in Cabin 14 with a frown. Medea looks down at her hands, slick with red blood and hisses in pain as she unclasps her fist. Nestled tightly into the palm of her hand, another pomegranate seed.

Like a tidal wave, her anger returns. What else could this be but an insult? A gesture akin to spitting at her feet. You have failed, Hades distorted voice croons in her head, failed to protect your brother and now you must live with it. Medea squeezes the seed tightly, feeling it press against her skin.

But she can't bring herself to destroy it.

Wherever Nico is, Medea will find him.  

To Medea, Camp Half-Blood has an extended and complicated history. Heartbreak is natural when you live in the roots of the majority of your scars. Every corner there is something that Medea cannot escape—the phantom of a memory; the ghost of a knife. It's an ache. One that she is addicted to. She could never leave, no matter how many times it crosses her mind with every passing day and every passing slash in her strike policy. With a tired body, Medea pulls herself together within the space of 15 minutes, only just making it to breakfast on time. Her knife strapped to her thigh and the pomegranate seed carefully wrapped in cloth, stuffed in the back pocket of her dusty jeans, she at least feels semi-ready to lay her eyes against Camp Half-Blood's horizon. And semi-ready to figure out how to get to Nico.

Medea finds herself on the Apollo table for breakfast, taken by the gentle hands of Danae Lovelace before she could split from the Dining Pavilion and hide in her cabin. There isn't much choice with the daughter of Apollo and her extensions of kindness—fiercely protective and annoyingly compassionate—so, Medea takes the seat across from her and pushes her scrambled eggs with a fork, mind reeling.

She maintains her quiet disposition, thinking, which Danae doesn't seem to mind. Medea can't shadow travel to find him. Her abilities are far weaker than Nico's. And she can't ask Chiron for help, he has no reason to say yes nor is there any tangible proof that Nico is in trouble in the first place. Not without risking her relationship with Hades or revealing that she bartered for pomegranate seeds from her mother.

Medea's lips press into a tight line. Maybe, she can cash in one of her favours. Jamming another forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth, Medea begins to mentally flick through her list of people:

The Stoll brothers. A few months ago, Medea easily provided them with the necessary resources for their prank war against the Athena Cabin. Perks of being one of the few campers allowed outside the confines of Camp Half-Blood. The brothers are reliable, there's no denying that. However, if anything happened, Chiron would look at them first. Next...

Clovis. Elysium sells surprisingly good sleep teas. But somebody who naps 23 hours of the day isn't going to be useful to her. Next...

Kennedy Song. She's dead. Next...

Charles Beckendorf. After a particularly unlucky incident with a hammer and a Medusa shield, he swore he'd find a way to make her forgive him. But, also dead. Next...

          "There's something worrying you." Danae breaks the comfortable silence, interrupting Medea's internal list-making. She says it simply, like a throwaway statement, shredding her jam toast into biteable pieces while the daughter of Persephone scowls at her. "You haven't slept."

          "I'm fine." Medea replies, detached. "It's none of your business."

Danae surveys her. "The health of my campers is my business."

          "I'm fine." Medea curtly snaps, shoving away her eggs. Across the pavilion, her eyes catch a flash of brown curls and her mouth curves into a grin.

Leo Valdez. A few months ago, Medea had the unfortunate pleasure of assisting him, Piper McClean and Jason Grace with finding a runaway table and dealing with a rather deadly group of Maenads. They haven't spoken since but she has heard whisperings from the Hephaestus cabin that Leo has been working on something. A ship. One that she has seen and can confirm to be true. One that she can board with the right convincing.

          "I have to go. I'll talk to you later." Medea says, standing up suddenly and pushing away her plate of eggs roughly.

A lie. She probably won't talk to her for weeks if this next conversation goes the way Medea intends. Leaving the plate for Danae to deal with—punishment for attempting to force her into a pathetic heart-to-heart when she was clearly happy with the silence—Medea weaves her way through the tables before coming to a stop in front of Leo.

          "Valdez." She says with a lick of a smile. Something stirs underneath it, a feral glint. Medea's head cocks slightly to the side like a predator sizing up her prey.

Leo spares her a heated glance, pushing his food around on his plate. "What, Park?"

          "Remember that favour you owe me."

Leo nods.

Medea's smile grows. "I'm cashing it in." The boy groans, head hanging and she taps the table. "You're taking me on a trip."