A journal made of paper scraps and scrambled words.

It is a heavy leather thing, nearly bursting with all of the fragments that have been pasted in. Sticky notes and odd corners erupting from the edges. A bookmark made from a red ribbon that is much too long; spilling from the center pages, trailing across the table, pooling against the floor like blood. A rubber band holding it all together, stretched nearly to the point of snapping.

Nico's fingers tremble– quake– falter– twitch, twitch, twitch against the cover. Snag against the rubber band. It finally gives, biting angrily against his skin. Nico hisses between his teeth as its covers thud against the table, pages spilling open.

Mouth trembling, eyes flicking, searching, diving across the arrows and symbols and diagrams and pictures. A twisting, hideous road map with no end in sight. He snarls angrily at the sight of it.

Surely, by now, it should all make sense.

"A god? A monster? A fable? Ley lines cross here... too much iron. No, no no... I can't go there. I do not want to be a man of war. Not again. Ares does not favor one man twice. That is why... after all..." Images flash across his vision, he shakes his head to rid himself of them.

Teeth chattering together, scarred hands painted with swaths of color flicking through pages. Fists slamming against the table again and again and again.

His palms skid across the wooden surface, eyes clenched shut in agony. "Athena, have mercy. I seek revelation. A spear of divine epiphany. Just a bit of hope... I seek..."

Stacks and stacks of tombs scattered around the room, spilling open, pages marked by anything that happened to be nearby–spoons, pencils, smaller books. Gutted pages are tacked onto the walls haphazardly, random sentences highlighted in glaring color. On the far wall, a mural born of divine inspiration is being overtaken by it.

"Mercy, Hades. Thanatos. I pray, I ask... Oh, gods. You have been so quiet. I don't..." His breathing is coming in rough and ragged gasps. "Why now? When I was so close? So... So..."

Slowly, he crumples down as if being pressed by an invisible hand, fingers clawing across the table, struggling helplessly to keep him up. His knees find the ground and his whole body tips forward, fingers still seized against the ledge, the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the tile.

"Who are you?" It's hardly a breath, a broken, helpless breath. Tears press against the back of his eyelids, building gradually. His fortification will not be enough to fend them off, not this time. (He supposes, not every battle can be won.)

Dandelion fluff brushes against his cheeks and falls onto his shirt. No doors or windows are open.

Several minutes pass and then, like a blessing, a flower blooming, his trembling lips slowly part. "Ah. I see... I see."

Head nodding, body flowing to the tides of unheard music. Fingers lurching from the table and palms cracking down against the cold floor. His arm lurches upward as if pulled by the wrist by a string and his hand clasps the ribbon dangling down in front of him, glinting.

"A chain, yes. To reality. I won't let go. I won't. You can trust me... Yes."

All of the air rushes from his lungs at once and then slams back against him, leaving him reeling.

"Thank you," he gasps, and unfolds himself, body stretching upward and head tipping back, tears slipping through his defenses. "Thank you."

-

He clutches the journal tight against his chest, rushing wind from the trains blowing past, buffeting his clothes and stinging his cheeks. The red ribbon is snapping and thrashing, tied so tight around his wrist it's almost suffocating. His hair flails wildly around him.

"Just breathe deeply," he chokes, his words snatched away just as quickly as they're uttered.

"Just one last time," the voice agrees, so quiet he hardly hears it.

Standing there between two tracks, the freights wailing past in opposite directions, it's like being the eye of a storm.

When they finally come to an end, the wind cuts away so sharply that he gasps and almost folds downward. The same hand that had forced him down now holds him ups. Barely, by the collar of his shirt.

It lets go and he stumbles forward, eyes wild.

"Go."

White fluff brushes his nose, dances in the air in front of him, carried by the wind, taunting him. It floats ahead of him, bobbing up and down.

His nails bite into the cover of his journal. "Yes."

Nico presses on until his bones are aching. And finally, finally, he is here. Among the hollowed-out and lifeless forms of metal monsters put to sleep. In the dead of night, it truly feels like a grave yard.

Spray paint clouds the frames of metal queues, slowly wrapping around him with its fumes. He coughs and hacks and shakes up another can until it's finished. Just as promised: a door.

But not for him. There is another. He is thanked, and he trudges on. Follows the dandelion seed sprinkled on the wind.

Exhaustion makes his vision swim and dwindle, his eyelids feel like heavy drop curtains whose ropes are failing. Still, one foot in front of the other, even if it is only inches at a time.

Driven by an unseen force, he scratches symbols into the dirt with a stray stick, his breath shaking and his mindless murmuring coming in irregular spurts, filling the air with their presence.

He drops forward in the middle of nowhere, his mind has finally given in where his body had hours ago.

-

Light stabs in against his eyes. He's lying on his back now and the sun is bright up above him, an unforgiving assailant.

It's as if sand has been poured down his throat and soaked up all of the moisture. He is now filled with it, weighed down against the dirt and grass. Unused to the load, his muscles cannot lift him.

"Spirit." His voice rasps roughly against his tongue. "Why have you brought me here?"

A dandelion sways in the wind and, impossibly, the corner of his lip lifts in a smile.

"Ah. I see..." His eyes drift closed. "I see."

The wind sighs against his skin.

"Until nightfall, then."

Somehow, he manages to haul himself to his feet as the moon climbs the steep ridge of the sky. Knees wobbling underneath him, hands shaking at his sides, jaw quivering helplessly. The ribbon snakes down from his wrist through the grass, pools against the journal.

He plucks the dandelion and holds it out in front of him, twisting it back and forth in his fingers. Tilts his head to the side like a quietly interested cat.

"O, genus spiritus. Ostende te quaeso ad me."

His life is made of fervent, hopeful prayers as he blows away the seeds and watches them float off in the breeze.

For a long moment, it's completely silent, and Nico wants to collapse into the dirt, his last hope snatched away that easily.

All of this.

For nothing.

But then the wind picks up. At first, a change so slight it's hardly noticeable. Over time, the force behind it shifts until it's plowing into him from behind, until he feels as if he's trapped between the two trains again; the eye of a storm.

Every dandelion seed for miles is snatched away, thrown into the wind. They come together in a swirling, massive cloud ten feet in front of him.

Slowly, slowly, the air stills again and the seeds start clearing away, revealing a man who is so achingly beautiful he may very well be a god.

Nico drops to his knees.

The man's head slowly circles to the side and then tips back up at the sky, welcoming the cool moonlight upon his features.

His hair is spun gold and his skin is a map of the sky, charted with freckles like stars. His Adam's apple bobs and his ribs lift and retract, his lips parting, drawing in the crisp air.

"It has been so long," he breathes, and this is not the voice that has been speaking to him. Not the ugly, confounded grate of a long-dead thing, but as gentle and sweet as birdsong.

Nico stares at him in shock, his wrist is throbbing where the ribbon is cinched around it. "You are not the thing I have been talking to."

The man smiles and lets his chin dip downward, his eyes flutter open. Looking into them, Nico feels as if he's gazing upon the entire universe. He feels like he's sinking further and further into the ocean and when he reaches the bottom, he'll fall through into the crushing vastness of space.

"You wouldn't think so, would you?" he muses, lips twitching. "I was imprisoned. You have set me free. Come, allow me to show you my gratitude." He holds out his hand and Nico drags himself to his feet and stumbles toward him.

As soon as he touches him, the strength rushes back into his limbs, his thoughts feel more clear than they have in decades. The man lets out a soft noise, "You... have a beautiful mind."

"I've been told that it's a bit chaotic." Nico's voice is clenched and dry, his eyes blown open wide in wonder. "I've never met a god before."

The man throws his head back and laughs, his grip tightening fractionally on Nico's hand. Something inside Nico's chest is unraveling.

"I am no god." He lifts his other hand and slides his fingers across Nico's wrist, over the ribbon. It falls away and coils into the grass, a sleeping snake; Nico feels like he can breathe again. "Though people have worshiped me as one." His head tilts, his expression is so open, so guileless. It makes Nico's heart ache. "Why is that? That humans flock to power?"

"We are broken creatures. All we want is for someone to repair us."

The man nods. "My name is Will. I know that yours is Nico."

Will holds out a thick scroll to Nico and he wonders where it came from. He didn't see it appear, it feels as if it was always there and he just could not see it.

Nico takes it from him gingerly and starts unrolling it, eyes flicking across its inscription. "What is this?"

"A list of things human beings are afraid of. Which would you be saved from?"

Really, his asking: which do you fear the most? that you would have me take that blight away from you?

Nico's fingers skip down the endless scrawl. Youth seeping through fingers.They falter. He sees his sister's head lolling against his arm, blood pooling around her like a ribbon. Finding loneliness buried deep inside. They tremble sideways against the letters.

"This, here. I cannot be by myself any longer."

Will smiles and touches his chin. "And you won't be. I shall stay."

Nico's heart plummets. "No. No... I need my sister. Bianca. You must have known that... that's..."

Shaking his head, strands of sunlight spilling down his forehead. "Death is the one thing I will not tamper with. It is definite, final, and reversing it only causes grief and pain and chaos. You do not want to see your sister reborn." The way he says it makes a sick chill go down Nico's spine.

He stares sightlessly at Will's chest, his expression hollow. Dreams seen through eyes clouded with grief, slipping past his fingers. His chest feels like it's caving in. "My sister. My baby sister. I thought that I could make it up to her, that I could bring her back."

"She would not thank you." His words are soft, meant to be an assurance, but they slice through Nico's skin. "She is at peace. The dead do not want to be awoken... Pain... is such a human thing."

Tears flee down Nico's cheeks. "I've wasted so many years of my life."

Distantly, he feels Will's rough fingertips wiping them away. "I can give them back. Nico, come with me. I can give you purpose."

How did he know? How could he have known what I need so desperately?

He nods, feeling numb, and feels wind swirling wildly around them, sweeping them away.

-

Hundreds of thousands of years pass in a whorl.

Years of Will by his side, Will holding his hand, Will spinning him in dances, Will asking him for help, Will teaching him how to heal.

Letting go of his sister was not easy, but Will made the task possible. Gave him something to hold onto, to hope for, to focus on instead of his unhealthy obsession.

They rule together, fair and just. Nico is his voice of reason, his mediator.

They lay side-by-side in a large bed made of branches that have been wound together. Flowering vines hang down over their heads and sunlight streams in from the glass ceiling, casting them in patterned shadows.

Nico stares at the man in front of him; his husband, his stronghold, his foundation. Will's hair fans out around his head and his chest rises and falls just the slightest bit, his arm is thrown above his head.

Nico leans forward and kisses the soft skin of his wrist and smiles against it when he feels the tendons there twitch along with Will's fingers; his hand pulls downward and cups Nico's cheek, so he leans into it, a sigh breaking free from his lips.

And Will was right; he has found purpose.