Sometimes, it’s hard to interact with Nico. Even Hazel has to admit that. No, it’s not his father, no, it’s not how he chants the names of the dead, well at least not for Hazel, no. It’s how the souls cling on to him, like he is the anchor in the wild sea. When he laughs, sweet as nectar, it is like you can hear the joy of the spirits with him, as if they’ve heard that they can return just one more time, to apologize, to say their goodbyes, to say “it’s not your fault” and “I love you” When he sobs, you hear the wails of the souls in the Lethe, alone, forgotten. You can feel the pain of the tormented, the Acheron spilling from his mouth. His rage is unkempt, rage like the souls in Punishment, rage like Achilles who sits by the Styx, rage of the many souls who never got a life they truly lived. It’s not his fault. You know that. Hazel knows that. Everyone does. But when he speaks, and his voice mixes like wine with the voices of the ones you loved, the ones you cherished, you have to turn away. No wonder the boy stopped speaking. What torture would it be, to hear his sister when he spoke? Or his mother when he cried? How painful.