Thanatos, Death, Doors

The Underworld, home sweet home- not. To monsters and the dead, yes, but to Nico di Angelo, son of Hades himself, of course not. All this place was to him was a place of bad, no, terrible memories.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
A boy, around fifteen years old, dressed in black, with a sword at his side the same color, waded through the mists of that underground place. He walked with a sort of purpose that was not usual for him. For the first time, good news had come from the Underworld.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
Thanatos, Death, Doors. A new way. No blood needed, no soul for a soul, just escape.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
He could now see the bright spot in the infinite darkness of the place. An island of good in a malevolent ocean. No, ocean was not a word for him, no, not for the dark thoughts it held. The thoughts of the dark prince turned back to Elysium.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
He was close, so close. He could see the movement of the spirits of the Blessed, or could he just sense it? Time seemed to be slowed. He could not run, for though the Lord of the Underworld was family, mercy was not in his nature. He could not find out what his son was about to do.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
He was almost there, only a few meters were between him and Elysium. Now he could clearly see the spirits merrily walking in that Blessed land. He saw faces that he knew, but didn't want to think about them. They only reminded him of pain, and that was not why he was here. He could not see her.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
A boy of darkness, a lord of death, stepped upon the stones of which have many names, Elysium, Heaven, Paradise... The spirits sensed him and encircled him, not threateningly, but inquisitively. A boy near to manhood stepped forward. Tall and proud he seemed, and familiar. He spoke. "She is not here." The voice was a signal of defeat for the Prince of Death. Slowly, he faded from the sight of the Blessed.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
The Fields of Asphodel, a dull, misty crowd. A crowd of spectators at a nonexistent game. The vacant faces of the Dead were of no comfort to their prince. Dimmed, erased, nothingness. All the faces were the same. But one, a small figure. Similar, but different.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
Who? Why? How? Vibrant, sad, and dark would all be words he would describe her with. Vibrant, like a dark stone hit by a single beam of light. Sad, as if her whole world had been taken from her and thrown into the deepest chasm. Dark, like him.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
He lowered himself next to her. He could see her face. It was not like the ones in Asphodel, blank and dim, it was still hers; intelligent, whole. There was memory behind those golden eyes.
Bianca. Bianca. Bianca.
"What is your name?"
"Hazel. Hazel Levesque." The answer was but a whisper, but seemed to shatter the dulled hum of the misty fields around them.
"Who-"
"Daughter of Pluto."
Hazel? Bianca? Hazel?