The next many days and nights pass in relative peace.
So long has the darkness reigned in Hades' domain that its inhabitants felt rather at a loss when the realm's rightful Queen deigned to return Underground. All in the House, whether low shade or high charge, now find themselves scrambling: circling the foyer to kiss the Lady's hand, so that they might hang off her every word. Chatter, color, and light, in those fast-coming days and faster-coming nights, fill up every crevice like the Prince's plunders. From her post—and yes, it is unmistakably hers, perhaps even more now as before her departure—Persephone smiles in her regal manner. Wherever she walked, one would smell roses.
In the mortal world, by contrast, the turbulence is ongoing. The sky itself seems unable to cope with Persephone's absence, in turns shrieking and hushing, shuffling souls casting off adrift (but still forming quick and grateful lines into Charon's humble boat, perhaps wondering what it was that had come to pass, and whether it was truly worth the icy sermon of tears).
Death roams. In the Queen's gardens, the verdures blur and blend together into vibrant swaths in all colors; the sight would put Elysium to shame. Wherever one looked, flowers would grow—even Earthly specimens that should have long since died. Through the days and nights, Lady Persephone would walk among them, humming, infusing them with magic. In her greenspaces, all things could grow.
Death roams the two realms, as he always has, but now finds himself stunned by the difference between them. The unrepentant joy afforded by Queen Persephone's presence alone; the liveliness of every shade; the way that time makes to flow faster, rather than waste in the routine of stupor. Even the long-reticent Lord Hades—he perhaps signifies the most significant change, with his pacified and palliated demeanor. In all, the House has become more of a wonder than it had been in Thanatos' long-distilled memories, those long-ancient visions of this place before Zagreus was born. It is nothing short of a miracle, heaven-sent. An act of the divine.
When the Queen smiles, Thanatos thinks of roses—silken petals, vestigial thorns. Something beautiful and strong, but only for the perfect purpose. She builds and restores, proliferates and protects. But when Zagreus smiles, Thanatos thinks of something other—new life, fire and blood, the changing of seasons, the rising of the sun and moon. Intense heat and an undercurrent of static. A beginning only just unfurling.
The Prince, for his part, has been given new purpose. And he takes to his new position with a flair for brilliance. Given the freedom to keep running rogue, but having the good fortune to make fighting and thievery a full-fledged career. Somehow, it all ended up so inspired. How odd, Thanatos might muse, is this thing called existence. (But they are each of them pleased.)
The future is ripe on his lips when he smiles, after the announcement, and says: "good to be working with you in a more official capacity, Zag," and receives a rakish, eager grin in return. "Shall we get started?"
With this menagerie of changes, Thanatos expects a grander shift than what actually comes to pass. But when it comes to it, nothing of his and Zagreus' dynamic really changes. At least, not in the short-term.
He can't pinpoint the reason; but it is disquieting.
They meet now once again in the swarming greenlit chambers of Tartarus, where the ever-shifting walls inhale deeply with anticipation. All around, the air hums, charged with the violent buzzings of the damned; they linger, refusing to set. The room breathes to let Thanatos in, accommodating his silent entry.
And ah; Zagreus in his new-forged seat of power is ruthless. He stands this time, upon Death's entrance, an ominous silhouette framed in the cold gold glare of Athena's light: supple-limbed and hard-bodied, a beacon. Portrait-like; statuesque, a deity constructed in sunlight and jewels. The demon-souls around him snap their venom mouths and snarl, wailing banshee cries and leaping for what will be a fruitless impact. Death laughs out loud as he approaches, and Zagreus looks back, delighted.
(Ah; whimsy. He had nearly forgotten.)
"These wretches never seem to learn," the Prince bellows in greeting, cocking a brow in invitation. "Do they?"
Thanatos draws his scythe and gives a hearty wave, the spirit of battle imbuing his bones. "They really don't."
"Think you can beat me?"
He bares his teeth in response. "Try me."
The air crackles with fire, shimmers with water and light. Thanatos can see Zagreus clutching Malphon's Fists, knuckles knotted and beautifully white, belying the blood that flows to them. His eyes are dilated with elation; he looks a wild thing, a creature in its element. The flock of Wretches forms a dark and infinite cyclone about him, exuding menace: scores of them, massed and screeching in hair-raising decibels. Hairbreadth thrills. Adrenaline replacing ichor. It's easy to see now, how the Prince of lifeblood might lose himself in this fantastical head rush. It's suddenly all so easy to see.
"Ey, Than. Here's something for the show."
Thanatos looks toward the source of the sound, and there Zagreus is, hanging on air: pristinely suspended and spinning in a grandiose arc, soaring through the horde like a star. It's a beautiful sight, one to which he cannot help but submit; it coaxes an impatient twitch from his muscles and stills him for so long that the score is rendered forfeit. One weapon snaps out of the Prince's hand, forming a deadly fractal arc, shredding everything as it goes. The swarm clears, and again there is the hush: the hush and the green-and-red horizon.
"Well done, Zag," Thanatos might have said, except for he seems to remain rather frozen; and the Prince is already bounding up too quickly, exchanging his heart for yet another bottle; and he finds himself flushed and thrumming with the promise of heat, life, and a voice in his ears, dark and oily and craven, whispering,
"Thanks for the challenge…Find me out there again soon." And he has the gall to wink, of all things.
"Wait," Thanatos squeaks (too high, and too quickly). "Are you already going?"
Zagreus cocks a brow. "Mm? Isn't it you who has to go, now?"
He turns his head just so, and their eyes lock properly; and Thanatos wonders, in the haze of that shared, scintillating gaze, whether both of them want the same thing in this moment. His pulse picks up, carrying a discordant, heated sense of dread. A foreign yet familiar sensibility. This is nervousness of a different sort; the kind that mingles with excitement, coursing through like lightning. In such an electric world, Zagreus' earnestness has become conductive and grounding at once. (And Thanatos would shock himself in an instant.)
The art of titillation is not among Thanatos' repertoire of skills. It has never been a necessary savvy for his work (and no living man has ever dared attempt as much toward him, the morose harbinger of death). And so, he hasn't the language to convey I want. Inside his head, every word has a strange, jarring sound, like it clashes with his every reason, but at the same time reinforces. As if every line of reasoning he has considered to this point becomes dependent on Zagreus' whim, and not such things as fear, or duty, or the looming threat of rejection. Ah—but if that is true, why does he feel so rejected, now?
But he swallows, and shifts his feet before he finally summons the courage to say: "I will come back. Again."
Zagreus always grins so beautifully. They graze, touching shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing warm skin—Zagreus is always warm, like a celestial body burning itself out—and after, he flashes a knowing look (deliberate), and grasps Thanatos' hand.
"I'll count on it, mate."
Thanatos might have cursed just then, knowing the time has come in earnest for him to depart (oh, for a little more time!); but instead he commits to closing his eyes, and committing for now that solid press of calloused fingers in his sweat-thatched palm.
He waits, and patiently. But nothing of note happens.
He meets Zagreus many times Underground, in ascension, and many more at the House. It's become rather lively and colorful besides, and Thanatos is still growing accustomed to it. Lady Persephone's charms seems instilled in the House's very walls. Lord Hades wears his newfound humor loosely, but reconciliation suits him (though none would dare express this). Hypnos has done well in making himself useful, and of late, even Meg's spirits have been less taciturn of late. It all feels rather like a dream. Even the sullen Court musician has resumed his singing (Thanatos had begun to question whether the ragged man truly had the talent, but Zagreus clearly knew better). The little crumpled pamphlet of music besets him wherever he goes.
Each time they meet, he cannot help but think it might be the time—he isn't even sure what he's expecting, whether it's the source or the resolution to this unspoken, unbroken tension between them. Surely Zagreus thinks more of him, his feelings, than this. Or is he mistaken, despite the Prince's recent declarations? Was Megaera correct? Has Zagreus already grown bored of him?
The disparaging thoughts follow him everywhere, between worlds. Hypnos notices first (astoundingly) and comforts him with some ill-conceived jokes that send him shaking his head all the way to the lounge. Inside, Chef is making magic out of some truly monstrous fishes, spreading ghostly hands to fill up a gold dish: fine-chopped onions and broth and dried tomatoes. Olive oil and cinnamon. Taken by the aroma, Thanatos walks toward the kitchen to watch the dish come together. It's a miraculous spread, undoubtedly made possible only through the Queen's graces.
Then, from nowhere, the Prince himself strolls right up to the counter, spears a morsel of cooked fish and puts it in his mouth. Chewing indecently, and grinning too widely after upon spotting Than there, already preparing a second bite.
"Why, hello, dear Than—Chef, you're truly outdone yourself this time, marvelous job, mate—what brings you here? Following my advice to take a break now and then, eh~?" He's picked up the bowl now, eating from it heartily; one lone fleck of onion trails his cheek. Thanatos stares idly at it for a small moment, before snapping his eyes back into focus.
"Something like that."
"Well, I say cheers to that, mate! Warms the heart to see it. Ah, speaking of, I've a gift for you—"
Thanatos, whose inextricably wandering gaze had just shifted to the Prince's collarbone, quickly lets his eyes fall to the now-empty bowl, and swallows thickly. "If it's nectar, why don't we share it together?
Zagreus' mouth spreads wide in a satisfied grin. "Share it, you say? I could grow used to this newfound hedonism."
He wants to seize upon this line of reason, but can manage little more than a quirk of a smile. "I'm sure you could."
Zagreus holds out his palm, and Thanatos snatches up the bottle and swigs. After a few gulps, he passes it back rather clumsily. Chef looks on with bemused interest.
The nectar swirls in him, drips an acid hole from his gullet to his brain. His eyes dart in all directions as Zagreus drinks, from the bouncing knob rising and falling in his throat to the shining, silver-scarred cords of muscle, the way those fingers grip the golden bottle. The pull of nectar makes Thanatos unsteady; the very sight of Zagreus more still.
There's nothing he wants more in the worlds than to touch, to taste that sweet liquid from the Prince's lips; but fear and apprehension stay him where he stands. But perhaps it's alright, because Zagreus' warm fingers are coming to rest now at his spine, rubbing in small, affectionate circles.
"Mm—can't say I ever tire of this stuff," the Prince sighs happily. "Thanks for that, Than. And you, Chef, for the meal. Might not have been the wisest choice, given that I'm overdue to report to Father, but I'd say this was time well spent!"
Thanatos looks carefully down, trying to dispel the disappointment from his face. "You'll be going, then?"
"I'm sorry, Than. Wretched timing. I meant to have a quick bite just before going to see the old man. It's a good thing he's altogether a bit more pleasant to deal with now that Mother's back…"
"Zag."
Zagreus pauses, licking his lips (curse it all) and tilts his head sidelong. "Mm?"
"Kiss me."
For a beat, the Prince goes stock-still, and Thanatos fears he has done wrong. But before he can vanish, Zagreus is kissing him—coaxing and sensuous, almost teasing. Stoking that lingering spark within him—feeding this ever-fluctuating fire. The warmth—it isn't enough, but it is, at least, reassurance. Assurance that, for now, at least, Zagreus still finds him interesting enough.
"You're becoming so bold, Than," Zagreus chuckles fondly when they break. "We ought to indulge you more often, eh? I'll see you soon, and we can continue, if you like. You'll come find me, won't you?"
He gives a long wave and winks as he sidles away, and Thanatos feels his face glow hot, his nectar-addled head still reeling. "Indeed," he finally mutters, long after Zag is gone, and only Chef remains to hear him.
The usual antidote to unpleasant emotions is to drown oneself in work. But even this, it seems, is losing its faculties.
On the Surface, the sky weeps. Not quite a rain or snowstorm, but the kind of deluge that must have settled slowly, clouds gathering overnight and growing fat, the new tears mingling with the old. Cold water drizzles finely, a soft lament, almost curious. Thanatos thinks of the state of the sky on his last several visits, streaks of water and ice clawing and clamoring hatred. The rain then had been heavy and unforgiving, as if Lady Demeter wanted to drown the mortal world.
Charon, upon arrival, gives a knowing glance. Thanatos says nothing in response, only gazes out at the rain-washed horizon, the way that haloes each incoming spirit. The warm, comforting scent of steeped soil perfumes the air. For the duration of this trip, at least, they could perhaps both tarry in the fragile illusion that nothing of greater note is amiss.
Thanatos holds a small, wary girl's hand, guiding her gently to the boat. The rain falls in sheets, turning every patch of greenery blurry and distant. Out of the mist, a woman—the girl's mother, as it would seem—approaches him with an uplifted head, love and acceptance in her blown-glass eyes. Her lips slowly forming words—thank you, thank you. She has kind eyes and a pretty, wry smile, and though the world is wet and dark and she can no longer feel it, her face is traceless of fear.
He should feel content, or relieved, or anything apart from what he actually feels: a crude, sourceless ache, the kind that his work tends to stymie—at least for a while, until the next trip. But this ache is different. An acid-rainwater cavern, clawed into the chest. Dripping.
He is suddenly driven by an urge to apologize to the mother and her little one, and perhaps to Charon; but this would be baseless, and so Thanatos does what Thanatos does best. He suppresses.
Back in Lord Hades' realm, he leans against the nearest solid thing, strangely knock-kneed and dizzy. The cave of his mind has always been subject to half-proofs and paradox, a tangle of real and conceived; like some airborne illness, a common cause for Thanatos to visit the world of men. Perhaps this is what it means to become infected. He thinks he would pray for death then, too.
There is one occasion in which he gives in.
Just after the Prince has departed, he finds himself confronting the night-mirror once more. At first, its expression is beautifully and coldly blank as ever, but each encounter is different, and it shows in the shape that takes form: Thanatos himself, a steady set of his shoulders that belies the true version. His posture, even the tilt of his head portrays a calm acceptance.
What do you seek? The mirror asks him. It's a little like being comforted, this time.
He feels before he sees it—the first shard of excitement that makes his thighs to clench the fabric of his chiton to stick to his skin. And that clawing—like an insatiable hunger of the worst kind, and everything he takes, all the loots of his unrealized greed, they lose their substance upon reflection. And reflected they are, for Zagreus has now joined his mirrored form: a pillar of might and beauty, curling himself around Thanatos' body, ash-white fingers fluttering against his neck, inviting. Those long coils of hair for him to tug on, the vast expanses of disclosed skin, the sturdy arch of the spine and the cheeky turn of mouth. The mouth is what seizes him, more than any fingers or fists to his throat. Like snakes, sliding down there, disappearing in the hidden dark of his stomach.
He understands it: he is at a standstill, unable to move forward or go back until he has solved this conundrum, this mess that is constricting him.
It's dangerous, this knowledge, because it means he's too fearful still, too thwarted by his eternal lack of esteem. He still doesn't see these matters as they truly are, not when pertaining to the self, not even when they are revealed to him before his very eyes. He still can't reveal for himself, and this is dangerous because fear is a disease: a slow disintegration that starts from within and eats its way outward. If nothing else, he knows this now.
The mirror reshapes its image to project Thanatos, standing strong and proud once again. This time, his counterpart appears defiant, rallying, a herald. Again, he understands the message: if Zagreus appears unwilling, it is up to Thanatos to make something happen, to get to the heart of the matter—whether this is a flash long since fizzled or a sign Thanatos has done wrong. This is a battle between want and fear, and that, at least, is nothing novel.
The mirror winks its assent, ostensibly pleased, and then wipes itself blank; and there, Thanatos finds his resolve.