At the end of his journey, in the last Fateful fight against Lord Hades, Zagreus calls upon Death Incarnate.

His fists punch empty air when he calls. Malphon's Fists whirl around him like a cage, beating and sweeping in every direction, only to wing back toward their master at the last possible moment, whistling on air. The snow breathes its anticipation; the wind, stolen from the mortal edge, moans low.

With a scant glance to Mort, and a flicker of eyes to Life himself, Death draws his scythe and leaps in an arc toward the Lord Master, faster than he can feel, faster than a blink. The wind obliges him, transporting him precisely where he needs to be. And Death doesn't need to be told, nor given any specific instruction, just as the Prince needs none to command the forces of Olympus. As fire bursts and light bleeds forth, Thanatos is reminded that Zagreus is no emissary. Not for Lord Hades; not for the gods; not for death. He is his own sort of danger, imminent.

The little space between them shivers, immolating, a presence. (Their way of dealing has little to do with words; not at this stage.)

At the moment of scythe's impact, he can see on Zagreus' lips the barest quirk of lips; he doesn't even turn before the mighty fists wing toward him in a ruthless phalanx, points-down, swift as the wind. So swift that Death might be struck, too, if he knew no better just what to do, or just how to move; if he didn't know to grab a fist-full of space and leverage it to launch himself across the snow, orthogonal to Zagreus, before the Lord of the Underworld himself.

The wind shrieks in Death's ears. The wind bends to his will and carries his strike. Lord Hades falls rolling, cursing; Death's scythe and the Master's own bident scream as they torque and scrape and lance into the powdered snow. As the blade swings forth in a vicious arc, Zagreus' hand grazes his forearm; he must refrain from streaking swift fingers across that hand, instead committing to completion of the blow—

(—and it's the way that it instantly transforms from fighting to not, copper blood on the air, in the snow, the galeforce of ice wind and the crush of Surface gravity—)

(—and it's the way that it impacts, like wrenching a hard arrow from his own pulsing heart—)

Even as he's transporting himself up and off, even then, Death senses Life's wink on the edge of his vision, slicing through veil of space and time as he flies, and drawing a slight smile in return.

Thanks, Than, says the wind, as they part.

On the Surface proper, the sun greets Death with a sleek band of light, warm like a hand awaiting a grasp. Death enters the human world with a gust of wind that shakes the Earth and sets the mortals to scatter, but he dusts off his clothing and reaches out in offering. He glides toward them on nothing, bowing his head and gesturing, telling them it's all right; you're going home, now. And he thinks to himself, so are you, Prince; and perhaps, this time, Fates permitting: your Lady Mother, as well.

He believes this, as the sun shines down on him, on all of the mortals with him—all of those new and sacred souls of mortal Greece, fertile and verdant around him. Encircling him, basking in the sun's gentle light, flowers bloom; he has, (though not consciously), transported himself to the edge of the lady Queen's green domain. In this fertile triangle, this place which is all at once wonderous and disastrous both, Death takes the hands of each new soul and walks with them arms outstretched to Charon's boat; not daring to promise or to whisper anything of future events, but instead providing them with sacred peace, a hand, a soothing and inviting presence. On the Styx's edge, the Boatman nods to them in greeting; all as always was, and all as it should be. And yet, the very air here is charged; Death passes the new dead over with a gentle touch and an awaiting hitch of breath—someplace in between fearing and hoping and knowing, a taut-pulled string.

—and just like that, it all happens so fast: a gust, a gasp, and gravity releasing; the green-and-blue world warping and blurring all around him; the cold kiss of frost-wind; an entrance so sharp and quick as to pierce like a spear, like an object in the throat, like a fist around his pulse—

—Zagreus—

—He's won—

—He's here—

"Nicely done, Zag," Thanatos coughs, just before the howling forces him back, off and away, to allow Life to occupy the realm of living. His presence is nearly so close as to touch, yet so far: a ghost at the edge of the world he's departing. Infinitely charged. The air burning, blazing like the fading sun, not nature but preternatural, Fates bending, a promise. Faith.

The ghost of warm blood pulses over his fingers when he breathes the last breath of Surface air, just before the dark comes to take him. Soon this world will be little more than a silvergold-and-blue slash. "Give Lady Persephone my regards," he whispers.

You can do it yourself, soon. And Thanatos gasps, to the same tune of the vision of Zagreus' grin, ice-clear in his mind's vision, star-teeth bared like a secret. I've got a feeling. This time.

It must be a mirage, a spin of fancy brought by the spinning world around him, beyond his grasp; there's nothing to hold on to, anymore. Only the pull of the Underworld below, and the lingering spirit of Life's burning touch.

He finds himself transported to where the darkness takes him, to its source—the epicenter of the little garden, so long hidden from view, and its secret keeper. When he arrives, she is there—Death's mother, Night Incarnate. Smiling sphinxlike, as if she knows. As if she has been waiting for him, for some time.

"Ah, my son," Nyx nods approvingly, unfolding her arms. "You have come, too, in advancement, I trust?

"What is this, Mother?"

When Death's feet meet moist earth for the first time in ages, long-untilled memories choke any more articulate thoughts. All around them the garden flourishes, restored entire from how he has known it; where there was only trampled dust and darkness, now eternal flowers bloom, vibrant blossoms of all colors. The whole space is heavy with the perfume of promise, like something lost, a reminder: so long has it been since Death and his brother had once sought refuge here, watching the Queen in her life-giving glory tend to her verdure; their mother a shadow lingering in the entrance, smiling in shadow-smiles, observing the young gods play.

The ancient god in front of him pauses, turns, looks over her shoulder at her bewildered son; she looks to him more gently, eyes ever glazed-over.

"I am making preparations," she tells him plainly. "Have you not felt it, child? The call from your sisters?"

The string around his heart tightens, his eyes widen slightly, not enough to conceal—though few things indeed can conceal themselves from the Dark itself, and scarce not one among her children. He swallows, and remembers, feels—gravity, Surface pull, Zagreus' voice, Lady Persephone's breath. Surface flowers. The strings at his throat. Fate.

"This is their doing?" he finally chokes, and then "Have you foreseen it?"

Mother Nyx's stance doesn't falter. She looks regal standing there, beautiful and ancient, projecting a harrowing beauty with the lilies surrounding her, painting her face bone-white. "I do not possess the gift of life that your sisters the Fates granted to our Queen," she explains, gesturing at the blooms flanking her on all sides. "But this much, at least, lies within my power. These flowers will, I hope, provide a suitable gift for our Lady's homecoming. This House has so missed her; and all of its gardens."

"Mother," Death mumbles, head bowed, awed. "I think…I have felt it, on the Surface, but…is she…truly coming?"

Silence, a beat; Night carries on.

"Now is the time for rebuilding, my son." She stands, long black hair rippling as she does so, just as it did when she bent to lift him when he was such a young thing, and still so fearful of such things as Fate, or those who might taunt it. "From the nothing void Master Chaos left, the mortals built upon the Earth; we gods might think ourselves grander, yet what prosper has been constructed of this place? What good has come from the destruction? Life…Life has always been the key." She closes her eyes, and furls out her hands. "Faith, Thanatos. You must have faith in him. Now comes the time."

He beholds her seriously as she turns properly to face him, still marveling at her calm determination. As if sensing his thoughts, she adds, "There is much goodness in you, my son, even if it is much different from the touch of Life. Your good nature, your gentle touch, is a gift as well. Have faith in this, too."

She gestures to the patch of earth she has just finished clearing, and his eyes follow her arm to what she has to show. There, free now of choking rubble and debris, flowers bloom, bright and beautiful. Beaming, she strides toward Thanatos and touches his cheek—a soothing suggestion, almost domestic, and so strange for one as untamed as the Night. But that touch incites him, or perhaps it's only true that he is now much improved in faith, and in patience.

"What can I do to help, Mother?" he asks.

Lady Nyx smiles.

In the final full moments of anticipation, Death ruminates on the marvel of change.

He supposes that he'd always known that Zagreus would one day rebel; it was simply a matter of time. It was never a question of intent; it is in Life's nature to revolt, to belong to nothing at all. It had been reassuring to know realization at last. A solid fact to hold in the hands; knowledge to clench the fingers upon. Gold for a scholar.

It had taken more time to believe that Life would one day succeed in defying the Fates; but in retrospect, this had been an error of stubborn hubris. After all, Life actualizes rather than dreams. Life fulfills and achieves. Life is the dawn, the day, the winds of purpose, the gold sands of promise. It's no wonder that Zagreus can cause Death to think of all of these things, and more.

Under the long-oppressive mantle of darkness, the Underworld has existed in a kind of eternal stasis, sleepy and indolent save for the white noise of shades, like a predator deceptively docile in slumber. Without the Queen, it has become like a graveyard, filled with ever-flooding whispers of death, the sands of time flowing in stasis. Time in and time out; time sworn only to duty and creed. A never-ending cycle.

He can't put it to words, but in those final moments, Death knows that the cycle is finally breaking—just has he's allowed his own heart to be breached. It's the way that the long-empty space in his memories now seem to explode with color and motion. It's the way fire dances in Zagreus' eyes, or the way shadows amplify Nyx's calm smile. Somehow, somewhere deep inside, he knows that the circle is translating, and he knows to have faith. It's nothing like he could have ever expected, and so much more than he could have come to hope for. And yet, it is.

It's the sense of anticipation, growing, gnawing as the minutes and moments spiral down to the eleventh hour. It's the stirring of the shades, his sentinels, blurring to one voice. The anticipation is written on every inhabitant—a blueprint in excitement, white, chattering and wonderful. It's the way that long-lost excitement moves him, blustering him about like the wind, everywhere Underground that Death tries to go. The Queen is coming, whisper the walls of Tartarus, heaving, teeming with wretches, their voices, their fear. The Queen is coming, flutter Asphodel's souls, like curtains of fire, roaring their excitement. The Queen is coming, hum Elysium's exalted, their echoes hushed by the Lethe; but not before strewing about every lush meadow, lingering to reach Thanatos' ears.

And so, he has faith. The Queen would be coming (for the souls of the dead are the most sanguine gossips of all).

On the day (or night) or reckoning, the Underworld is singing and the House is none the wiser. Death isn't there for the arrival, instead tending to the last of Charon's charges at the Surface edge; but he feels it, like a prick of rose-thorns, like the shock of sunshine on the corneas, a summertime burn out of season. And apropos of nothing, Thanatos lapses into a peal of laughter. "Blood and darkness…he's done it," he murmurs, tossing his hair skyward as another eruption of colors spills across the mortal world's horizon behind his head, yellow melting into orange into red. "He's actually done it."

A gust of breeze rustles past, just lifting the heavy, drooping heads of the small blooms at his feet, and across the way Charon shields his mouth with a hand. Snapping on instinct, Thanatos jerks his head, thinking that swift Hermes might be there; but there is only the wind. The very same wind carries Charon's boat downstream, and Death goes in an instant back to the House, to its narrow foyer—to where the darkness, the wind, bids his heart to go.

And there, encircled by near every soul in the place, is Lady Persephone herself—a golden, glorious thing among the House's shades, dull and nearly monochrome by comparison. Her face wearied, but warm. Her prodigal son (looking rather pleased) and Lord husband (eyes cast down) flanking, but Thanatos' eyes seek her and her alone. And Thanatos can't help the rising weightless feeling that overtakes his whole body when he sees her, as tall and as radiant as the day that she left. Breathlessly, he wades to the Queen and he kisses her hand; and he can't stifle the chorus in his heart when she beams at him like a field of flowers, and says:

"Oh, Thanatos. You grew up."