The Underworld is much improved, where harmony is concerned. But there are always those things still needing to be repaired.

Thanatos' eyes glaze over the balustrade again. Achilles is stalwart at his post, and Hypnos is dozing—nothing amiss, nothing out of order. The calm before the storm.

He wishes dearly to get this over with. He wishes not to intervene, yet here he stands—in wait for the anticipation of conflict. And isn't that novel.

Just then, a sharp yelp rickets through the House, pulling him from his thoughts. A rustle, a whimper, and a double crack—and Death feels himself brace.

She tears like a shadow down the Great Hall, if shadows were particularly loud and capable of violence, her footsteps surely echoing through all the Underworld—Thanatos isn't sure whether he's afraid or relieved that Lord Hades is leagues away, making preparations for the upcoming…festivities. As the Fury and her whip draw closer, treading into the West Hall, Death wrings a final breath from himself.

Megaera's presence is palpable, palpably frightening—constricting his chest, putting him instantly on guard. When she stops in front of the freshly-materialized Prince, he holds her gaze; she says nothing by way of greeting, and he follows suit. Instead, he glosses slightly trembling hands through his hair, swings an insolent foot back and forth, and waits for her address.

"You wanted a word?" she hisses, as if the words themselves are made of fire and frost.

"I wanted to settle this. Once and for all."

"You sound a little tongue-tied, Zagreus," she simpers. "Not unlike you always used to, around me."

Thanatos' grip around his scythe tightens, vicelike.

"You're not exactly easy to approach, you know," he huffs, then makes a telltale sweeping motion to the juncture of his hip. Thanatos smells the nectar before he even sees the arm carefully extended—an olive branch. "How about it, then? Care for a drink with me?"

She sighs, incrementally deflated. "Open it, and we can go from there."

Suddenly, Death is seized by an unpleasant inkling that his very presence here is iniquitous, despite the House being an open space. He wills himself not to listen, turning instinctively so as to make himself small and scarce. If Achilles bears witness, he remains decorously unmoved.

Unparsed, the discussion takes the grand strokes of heated, clipped tones and the occasional gulp. Thanatos does his best to leave them to it; but his ears, upon an utterance of the word "Father", feed his brain information of their own volition.

"—if Father wanted me to become a man so very badly, perhaps what he should have done was take an interest in me, instead of relying on you to expedite that process—"

"Zagreus…"

"Do you think that's fair? Did you relish in it? How many lashes to make a man from a boy? How much suffering by your tongue? Working so earnestly to please you, to please you both, knowing nothing of love, but always suffering for want of it—and all because I dared refuse to be caged!"

Thanatos flinches, as if he himself has borne the sting of Meg's whip. Enthralled and unable to maintain his defenses, yet cursing himself for allowing this weakness, he allows himself to listen in unbounded.

Meg is sighing deeply, her face tombed in shadow.

"You were young, yes. A godling. Inexperienced, and bursting with that untamed vitality. I thought that what you most needed was a good helping of discipline. I was younger then, too, you know. I had aspirations. I was at the top of my craft. I didn't have—" her voice breaks, and suddenly she leers forward, as raw a gesture as Thanatos had ever glimpsed from her.

"It was you," she whispered. "You made me soft. And soft is something that I couldn't—can't—afford to be."

Neither of them says anything for a long while, but Thanatos just knows that Zagreus is looking toward her with a look of utmost empathy. Despite it all.

"Listen," Meg says at last, attempting a lofty stance that is tainted only by the tinny, pitched drone of her voice. "I can't speak for the transgressions of your Father. That's between you and him. And you should know that I still think of you as an insubordinate, selfish, delinquent little runt. But I'm not stupid, nor do I lack eyes. I can see that you've changed. Godling, you are no more. And no one in this House can deny what good you've done here. That's as much praise as you'll ever get out of me."

The Prince releases a breath that had doutbtless been sequestered in his lungs, before reaching for the bottle before him as to drink.

"So then, are you…does that mean we are…good? Or—"

"You ask too many questions, Zag." The Fury swiftly takes proprietorship of the nectar and drains the last dregs in one fell gulp. "But yes, I'd say we are…for now. You go making too much trouble, though, I'll kill you. Do we understand each other?"

A nod, a growl, a smile; and a sealing of Fate.

Thanatos' disquieted mind, which had near-deafened him by it roaring, now at last begins to resolve into a state of calm. The unseen traces of that smile lodge in his bones and soothe his thundering pulse. He can sense it when Zagreus begins to take his leave, flame-trailed feet resuming their steady, metered tapping. But just before this happens, a low, guilt-bristled voice takes them both by surprise.

"Zagreus. I apologize, for…the way I treated you. Back then, I knew no other way."

Meg doesn't say the rest, but it is not required. Each of the three of them already knows.

The night of the celebration draws ever nearer, and all of the House is entrenched in the preparations. The shades labor diligently, buzzing under Lord Hades' stern direction. The Queen, true to her form, makes of herself a most welcome imposition—she can often be found arm-in-arm with Nyx, handling some taxon of vibrant-colored vegetation or another. Even Hypnos joins in, where his somnambulist tendencies permit. And Thanatos has never seen poor Dusa so enervated that she cannot speak at all, much less rattle on nonsense words twenty at a time. More than once, he's stopped in just to share a word of quiet encouragement—which is always gratefully received by the Gorgon, but ultimately shrugged off in favor of neuroticism in its purest form.

Zag, for his part, zips about the House like a metaphysical marvel, a phenomenon not of the Olympians' purview. Something lingering beyond time or space, or even chaos itself, the Father of all—Life is something transcendent, a domain of his own. Life is beautiful like this, for this is his element. Even to Death's own bane, though somewhere along the way Death had come to accept this. It is, after all, the reason why the two are so inextricably drawn: opposite and equal, each of them unto the other.

Thanatos is not so hopelessly taken that he has become blind, however. He knows that Zagreus has not been sleeping. The Prince is likely as exhausted as he's ever been—as he had been right at the start before this long and winding road to reunification began. He will need to sleep. And with the main event so little time away, it is not likely that sleep will find him.

Perhaps what he requires is a little convincing.

The urges war with each other in turns, as usual. One to protect; one to chastise; one to more or less affectionately grumble and defer. In typical fashion, the former or latter would win the day, depending on circumstance. There is another urge, though. One that breaks through much more rarely, but to explosive fanfare. One that flares in him now, licking from the inside, watching Zagreus festoon the house as deftly as he does battle.

There, now—an inkling. A boon, to turn the tides. And if he could execute it right, a test of the self. (Thanatos has toiled ceaselessly to improve in a number of ways, and he is nothing if not a flagrant over-achiever.)

"You're always welcome to take initiative with me, Than. I mean, you don't have to. But I like it when you bully me, just a little. Can't you see?"

Emboldened by the ghost of these words, Death vanishes to procure the item he seeks—one among many small, stoppered bottles in a larger collection. He'd only been back a moment when Zagreus halts in his orbit to steal a look.

"Than," he chirps brightly. "What time is it? Ah, no, never mind that. How are you faring?"

"Well, thank you." Thanatos coughs. "I was just thinking."

The embered foot that has been til now so fervently tapping stills; Zagreus has afforded Death his full attention. "Is something the matter? What were you thinking of?"

Thanatos exhales deeply. "You," he admits, and the Prince arches an eyebrow.

"Me?" he drawls. He curves his back slightly. and Death's mouth becomes arid. "Anything in particular to do with me?"

In answer, Thanatos holds out the vial of nectar, forefinger and thumb. Cursing his own face into submission, doing his utmost to playact at coy. "Drink, and perhaps I'll tell you."

The manner in which the Prince's eyes race from his, to the bottle, to Death's eyes again—then fiercely down toward the direction of the floor, jaw slack, face and ears red as a stain—should be captured by mortal artists for posterity. With a blur of fingers the nectar is seized from his grip and halfway drained; and when Zagreus surfaces, well…

He might as well have been blessed by the gods.

Thanatos snatches back the bottle and swigs. Gathers his courage as he passes it back. With a breath, he steels, calls forth the words, practiced and prepared.

"We could continue this in your chambers, if you like."

Zagreus makes a noise that edges on the precipice of painful keeling, but says nothing more. Instead, he drinks deeply, before unleashing a radiant grin. "Lead the way."

After a final few gulps for strength, Death bows (comically low) and says, "Please, follow," before turning to open a chasm. Its embracing darkness, prototypically of the same green hue as a new shade, this time is streaked purple—the night-mirror's doing?

Of course, Zagreus follows him without protest. This is a thought that soothes—that Zagreus follows him, that they always seem to follow each other. It is an anchor to those things that make Thanatos unsteady; the nectar in some part, the apprehension more still.

They are welcomed in arrival by the great mirror as well as the Prince's bed, freshly made (yes: this, too, Death had arranged). "Lie down for me," Thanatos rasps, and he has never seen Zagreus prostrate himself to anyone, yet alone this swiftly. It pleases Death, in a secret space tucked clandestinely inside him, to think that words alone could yield such an effect. When the Prince glances up at him, supine, with eyes glazed over and held open wide, Thanatos' mind stalls.

"S-" He pauses. "Strip for me."

Zagreus maintains eye contact as he parts his robes and withdraws himself from within. His mouth hangs slightly open on a shuddering sigh, his skin red as the new day. "Is this good, love?"

Gods above.

His trembling hand begins to stroke as he holds Zagreus' gaze. Tentative at first, before settling into a sweet, languorous rhythm. Heat seeps through his body as Zagreus fixates on this sight, enraptured. He doesn't even need to be told not to touch; he knows it instinctively, and Thanatos is ever fonder of him for it.

When he looks deeper into those eyes, a curious glint lingers there that makes his heart race. A small noise escapes his throat instead of words, and Zagreus looks both thrilled and flayed at once. His hand moves a little faster, and Zagreus gathers tension so as to resist the urge to go to him. The unmet anticipation of this touch-to-never-be, the clawing lack of it, is nearly as stimulating as the thing itself.

They had an agreement, long ago: Thanatos would decide the moments and times, and Zagreus would carry them through. In time, though, that will change, and I will be ready whenever you wish to lead, he told him once, but Death hadn't the strength or knowledge or esteem at that time. Now he has, and he quivers with the enormity of his understanding.

"Why don't you sit, for a moment? I know you like watching me," he suggests quietly, and Zagreus blushes so beautifully to the tune of that notion. His eyes drift shut, and he makes a stalwart effort to control his breathing. But for his splendor, he invokes the likeness of a mortal.

"Eyes on me, love," Death murmurs, and Zagreus helpless to resist. The rest escapes choked. "I want you to see. To look upon only me."

The Prince writhes into open air, fiercely watching Thanatos thrust up into his hand. "I will never be able to look upon you again without thinking of this. Of your hands," he growls. He writhes atop the beautiful bed he has scorned, spreading his legs wide. Defiling the royal covering, cock flushed hard and leaking.

"Good," Death whispers, and if he wasn't so adroitly focused on the task at hand he thinks he might vanish right there. His breath hitches, and he knows Zagreus catches it. "I can feel…how aroused you are," he continues, because this is truth, and for Zagreus to know it needles him as important. "It is…beyond stimulating, it's…I have not words." His hand moves faster of its own will, and he moans tightly.

Zagreus whimpers.

"Is something the matter, love?" Thanatos asks, trying in earnest not to betray concern; and he can't help the way it touches him that Life flutters in response, reduced to not more than a splendid, shuddering insect. A butterfly, transient and fleeting, in this moment existing for Death and Death alone.

"I… no, nothing."

He laughs softly. "You lie." The shifting plates that compose his abdomen twitch, and Thanatos knows that all of this has not been in vain when The Prince's eyes again drift closed in rapture. "Do you…want to taste?"

"I—yes, Than, please."

"Come, then."

Instantly, Zagreus crawls to him, strewing himself on the bed, settling between his legs and eagerly stretching out his hand. Death gasps when Zagreus brings his flame-hot mouth to the leaking tip, lightly kissing—a prayer. Thanatos accepts this offering, and lets himself be revered.

And when Life zealously takes all that Death has to give, he feels something altogether and delightfully new.

Power.

It is not something for which he has ever wanted, not ever something that he truly lacked; but now, for the first time, he lets it steep his skin and ignite his ichor. This intoxicating notion of authority made genteel, benevolent. Like the authority to guide restless souls to their final resting place, secure in the knowledge that no harm would befall them. Or that which allows him to draw the sting from a most grueling demise, to take mortal pain into himself. Perhaps even the inkling sensation of no love need fear that drove him to tug on his Mother's skirts on that Fated day, when Life hung in his balance. His domain. His.

"Zag," he whispers, and it's all so impossibly gratifying.

Zagreus settles into a rhythm whose notes are composed of extraneous sensation, a concert of earnest draws of pleasure and loving, teasing licks. He loves the way Life can't help but gasp around him like an Earthbound creature, like this need, too, is primitive and foundational. Necessary for existence.

Gods, but it's a beautiful sight.

"Zag," he moans again, louder, a herald—and then allows himself to be exsanguinated, the power leaving his body along with his essence. Giving himself up completely to be consumed.

The Prince drinks of him greedily, with more focus than anyone would have thought capable, heaving as he does before lightly pulling away. In yet another first, Thanatos cannot help but to marvel at the abject supplication present in his features, his stance; he hadn't noticed when Zagreus had shifted to his knees, or when both eyes had ever been so black. He brings a hand to his mouth and licks as if stupefied, to take in all that his object of worship would deign to provide.

"Thank you," he murmurs, to the darkness.

"Zagreus," Death whispers—on fire, though feeling measures more bashful now that the performance is done. Still, he knows through intuition how to proceed. "You did so well. You are beyond—beyond good for me, you are…at no intended insult to this place, heaven itself." He begins to trace lazy waves into Life's unruly hair. "Once I recover, I will…I mean, if you would grace me to allow it—" he stutters, unable to say more. One more task to practice and perfect.

Thankfully, he needs not complete the would-be request. In an instant, he's cradled in Zagreus' warmth-giving arms, and in another yet, they're tangled together in the Flame-Prince's bed.

"It's all right, I told you. I loved that," Zagreus murmurs into his neck. "I loved—having you lead. I like when you tell me what to do, like that."

And somehow, despite his intense satisfaction, hunger returns—that unyielding sensation of being starved and slaked all at once. Were he to steal a glance at the mirror, he knows that it would reflect back to him an ocean of gold.

"I—do you want me to keep doing so?"

Zagreus chuckles. "I want you to do anything and everything you want."

The resultant whine that this elicits is unbidden. Exhausted of all temerity, he hangs from Zagreus' heat-hazed body, drunk in more than one meaning. Then, like a bolt, he remembers.

"I want you to sleep."

A drowsy stream of laughter and a quick nod make his acquiescence, and they settle into that honey-sweet comfort. Thanatos lingers for as long as the new souls of Earth would permit; but as it does always, the time approaches for him to return.

"By the way, Than," Zagreus lilts, a lone kiss of farewell pressed to his forehead—and yes, there again, that wicked tint to his tone, unseen but still reflected off the all-knowing mirror—"If you needed more of my attentions, you had only to ask."

As Death departs, his mind is blissfully blank, but for one thought.

Zagreus is frighteningly easy to love.

Whenever it is that Thanatos approaches the belief that surely he has witnessed and borne all—that certainly nothing more could ever catch him unaware—those slippery, scheming Sisters of his all but fall over themselves in their scramble to prove him wrong. One might think he would learn to accept this pattern, too; but Death remains fallible, and the perspicacious Fates maintain their apparent undying amusement.

It so happens that after quite a harrowing period of silence (assured by Zagreus to be nothing of concern, all part of some nebulous "process", as if that had even a chance at touching Thanatos' anxieties on the subject), Lord Hades finally wishes for an audience with him. Their last conference having ended on such a dour, inconclusive note, and with everything in the Underworld falling into disarray, there are any number of unpleasantries that might transpire from this meeting, ranging in severity from mere discomfort to the all-out obliteration of Death's very existence.

Lord Hades will always be an imposing presence, with his massive stance and his severe attire, hulking over Than in self-imposed rigidity as if hewn from stone. He feels bolder for having Cerberus at his feet, as two of three heads regard him with respective guardedness and sympathy. He is not restrained in any way—a concession not easily won from the Queen. Death bows before his master, but his eyes linger on the hound.

"My Lord."

"The last we met, I recall something you said." The Lord of the Underworld speaks thus in lieu of greeting, with an affect that—remarkably—borders upon boredom. "I believe it was…that there must be some resolution to the matter, as you called it. With my son?"

"My Lordship, I—"

"Well, now it is settled. Isn't it, boy?" Thundering over Thanatos' baseless appeal, he thinks he might be subsumed by that voice alone. A great hush smothers the tittering of the proximal shades.

"I—I have seen, as has your Lordship, I gather, that Zagreus has done the Underworld a great service. Of course, there are always more things in need of repair." He clears his throat. "So I do not know that I'd exactly call the matter precisely settled. But…it does feel different now."

Lord Hades hums, a sound that could be mistaken for one of Zeus' boons. "It is different," he concludes. "I am not so myopic as to be unable to concede when something is in need of change. To think! I invented change," he seethes. Cerberus raises one of his heads, piqued.

Thanatos is reminded, not for the first time and likely far from the last, that this is the god of legend who slew his own father.

"Be all of that as it may," Lord Hades begins again, nearly scraping Death from his own skin, "The House is orderly and again united…in which I am to understand you have played no small part. And so, once this final undertaking has been put to rest, I would continue in our mutual good graces, if you please. This house can only function if the upper management is in accord." He peers down at Thanatos, whose realizes at once that his fool mouth betrays him, hung open and wide. "What do you say?"

There has never been an instance in which he has stood straighter.

"You honor me, my Lord. This is what I would say. I appreciate you telling me yourself, and I concur that for the good of all the Underworld, it is imperative that each of us continue to perform at our full strength."

He moves to bow before the master's seat, pausing only when his Lord holds up a great hand to stay him.

"As you were, as you were. Dismissed."

Death would have sworn oaths by the notion that Lord Hades had smiled. The Fates would drive him mad.

The day or night came at last for the grand planned reunion, the first coming of Olympus' finest to the waterways of Hell in some millions of years. A day of reckoning in the pretense of reckless frivolity—Judgment Day, by another name. The Christians would love it, did they not so often prove dreadfully obtuse.

The Underworld's precocious Prince flung himself into this fray as any other—straight into battle, each step instinctive, guided only by the hapless, headstrong belief that all would be well. The bedazzling red walkway bloomed a welcome path for the Pantheon, brimming with color and light. Festive trimmings and trappings bedecked every unused inch of space—the House has outdone itself many, many times over.

At the end of this trussed trail stood the very portrait of royalty—Lord Hades, eyes peering haughtily from his great face; Queen Persephone, cloaked in red and enwreathed in flowers from the crown of her regal head to the straps of her sandals; and Zagreus, Prince of Hell, made resplendent with life and fire and blood. His prior anxieties abandoned, and looking for all the realms like he was born to be there. Like he belongs.

It eases Thanatos' nerves as equally as it makes his heart swell.

Nyx comes to stand at his side, affording him a secret smile as she brushes his arm. Conveying, in silent but pellucid terms: victory is certain.

They trail in one by one in a raucous train that assaults Death's eyes and ears: a nebulous, lengthening shroud of divine color and laughter. He listens for any sign or show of displeasure, but finding none does little to abate the incessant whir-whir-whirrings of his mind.

He lectures to himself that these fears are misplaced. After all, the gods of Olympus could do to put aside their ever-mercurial differences for the sake of their long-prodigal kin, along with the promise of some unbridled revelry.

Though he cannot discern the particulars, he can feel the eyes razing the Queen, hear the hushed whispers whipping every which way. Thick with expectancy, as if the very fabric of the Underworld is holding its breath. But when Zagreus clears his throat and begins speaking, every one of them falls completely silent. And Zagreus, their favored, radiant in his godhood, plays them all like an instrument; and once he has said his piece, they are each of them reduced to a quixotic cocktail of joy, disbelief, and tears. Wholly and unequivocally moved.

Lady Demeter and Queen Persephone abscond to a far alcove and remain there for some time, but emerge in what could blessedly be deemed high spirits. The Queen, at least, is beaming brighter than any star, where her mother looks…appeased. They embrace, and then Lady Demeter, solemnly cupping her daughter's cheek, snaps her long, ancient fingers and vanishes in a flurry of diamond dust.

Death's body deflates somewhat—tension he'd lacked the awareness of holding. It threatens to return when the Queen turns to approach him; but Persephone's easy, winsome smile stays him.

"I thought it prudent to tell you, dear Thanatos, that you and your charges need not fear winter's curse upon the mortal realm any longer," she declares. "Perhaps in due time, they might all flourish by the gloried Corn-Mother's grace once again."

And Death becomes a flood: a deluge whose contents are made of every mortal feeling ever put to pen and parchment, by stoics and scholars alike. He can hear them: the sobs, the shouts of unfettered joy, the cries of relief at the much-entreated and long-awaited end of Lady Winter's cold reign. All consolidating into one devout stream, one united call of praise, of gratitude, of worship. Worship that passes from the living to Death, and from Death to his venerable Queen.

He falls to his knees, overwhelmed; but Persephone, who was never much one for reverence, simply reaches for his outstretched hands and guides him back to her.

"I—and I make no hesitation to speak for my husband as well—am so very proud of you, my dear. As we are of our Prince." She gestures to Zagreus, and with but a hint of shrewdness, adds: "I have been told that while you were always quite close, you have become rather inseparable through all this ordeal. Take care of each other, won't you, now?"

"I swear it," Thanatos answers, and means every word.

Everything progresses rather smoothly after this.

Thanatos primarily keeps to the fringes, busying himself by the foyer, which entertains a cacophony of dissonant exchanges. Among the more interesting include Artemis taking a singular fascination with Dusa—who would have predicted Gorgons to be capable of blushing?—as well as the endless stream of bawdy japes slung between Poseidon and Dionysus, and Hermes churning gossip with—well, everyone. It is also quite noteworthy that Achilles and Patroclus have been reunited. Death would include them among the small number of beings with whom he would not mind consorting this night, but as it is, the two are entirely engrossed in one another. He feels warmly pleased for them.

"Brother! Nephew!" Dionysus calls from afar, telltale goblet raised high. Aphrodite—more ethereal apparition than woman—spills out from his side, giggling. "Join us! We must make a true gift of this delightful ambrosia."

As he watches this entertaining spectacle, Zagreus catches Than's gaze and begins to make way.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," he says sheepishly, one hand tangling in his hair.

"I always do, do I not?" Thanatos replies evenly. Then, softer: "I always will."

The House swirls with activity, with divine beings mingling. Lord Zeus embraces his brother, his laughter clapping like thunder. Together, their presence looms over the din—the convalescent eye of a long-suffering storm.

"Zagreus," Hades' voice booms, hushing everything in its wake. Alarmed, the Prince's gaze falls to his father, who beckons with a single great finger. With a last glance at Death, he saunters over to where Lord Zeus and Lord Hades are joined.

"You have done well," Hades proclaims, and Thanatos relinquishes a breath. There's a peculiar softness in his voice, like pom-flesh, sweet and supple and almost certainly unintended.

Zagreus, in his ebullience, could be mistaken for an angel. "Thank you, Father."

His eyes again find Death's, and for an instant, it is enough to lay down every fear still outstanding. Then, nodding once, the Prince forays back into to the messy tangle of increasingly crapulent gods. Laughter erupts once again, and smiling at the absurdity that all of this could be allowed to come to pass, Thanatos joins in as well. Every mirthful peal is a declaration of triumph: over the Fates, over conflict, over circumstance. Over the cycles of hatred and self-blame. Over fear itself.

As Orpheus plucks Apollo's strings and begins to sing, Thanatos looks on as the Olympians avariciously call him to dance. Like a boon he is passaged from god to besotted god, flames gracing ground and air. They look on him in a manner that Thanatos now knows as love—that inevitable, indomitable force that would befall any creature, mortal or divine, fortunate enough to come to know Life. To know life, itself.

(Well. Perhaps Death is biased.)

Opposite him, in a far-off corner, Hypnos is (astoundingly) dozing, hands-to-clouds. Smiling faintly to himself, Thanatos strides over to where his brother is perched and grasps him, not unkindly, wrist to pallid wrist.

"WHAA—! I wasn't…b-brother? What're you—"

"Dance with me," Thanatos growls more than asks, and leads him in one motion onto the floor.

When Zagreus catches sight of this, he whoops loud and long, which naturally sets Cerberus off. It's likely just as inevitable that Meg should stalk up as well, sans whip but plus one shit-eating grin, and indelicately snatch Hypnos up and away. Thanatos attempts not to betray bemusement, while Zagreus displays it openly. Their eyes meet.

Though he knows instinctively what is about to take place, Death can still feel it coming—gold rush of heat to the cheeks, the throat, ears, and beyond that wherever it found left to reach. Causing Zagreus—painfully perceptive, but only when he wished to be—to grin deeper, though not without response in kind.

"May I have this dance, Than?"

And this, too, is fleeting and fervent: a spark to a cloud, an Earthly cyclone; Thanatos can feel eyes on them, scrying, but Zag keeps him tethered, as easily as Than had sustained him in flight on Earth.

"Don't look at them, or think. Just keep your eyes on me." The Prince smiles, and with that alone, the clawing fear fades. "You're good. Think only of me, just for now."

And so he is; and so he does.

And when this night ends and the rest of time begins, he thinks, Thanatos might allow himself to dream further—of an unending future unobstructed by fear, a future where Life and Death could exist as one: one cycle, one fundamental force, eternal. Night bleeding into dawn. Each covering, protecting, cherishing the other. And Thanatos would hold fast to that promise, venturing hand in hand into that new light with the one who had made him—molded him, shaped and reminded him who he was.

Not only the god of gentle death, but Life's champion. Life's very reason for being.

.

.

.

In the very end, one cycle gives way to another, and it all becomes just…

(…familiar.)

They always find each other, one force pulled toward the other—Zagreus on the hunt or Death fresh from the latest gentle reaping, perhaps about the House, perhaps not—but always, they find each other.

Thanatos once told himself that he gleaned a great fulfillment in being Death. For aeons, he intended this as little more than platitude—a holdover mantra to displace the looming inadequacy, loneliness. Driven by suffering, and suffering in kind—binding himself to duty, if only to spare the mortals such a fate.

Now, though, that all feels like so very long ago.

I thought I might find you here.

Thanatos!

Now, his cycles are measured in precious moments, and duty has come to yield its own rewards. He wanders the House because it is pleasant. He listens to Dusa's humming, off-key, as she scours the kitchens. He tends to the gardens with Queen Persephone and Mother Nyx. He smiles at Hypnos' jests and trades fond jabs with Meg. He finds Zagreus, and Zagreus finds him. He brings Zagreus trinkets and tokens, like he'd done for Than when they were children, before Death understood what love was.

Time is peculiar. Love even more still.

Lord Hades looks upon his House with favor. Slowly, he had come to relinquish his autarchic tyranny (though never his rigorous demands). He dotes openly upon his wife, and everyone smiles—least not the shades. Days and nights pass in relative harmony. There is talk, whisperings of a new godling-in-making; but every time Thanatos visits with the Queen, she smiles sagely and betrays nothing.

One day or night, just after departing the Surface, Death retreats to the mirror; it shines to him in greeting like an old friend. On its vitreous surface, he can just make out a version of himself that could be called beautiful. It strangely feels like a comfort. He casts a glance around—all the rich textiles and shiny baubles in every color—and closes his eyes. And he waits.

Hello, love.

His Prince has found him again. His Prince finds him, always. Thanatos' eyes open and there he is, dusting the red blood off his cheeks, kissing as if to breathe him in. The night-mirror reflects them splendidly, as it ever has. Come here. Zagreus' arms are draped around his shoulders, chest warm against his back. Quiet now. The air is still, but not heavy, and twinkling with lights as soft and brilliant as diamonds as they dance their way to the bed, and entwine.

"I thought I might find you here."

In many ways, this has always been so. Death prays that it always shall be.