Thanatos takes his time before he approaches, because he needs to gather his thoughts and tamp down his pride, and it isn't as if Hypnos is going anywhere soon. It's a comfort, familiar, something consistent and true. That Death's brother would always be drowsily drifting at his station, and once shaken awake always ripe for discussion (or derision).
He must be resolute. This is not a scolding, or another dubious attempt at charity. This is an exposure, a show of vulnerability, as personal as it is questionable.
With purpose guiding his steps and steel resolve in his heart, Death approaches his brother.
"Hypnos."
"Oh!" The slumbering god in question jerks profusely awake, fitfully shaking his mantle, looking quite startled to see Thanatos there. Though clearly not too startled, as he begins babbling immediately. "Hey there, Brother! Say, it's good to see you, 'coz well, that thing you taught me, last time—where I write down the causes of death next to the names? It worked pretty well, yeah, and Lord Hades was pretty happy, so—"
"Yes. Wonderful." His gaze darts about, shifting to Hypnos' elbow, the fuzz of his mantle, the spiral coils that bind his current ledger; just avoiding the eyes like when they were children, and his brother's gaze still rang hypnotic. Remember your purpose. "Look, about the last few times that we spoke. I felt as though I parted with you on less than satisfactory terms."
"Huh? What do you mean, Brother?" Hypnos has always harbored a remarkable ability to appear bored and puzzled at once. (Perhaps some Chthonic quirk, or else an arcane trick for the amusement of their sisters.) "When was the last time you were here, anyway…? Not sure I remember…"
"Well, for instance…when you approached me with your…time-savings plan." He swallows the distasteful bitter that blooms on his tongue. "I realize now that you were only trying to offer a solution to me. And with honorable intention."
A tiny light pricks in Sleep's hooded eye. "Ohh… you mean when I suggested that you kill a whole bunch of mortals, all at the same t—"
"Yes, Hypnos. That is what I meant." Death clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize for losing my temper then. I was just...overworked. I know that my work often keeps me from the House, and from you. Perhaps I can… attempt to remedy this, sometime."
"Brother—!"
Hypnos' assault is alarmingly steadfast for one so willowy, even with their difference in stature. And feeling childish must be something of a theme for the day, because Thanatos relents in this, too—allowing his brother to clumsily hug him, a jagged collection of edges and limbs, sharper than it ought to be, and perhaps nicer, too.
"Yes, yes," he finally sputters, still awkwardly patting Hypnos' hair. Summoning the courage; lowering the walls. "And… I wanted to thank you for something, as well. For helping Zagreus to sleep."
Hypnos appears befuddled, pulling away long enough to render his confusion plain. "Eh? Wha'dyou mean, Brother?"
Death's mouth opens and closes, as it would if he was yawning, but all the words-that-would-be just jumble in his mind—rising, rising up the back of his throat like a flash-flood, floundering and waterlogged, only to evaporate right off his tongue. Feeling as foolish as Hypnos' expression for what had been such a simple assumption. One whose underlying meaning, whose underlying feeling, he can't even deduce.
He feels… gratitude, that Zagreus has slept by own merit. Envy, that Thanatos was not the one to do it. Hope, that this stint at self-care will inspire some new temperance. And fear, that persistent undercurrent, always prickling and needling. Fear that nothing will change. Fear that everything will. Fear that everything has.
(Fear that Thanatos will no longer be needed. Fear that he never was.)
He doesn't need Hypnos' drowsy touch on his face to know that he is drifting, that Zagreus has well and truly turned him to a shade.
"Never you mind, Hypnos," he soothes him, and allows his twin to embrace him once more. "Well done for all of your efforts. I have more souls to attend to now—but next I am here in the House, let us while away some time in… the lounge, or something. You mind your work now, won't you?"
"Yes! Yes, next time—ah! Look, Brother, it's him! Natural Causes is back again—!"
And as if by some divine jest, the pool of Styx roils and at that very instant, Zagreus emerges like a divine apparition, shuffling and shaking the red from his hair. And just as Thanatos braces to slip back into the flash-cold veil of darkness, he catches Zagreus' one green eye—looking up at him with parted lips and slackened jaw, struck in place with what could only be described as awe.
Next time does take place, much to Hypnos' delight. Thanatos tries his best to enjoy it, though there's the ever-present rushing in his ears that drowns much of his brother's ramblings. The lounge outing still errs closer to pleasant than not, and he isn't quite sure whether this is surprising. It even manages to be somewhat productive; Thanatos is able to turn their discussion to work, and Hypnos is finally seeming to grasp the most rudimentary concepts of organization, and even Lord Hades has begun to take notice. It's an island of relief in a rage-roiling sea, and the whole House is grateful for it.
Megaera happens by while they are there, and she greets Thanatos coolly. They exchange a few words, with Meg pointedly ignoring Hypnos' presence—until she makes to exit, and then shoots his dope-faced brother a fascinating look. He files that face away in spite of himself, in the mental list of things he might contemplate later. It feels like a small revel, a vagrancy.
After, Thanatos rushes back to the Surface, and carries out his work there with a strange sort of calm—tenuous, like a thin film, but present.
While he is there, Zagreus dies. Thanatos feels the intrusion, the wind-swept flicker, the slow attrition, the final snuffing of life. Like a breath held and slowly released from the cave of his chest, still lacquered with that unsteady calm. He holds the Prince's poppy in that cavern now, right next to his companion mouse.
He isn't sure when it was that this became normal. When it was that he started to simply accept this. When it was that things started to feel different.
He wonders fleetingly, stupidly, if that death was for him. If Zagreus wanted him to feel it.
Then he remembers himself, and shoves the whim aside.
—Except perhaps that whim isn't so stupid; because when Thanatos returns to report to Lord Hades, the Prince is there, waiting.
"Hey there, Than," Zagreus greets him, pitched to a sing-song, apropos of nothing. Pressing nectar into his open palm as fast as Thanatos can mutter hello.
The glass burns cold, and something in him sinks. "Do you—"
"Nope, that there's purely for your enjoyment. Don't need anything for it. I…I've been sleeping," Zagreus finishes, soft. "I quite needed it."
"I'm glad," Thanatos answers, quiet. Only hoping the notion sounds genuine, because it is. As genuine as the query that follows. "How's everything been going with your mother? You've been pretty quiet about the whole thing. Is everything all right…?"
"Thank you for asking, Than," Zagreus says, somber. "I don't know how much more I can say right now, given everything. I'm still figuring it out myself. I'm thankful you've been there. To help me get to see her from time to time."
"Well. If there's something more I can do to support you in this, let me know. All right?" he concedes. He clears his throat, not knowing when it had closed. "Sounds like you're making progress, at least."
At this, Zagreus' face abruptly changes, any caprice left chased by a stark earnestness. One that reaches in deep and tugs. "Than, listen. I wanted to say 'sorry'. For everything, I mean, running you ragged… but also for what I said about you and Nyx. I know it was wrong of me, and what you said back there, that time in Elysium… it stuck with me. I want you to know that I always appreciated Nyx as a mother. I still do. I… it was never my intention to disrespect her, or you."
Even with all that has transpired, the sincerity is surprising. Zagreus has ample training in making excuses, in waving matters away; but perhaps even this, too, is labile for change. It's not like Thanatos hasn't seen evidence of betterment: the grand decorations that now span the House, purchased with bounty plundered from Tartarus' depths, or the songs that the Underworld's shades spin of him. How he's made himself more present, more helpful. But for the stubborn Prince to hold himself accountable, and to do so without prompt…
It feels dangerous, superfluous. Unfamiliar, uncharted. Like it's too much to hope for. Like it's wrong to believe.
And yet, Thanatos wants to believe it. To fuel this new fire, even at the cost of pride.
After all, Zagreus was always every bit as proud. That pride defined him. It was, is, his life-line.
"I appreciate your apology, Zag."
(He can't say the rest, now; but maybe that's fine.)
The Prince is quiet for a beat, looking expectant, as if waiting for something to pass. When no such thing occurs, he chuckles, and elaborates. "I thought you going to flit off and away…you had that look in your eyes, the one you get right before you leave. You can leave, you know. I'll just see you out there—"
"Zagreus… are you really staying?" the words escape from his mind in a rush by his tongue, and he hates it, he hates how they can so quickly go from intense fire to a mouthful of ashes, crumbling the instant that they're voiced aloud. How they need to be stoked. How much stoking he requires. "I mean… between the generally ill-conceived attempts to reach the surface every so often."
In answer, the Prince flashes his teeth. "I am. I figured it's the only way I can interrupt you while you try to do your job." He holds out his hands, as if seeking some kind of wordless permission, no matter that the bottle's taken. "You work too hard, Than, live a little, right?"
He scoffs. "Well. I'll see what I can do about that. You'll have to show me what you mean by 'live a little', though."
The grin he receives for that is nothing less than euphoric, and Zagreus is not so much grinning at him as exalting his soul. It forces Thanatos' gaze to turn remote, away from that exulted glare, to uncomfortably flit his attention about the hall. In so doing, he sees that Achilles is peering over at them, their perspectives of vision perfectly aligned. As expected, Achilles' keen eyes turn away in a moment, as soon as he is caught, and Thanatos tilts his head then toward the trail of hot embers, watching the light and sparse ashes drift across the floor's surface as though any moment, any moment now, Zagreus would take flight—let the fire carry him, as he said—off and away.
Then, Zagreus' grin turns from giddy to suggestive. "You know, Than, I daresay I saw you in one of my dreams—"
He sputters, woefully unprepared for this play. "Dreams are Hypnos' domain, Zag."
(At this, the Prince laughs, pure; and for one long moment, that laughter is all that Thanatos can hear. It fills up his chest and conjures with it a queer sort of peace: a fragile, delicate moment of levity. And he can't help but wonder, as all the fret in him dissolves—truly, when it had happened? When had that wind, this fire, whipped into all his cracks, filled up all of his void vacant chambers, hot and intemperate like a Surface disaster? When had he begun to float in that discord, let it possess him like Chaos himself, until he could no longer miss the lack-of-feeling, lack-of-wanting, lack-of-breathing like a breathless rush? Suffocating him like he is mortal, leaving him both devoid and impossibly full?)
"You're thinking too loudly, Than," Zagreus' smile breaks the storm of his thoughts—one thing, at least, that has not deigned to change—but his voice is so soft, almost spoiled, ripe-rotten with something Thanatos prays is not fondness, affection. "You know, you could stand to do less of that, too."
"I'll try," he croaks, hoarse. Zagreus never stops smiling.
And then, Thanatos does flit off and away—right to the administration chamber. As he diligently dictates his most recent report, he feels an odd buzz in his head. Nothing like the usual chatter of shades, but more like the humming of insect wings. He enunciates clearly over the noise, and prays Lord Hades does not notice.
The mouth of the cycle closes again over; but now, each of them dances around the other.
Zagreus fills Thanatos' thoughts. That smile haunts him, makes a mess of his mind. To cope, Thanatos defaults to what is natural: he buries the image and returns to routine. To the cycle, even so shifted as it is.
Precisely how it has shifted, and what it all could mean…well. Thanatos still isn't there, yet.
But it hangs thick in the air, that buzzing, that tension, unspoken. It's been a time since last Thanatos met the Prince out there. Not so much because he's been avoiding that fate—it's not like before, when he still felt righteous anger. Now, Thanatos feels…what, exactly, aside from different? Like something has shifted, is now shifting?
It's as if putting a label to this thrum in the air, to the thrum in his chest, will seal Thanatos' Fate. Restrict it to down to one single outcome, and Thanatos isn't even sure which one he would want. He's followed the threads, every one. In the end, every possibility frightens him.
Perhaps it is because Death need not take action, has never needed to do so, that this what is so frightening. After all, Death causes nothing; all things lead to him. Death need only wait for things to happen, and they do. Inevitably, always, they do.
Perhaps this is why Thanatos is so indecisive. So cautious. (So weak of will.)
It is an uncomfortable, unproductive line of thinking, and so Thanatos buries it. But that thrumming follows him, through the Underworld's chambers and across its rivers. To the Surface, where it joins with the scream of the chill wind, the cacophony of souls. Back again, to its unquestionable source. Vibrating with purpose to the room where he is, deep, deep into Tartarus's sprawling bowels.
And yes, there indeed Zagreus is: a daemon, a force of nature, pale and strong and fierce. Awash in water and enemy lymph and his own lifeblood, and the wan spill of the Underworld's luminous red-green glow. That palpable something thrumming about him as Life does what he does so well. Flowing, fighting, effortlessly flying.
And so, Death does in kind, and approaches.
"Figured you'd be up to having another of our little contests."
Zagreus, currently flooding Poseidon's fury in S-shaped currents, doesn't bare his usual jewel-tooth grin in greeting; instead, he immediately takes to the air, wearing a look that's much harder to read. Zagreus' feet fly garishly over him, as though balanced on Poseidon's great wave; as though he, too, harbors the power of flight. Leaping, spinning, gaining momentum. It's ostentatious, meant to be showy, and it is showy, and it works. The beauty of it, of that spectacular movement, captures Thanatos' gaze and stays him where he stands. It coaxes a violent twitch from his arm, distorting his circumductions, seizing him for so long that the match is made moot. Aegis flings out of Zagreus' hand, swinging in a deadly fractal arc, shredding through all that it contacts. The swarm clears; and again there is stillness, stillness and the rapid drum-beating of hearts.
Zagreus lands with a dull thud, the embers in his wake smoked by the last drippings of the deluge. The flame-light that scatters from his feet cuts through the new hush in slices. It fills the chamber with a dusty sort of glow, flickering as if seeking. And Thanatos is stricken by a brief, esoteric thought that perhaps this light has the ability to torch skin and flesh, burn through layers and membranes. Glowing red like the rest of him, red like living blood, absorbing every last drop of water. Filling Thanatos' throat, filling the chamber, filling the whole world with smoke.
In this moment, freshly flushed from battle, Thanatos thinks that Zagreus could almost be a diaphanous creature: a unique specimen of some light-consuming deific stock, glutted on radiance, with veins pumped full of smoke and fire. In this moment, Thanatos remembers that Zagreus is a god, and that gods are worshipped: that whole civilizations of mortals would happily bloat themselves on that light. In this moment, Thanatos thinks that he would, as well.
He staggers forward into that light, one hand outstretched, the centaur's heart upon it. Reaching, reaching for that warm, vibrant glow. Trembling. Stopping just short of salvation.
"You beat me once again," he utters, low, grated. The light grows closer, brighter; Zagreus, approaching but not speaking, taking the offering with an unsteady hand, an unreadable face. Something painful in the lines, something Thanatos would rather not see. "Well. I'm off."
Spinning on a heel, fingers splayed, green already curling in the spaces. Overtaking his vision. Overtaking the flame, that awe. Then: "Wait, wait, Than, please."
Zagreus' fingers are eclipsing his wrist. That grip, its strength, is enough to send a fission through him, unwelcome—anger and want lacing, lancing. His hand stays, still twitching, still mired in green. "What is it, Zag?"
"I need—there's something that I want to discuss. With you. If you could spare the time."
Thanatos turns back then. "It will have to wait." But seeing the look on Zagreus' face, he feels a perceptible chill, draping over him like wet silk. Washing his mouth with salt, a dark choking sea. Zagreus' eyelids are shadowed and bruised even though he has slept, and it pierces like an arrow. "We'll talk later. Back at the House. All right?"
Zagreus looks almost pained, but nods once. Twice. Tartarus billows around him, smoke and torchfire and his smoking, scorching feet. Abruptly, his face changes, shifting lines, settling into something like determination. Not unlike the ferocity of purpose that Thanatos has seen there before, on so many different cycle iterations, yet somehow this is different. Thanatos hadn't even realized that fire had ever tamped, and wouldn't, if not to see it again here and now, in its full blaze.
Sincerity. Promise in those eyes. He could fall into them, that live, live red and fierce green fire; though Thanatos wills himself to fixate elsewhere on his face (the nose, the brow, anywhere but those burning eyes), Zagreus' gaze still locks him in place.
"I'll hold you to it, Than."
As Thanatos retreats into the consuming swirl of dark matter, Zagreus never once looks away. (Hope, that dull hum, folds up its delicate wings, and flees into the comfort of darkness.)
Zagreus does indeed hold him to it.
It's that unnamed, unspoiled thrum that resounds in his ears when they meet again back at the House, after two more Surface trips on Thanatos' part and one on Zagreus'. The deep stab in Death's chest when the mortal world takes him has somehow resolved to a dull, throbbing ache now. This is also new.
Zagreus, who has clearly been waiting a time, is speaking to him animatedly; Thanatos hears his name, more than once. But none of it is processed, because there in the Prince's open palm, where one of his little bottles of nectar should have been, lies an unspeakable forbidden treasure. Thanatos rubs his eyes, but the mirage remains.
—the real thing—
"Ambrosia?" he sputters, just to break up the din; and he's sure his face echoes his disbelief. "Zagreus, where did you even…" he coughs. "Mm. Don't you think this is a bit excessive…?"
"You say that like it's a bad thing," the Prince winks, as if it is nothing—as if Olympian riches just fell from the sky. But behind the statement's simplicity is a provocation—something slow and smoky, almost teasing. So it must be true, then, that he's been trying the limits, trying to re-introduce raillery to their friendship. Almost like how it had been before, when the Prince still lacked purpose other than to cause mischief, and when Thanatos only had one job to do. Except this, too, feels… different. "Little bit of excess from time to time never hurt anyone, I'm sure."
"Oh, you would be surprised," mutters Death; and somehow, there is comfort in knowing that the statement needs no elaboration. The thrum in his chest rises to a crescendo; it makes his body to tremble, an untenable urge. And he feels such an inkling, a stir to act on that whim, to in kind test a limit that belongs to him, to provoke Zagreus right back. To give.
"Well. If you're going to embarrass me…I am going to reciprocate…behold."
It's for him, the dead stare, emphasis on the word, the ridiculous, exaggerated lack-of-feeling—an attempt at humor, at reciprocity, and Zagreus' screwed-up face washes him with relief; but then the Prince gets a glimpse of what's being offered, a gleam of pewter and purple, and that wipes the levity clean off his face. Replaced with disbelief, and slack-jawed astonishment.
Zagreus is stuttering, traces of letters, shapes of sounds. What might have been exclamations, what might have been his name…collecting himself only in time to utter: "you're… really giving Mort to me?"
A curt nod; and the Prince babbling a string of incoherent thoughts (Thanatos catches how and when did you find him and are you certain and I'm deeply honored); and the slow, warm drip of absolution that pools somewhere in the cavern of his chest, a sign that he has acted rightly, that this truly is something that he wants to do, that he is right in doing. Knowing that it is an admission as much as a token, so much more than just a simple gift. That he is giving Zagreus something of himself. That he is giving Zagreus a piece of his soul.
Well. At least they are leveled, now. After the poppy, and now this newest boon.
The ambrosia hangs heavy in his closed palm. For the first time in Thanatos' long existence, he feels well and truly tempted to indulge. Perhaps he might even do as much later, and think of the exact face Zagreus wears right now.
With that slack-jaw face, the Prince looks at Mort, and then back to Than, then to the mouse again. Looking for all the worlds like he is struggling to say something, but failing. Which is new also, and very odd, because Zagreus has never been one to mince words.
Death causes nothing. Death need only wait for things to happen. But this time, maybe…
"Say, Zag," he says, careful. "You wanted to talk about something…right?"
"I-uh. I did," the Prince stammers, cheeks utterly pink. Red blood. Flushed. "But, ah. I feel. Maybe now… not the time?"
Thanatos frowns; his heart pulses; the universe thrums and buzzes and bursts. "Are you…broken, Zag?"
"No!" he exclaims; then, realizing the outburst, gathers himself again. "No, I'm just…"
"Just what?"
"…Moved."
He looks moved, indeed. But a strange sort of moved. Not the kind of moved one would feel for poignant happenstances, or for second chances, nothing proximate like that. It's more the kind of moved Death feels when mortals pray to him, mutter sweet, selfless words and scatter poppies. It's a moved that he feels when the living hold hands with the dying. A moved that had so much more to it.
"You can tell me later, then. When you're ready," Thanatos offers.
"Yeah," Zagreus answers. It pierces, that anxious hitch in his voice, both scared and hopeful, eager and hesitant, and that look on his face—
"Take your time."
"I only need a little," Zagreus clarifies. "I know you must be at your wit's end with me, but, Than…can you just give me a little more time?"
"I said I would, you dolt." He smiles wryly; if Zagreus wants raillery, then he will receive it. This much, he can do. "Take your time, Zag. I'll wait."
The grateful tinkle of laughter grates on his bones. Death vanishes before Zagreus can thank him.
Death has known for endless time of obligation—that agent of the Fates that bound all to their purpose. More than personal feeling, it was obligation that threaded Death to his charges: those mortal lives burdened by their Surface ailments. That Death would belong for all eternity to those lives, their steward. That he would live, perchance one day fade, as their Chthonic servant.
Death's obligation was cemented from the time was born.
Thanatos, a young god, suffered obligation's heavy burden. Called everywhere, at all times, by those active in suffering, and no number of trips to the Surface enough. At some point, he stopped reading, trading blows with Achilles, even keeping his watch over Hypnos, just to have time and space to aid one more soul. In Tartarus' trenches, the Styx boiled with the hatred of the lost ones that he could not save. Mother Nyx said nothing, but her presence eased the fear and the terror for small moments. In her tranquil company, the air was not hostile, and Thanatos remembered that he could breathe. Until the next of the petitions began.
No soul could escape him, true; no more than Death could escape his Fate.
Thanatos withered restless in the House's halls, where he could do nothing for them. The hateful red river followed him where he went, a constant reminder, enduring. Nyx tried in her way to help it—her halcyon night touch smoothed his frequent tears. Megaera (gently, or so much as she could be) chided him to take care, to not care, and to send the offenders her way. The Prince offered him trinkets and provoked his smile. Left bits of food, sweets. Prodded at Death's shoulder and bid him to rest.
But Death, in his restless youth, knew not of limits. Had not yet found the limit of his own.
One frozen Surface night, untold numbers were snuffed, lost to a fierce storm of ice-shards and knife-winds. When Death came for them, a great oak was felled there—trailing thick branches and scattering leaves, caressing the mass of bodies like hair. And from those tresses emerged a tiny, delicate being: a woodmouse, the sole surviving life to winter's cruel touch. Peering into Death's panic-stricken face with blacker-than-black eyes and a total lack of fear.
On that night Life comforted Death, and Death comforted the lives that winter had stolen. Tender, he ushered them to their final peace.
Night, in her wisdom, crafted a fine likeness—after the sky revealed to her what had transpired. She constructed the creature in steel veins and soft fabric, bright button nose and a smiling sweep of mouth. And so that little mouse would become Death's companion, a conduit through which to convert his fear. And Death learned to find comfort in life, that brave and enduring force; and Night's satisfied smile was true.