The next cycle, they do not meet until Zagreus has reached the hallowed heights of Elysium (though Thanatos has been keeping track of Zagreus' progress through nearly the entire journey, where he can). He finds himself again transfixed by the Prince's effortless display of power, the way he commands mastery over the power he wields, technicolored and thriving and vibrant with life. How he brings death to whatever he touches. Almost paradoxical, a dissonance between what Life is and what Zagreus brings, even as his foes seek to siphon the lifeblood from his skin. The beauty of Life's destruction, the horror of it, always seem to strip Death to the bone.

Watching Zagreus like this always provokes shame, that imp, to tap its hollow-pointed timid fingers to the back of Thanatos skull; but it will not be given entrance. The will to protect is deeply engraved there, and the space that it has gouged inside him is so vast that every other upheaval now seems negligible, barely a scratch on the skin, numbed from too long being loyalty's prisoner.

Thanatos understands that for there to be progress, he must aid from the shadows and trust in the process. He must trust Zagreus, that this process will be worth the gamble. He must not protest.

Except at this point, with everything such as it is, Thanatos realizes that he wants to protest—or at least, to talk about it all. He wants to talk about Zagreus' journey, his goals, his plans. He wants to talk about how he be a greater benefit, where he can fit into Zagreus' scheme so that his actions can truly have weight. He wants to talk about fairness, and reciprocity, and place. How much this all affects him, and how if Zagreus is going to accept his help, he deserves to be a part of it in earnest.

(He wants to talk about more than just these things, if he's honest. Like how much all of this hurts, in a true, literal sense—precisely the feeling of drowning on the Surface, like when Zagreus had called for him last. How it feels like that every time—just as if he's being submerged again in that violent water, sparing his breath until all consciousness collapses. How even though it's always been a tough job to personify death, he'd had no concept at all for understanding just how it would feel when his opposing equal, the embodiment of Life, defies that of Death over and over, in new and inventive ways. Ceaselessly.

But. That can wait, perhaps. A little while longer.)

Zagreus clears this chamber, and the one that follows. Thanatos has waited with patience; he now readies his hand. The Prince's options going forward are Charon versus pom, and Death knows from his monitoring that Zagreus has no need to visit his brother. Of course, there's always the chance that the Prince will just barge in to say hello, and force Thanatos to recalculate. It would hardly be out of character for him. Still, Death lets himself become a shadow, and drifts to where he expects (hopes) Zagreus will go.

In the pom room, the fire-and-grass floor breathes deeply with anticipation, white flowers gently swaying on a nonexistent breeze. Remnants of flames spark and disrupt the scented air, causing the flowers to send up their pollen in protest. The fragrant fuzz itches Thanatos' nostrils, lingering and refusing to set. The entire place has the feel of an empty stage, in the quiet moment just before the thespians are set to enter: a kind of hushed expectation.

Then—

Movement. Sound. Life, breaching. Death, approaching.

"Zagreus."

"Than!"

The challenge imparts with a series of loud crashes, as exalted ex-warriors and their cursed chariots appear from the ether. Disposing of the rabble is swift work between them; The Lethe gurgles and sings their demise, so their souls might forget. At the end, as was at the beginning, there is untouched silence.

Zagreus, face thrilled and eyes wild, rushes up to Thanatos when it is over, looking as pleased to greet him as with the final score tally (twelve versus sixteen). He takes hold of the proffered centaur heart with a flourish, and cracks a mad, energized grin. "Came to see me before I pay a visit to Asterius, eh?"

"Indeed," he affirms, and then pauses. It's the vaguest seed of anxiety, but it is there, already sprouting its feeble root, gripping soil, ready to infect. "I thought we might talk."

With this, the fire in Zagreus' expression subdues a bit. His face falls, as though he is slow-tumbling into his own thoughts, retreating into a mode of reflection that doesn't much suit him. He says nothing, but both questions and answers with his eyes. Thanatos endeavors not to let the weeds take him; he takes in a deep breath before continuing.

"Look, Zagreus. If I'm going to continue helping you like this, I…I'd really like to be kept more in the loop. I want to know about how things are going with your mother. What you might be planning. If you tell me, then I can…be of greater assistance, perhaps, and it will help me to understand better, so—"

It's here that he croaks, and leaves the words to trail, as Zagreus watches him stone-still, lips slightly parted. Showing quite a display of restraint, all things considered.

Thanatos sighs, unable to conclude. Zagreus affects a strange demeanor—half thoughtful, half skeptical.

"Than," he begins. "Er. Don't take this the wrong way, but…you really want to be privy to all this, all my misadventures? After everything I put you through, I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you…well, I am surprised, that you'd want to know more. I can't say how much stock you might put into my ideas, seeing how they continue to get me—both of us—into trouble, and all…"

Not a glimmer remains of the spark in his eyes, now dispersed like pollen into open air. Thanatos would find it laughable, were he thinking of irony. It never ceases to amaze, just how insensate Zagreus ever is to the world outside his own whims. Even now, having finally learned that, yes, his undertakings do affect others—even now, he must think he is being charitable, in this. If he is even thinking at all.

"I want to hear them," Thanatos says flatly. "I want to know how things are going, and what plans you have with your mother, so that I can help. If I'm going to continue risking my station for you, I intend to be an active party. All right?" He pauses, brief. "You can see that I'm serious about this, I think. After all, despite your best efforts, I am here still." He doesn't say it, but hope that his face communicates in a way that fills the empty spaces. I am with you still. I will be going forward. I will be with you before you even think to call my name. (So let me in.)

Zagreus' face spells inner conflict, and for a moment, Thanatos prepares to be denied again. Prepares for his earnest attempt at inclusion to become just one more spectacle of demolition, leaving him right back where he always was. In that moment, he is seized by the urge to take flight, to disappear in a flash of green light; but he stays, tethered by the obligation to wait, to watch it all come tumbling down. Time stretches.

And just as he is about to break, to turn his shoulder and recede into darkness, Zagreus' face stops him: fish-eyed and bright, bright red, with a fluttering mouth full of unspoken words. Those words come soft and slightly stilted, but Zagreus manages to say "Thank you for telling me how you feel, Than" and Thanatos suddenly feels that old, unbidden urge to reach out and draw him closer. Then he elaborates: "I'll tell you whatever you would like to know."

The words hang heavy, denser than air, unable to be taken up by any Elysian breeze. They feel like a promise, one that draws Thanatos in, closer. Zagreus exhales, then dares to smile. Wanly, a little sardonically. Artificial light and shadow cross his throat, his chest. The flowers around them rustle.

Zagreus looks to his left, then right, before gracelessly sinking to the grass underfoot. After he plops down, he pats the plot of green directly beside him, and asks: "How long do you have?"

Thanatos, who never expected to get half this far, answers: "A little while. Start from the beginning."

Zagreus does.

"Thanatos. I've got it."

Thanatos had anticipated Zagreus' compliance to be a short-term solution, a temporary alliance. He had expected time to flow and Zagreus to forget, to turn selfishly inward and return to his own devices. But instead, Zagreus has made an active effort in keeping Thanatos updated for the last few revolutions, whether or not he asks. He's even been trying a playful hand at entertainment—regaling him of Lady Persephone's charm, weaving in bits and pieces of description, trying to spark in him something like memory. He'll show off in this, in storytelling, in the same flashy manner that he shows off tricks with water and light and flame. Dizzying, dazzling Thanatos with his displays.)

(It all did very little to stifle it. Death's fascination with Life.

Most times, these debriefs have had a festive air—whether because they come fresh off the endogenous high of a challenge, or whether because they have both, without realizing, become so thirsted for information, to share it. But this time, the air is charged not with cheer, but with gravity. They're in Tartarus, in the cold fist of its stone heart. Death's challenge had been brief even by previous standards; Zagreus appeared almost transcendental as he took his Blade to wretch after wretch—a warrior of poetry, one worthy of long, loquacious verses. But when this unsung hero approaches Death now, his face is bloodless, alarmingly white.

"What's the matter?" Thanatos asks, rattled.

"I found it at last," Zagreus says. "A solution. A way to bring Mother back here. A way to have Father see reason."

"Elaborate."

"I snuck into Father's bedchambers," he says. "Oh, it's exactly as you'd expect, mind you, nearly empty save for rows and rows of those ghastly capes—but then, on his nightstand, I found it. A portrait of Mother, regaled in red laurels. A portrait of his Queen."

"You went into Lord Hades' bedchambers?"

"Yes," Zagreus hisses, drawing out the sound, his foot tapping, impatient. Embers trailing from them, from his head, burning in his wide, wide eyes. "When Mother hears of it, she'll have no choice but to come here and reconcile. After Father apologizes, of course. Which he will, because his love is true, I've no doubt. And if he's mad enough to be stubborn and refuse…I'll make him."

His hands rise to his heart, where they tighten into adamant fists. It's quite a sight, to behold such determination. Thanatos can only wonder at it, at the fire in those eyes, too bright and glassy and drugged with hope, with resolve. Zagreus embodies the spirit of resolve, unbendable, unable to be sequestered or squashed or subdued. Like all things mortal, endlessly wresting for a shot at life. Like Life itself, which relies on that spirit. It is the very condition of existence.

Such as it is.

"I think it could work," Thanatos concedes, and Zagreus lights up like he's just won a war—which, he supposes, is the goal in this case. While it's not outright a lie, he neglects to disclose the extent of his cynicism. For all he knows, this scheme really could work. Overcoming the impossible seems to be something of a specialty of Zagreus'.

"Than," Zagreus exclaims, breathy and half-hushed, as if he can't quite believe the assent. His nose and cheeks, so stark white before, are flooding with color. "Do you really think so? Because—" The words get trapped there, coated in a sweet-slick lacquer that originates in a dark secret space between Zagreus' lips, just peeking out at the parted edge. Thanatos suppresses an odd thought—that this viscous shimmer might slip right out of that mouth and into his, if he were to seal his own lips there, right at that intricate corner. Stealing it, every trapped word. Like Zagreus had done to him, once before, in Asphodel's fiery plains.

(Was that it? Could all of this madness be traced to that moment? Had Zagreus stolen from him all traces of sense in that sweltering instant, along with his anger, his words, his breath...?)

He doesn't mean to direct his gaze to those lips, that source; but Zagreus, who is not totally imperceptive, deigns to notice. His eyes swivel from Tartarus' cold floor to Thanatos' pupils, and hold there. They are narrow, and so dark, even the red; almost shuttered, lashes throwing long bars on his cheeks.

Unable to bear it, Thanatos quickly shifts focus to their surroundings, stained ghoulish green and vermillion; from the corner of his eye, he can see the haunted waters of the Styx, the soul lights of the torches that flicker like eyes in the stone.

"So," he says quickly, finally settling on some unspecified point between wall and water. "You're intending on going through with this, then? Is there anything I can do to be of help?"

The moment broken, Zagreus straightens, as if pulled by an invisible cord. His head jerks once, so swiftly that it might have been imagined; and Thanatos allows his eyes to slide back to him. "You've been mightily helpful as it is. I appreciate your support out here, always. It's been nice, being able to confide in you, of late. If you believe in me, then…that's enough, I think. And if there need be more, well…I know how to reach you. He smiles, soft, secret, like the finger now pressing to Mort's exposed ear, the curve of his little cheek. Doubtlessly grinning, as if to say he has been witness to everything.

"All right," Thanatos nods, already holding out his hand, rotating his shoulder. "I'll be going, then."

"Ah, wait!" Zagreus exclaims, breathless. A fierce hold grips the fine bones of Thanatos' wrist, firm enough to blanch dusk to white. When he looks down, that secret space between the Prince's lips is there again, and that esoteric shimmer with it. A shimmer that rivals the stars in his eyes. "By the way, I—I've got something I've been meaning to tell you. Something important. I can, back at the House. Meet me there, later on?"

(Well. How could he dissent to a face such as that?)

When the time comes for their rendezvous, the House feels unusually charged. The atmosphere is thick, distillate and slow-moving. Saturated with anticipation, and yet not a single word has yet been uttered.

Zagreus did manage to make it to the Surface, on this past run. Shade intel has relayed to Thanatos this much. What the outcome after was, he cannot say; though there is that obvious absence of Queen. He's rather keen to ask, though to do so here would be an undertaking of risk.

All whims of rebellion are scattered from his mind when makes his way to the Prince, already rooted in his favored far corner; moreover, already offering up a bottle—another—and rattling off some words about not taking no for an answer in lieu of greeting Death properly. As he prattles on, a transfixing color spreads across his face; it's not unlike the kind that wine would provide. The whirring in his mind is such that Thanatos can hardly hear him; it hisses and whines, building until he finally interrupts.

"Tsh, what is this?" he scoffs, and Zagreus' words die in an instant, taken up again by that invisible viscosity, that space upon which he dares not fixate. "Come on, Zagreus, are you just messing with me, now? How did you even manage to get more of this, much less decide to hand it off to me?"

Zagreus smiles wanly, and continues. "In order: no, I'm not; by ransacking my father's realm repeatedly; and it's because I like you, Thanatos. In case you still have some misgivings about that."

For a screeching instant, everything distills, and every breath and shadow hangs on that monosyllabic utterance of "like"; all the blood in his veins almost ceases to circulate, going from lukewarm to dead cold; and Zagreus is staring openly with those divergent eyes, red and green, red and green, and Thanatos rather feels like something's stuck him full in the throat, something hard and fast and with deadly aim. The air squeezes itself out of him.

"You… like me…?" he coughs, and takes a step back, awash with panic, but Zagreus just follows him with his eyes: falling, falling, falling into Thanatos' space. "I don't…know why…I didn't expect this from you. Given everything that's happened, as of late."

"Yeah, I do," Zagreus says, coarse. His voice has a dry, brittle texture, like crackling leaves, parchment catching on fire. "I finally have an answer for you, Than. I think I had it longer, but…I needed to really be sure." He finally breaks the siren's hold, and casts those burning eyes down. "Look, if you don't feel the same way about me at this point, I would rather know. Cease all these coy gift exchanges, and all that."

Thanatos blinks, still reeling. The feeling growing inside him is nameless and formless, but there's no stopping it or bottling it or quelling it, and he doesn't necessarily want to; but it is overpowering. He wants to uncork that power. Imbibe it. Were he cogent enough to pay closer attention, he might see that Zagreus is reeling, too, behind the careful construct of calm. But as it stands, he is too occupied with focusing his intent on the innocuous bottle that sits in Zagreus' hand, and waging a furious negotiation with himself.

"And you think…that showering me with lavish treasures will win my affection?"

Zagreus chuckles lowly, more grunt than laughter, as if to make light of some dark, private truth. "I don't know that it will. I never really know exactly where I stand with you. But I know how I feel, and I'd rather be up front with you, even if it means risking our relationship. Such as it is."

"Our relationship…?"

(In the tangle of everything astounding about this, he finds himself captivated by Zagreus' confidence, the surety with which he conveys these feelings. But really, what's astounding there? Is this not Zagreus at his pinnacle, his perpetual condition, to speak with such conviction? To force it upon others, regardless of their state of readiness? It is; and this incomprehensibly stings. For Thanatos may have suppressed his grudges, let them rot away like the flesh of an overripe and unpicked pom; but the festering wounds they left ache in him, still.)

"It wasn't long ago you were prepared to throw it all away while making for the surface, if you don't recall," he utters. "But now you're saying that you…care for me…and; what exactly, Zagreus?"

In front of his face, inexplicably closer, Zagreus' lashes flutter. The movement, delicate and rapid, reminds Thanatos oddly of a butterfly trapped in a jar. He can almost hear the sound of the winged insect flitting itself against the glass of its prison, tiny thumps—but no, that's just the sound of his heart slamming against the cage of his ribs, louder than a drum-beat.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, Than. I should not have left the way I did, without letting you know. But when you found me, I think that's when…that's when I knew, or started to realize. You know?"

Thanatos draws his lips tight, tighter than that drum, watching Zagreus' fingers twitching slowly like little sticks, lacing and unlacing in front of his chest. His face is cordial-red now, as ruddy as the ambrosia he offers. "So…what do we do now?"

"Maybe we ought to take our time," Zagreus offers quickly. "Unlike the real thing there, that's a commodity we have in good supply, eh?" He gives a weak smile, unstable, that grows before Thanatos' eyes into something more real, and sincere. "Just know that…if you feel the way I do…you know where to find me. And if not…I'm grateful anyway."

Time. Yes. He needs time. Time to deliberate, to process this development. But time runs through Death's fingers like darkness itself. Time is the greatest of illusions, in this place, and shadows of other business are ever calling out to him. But Zagreus is smiling, gentle and inviting, and somehow that's all it takes to assuage him, for now. Time. Gratitude. A promise of patience. Language fails him, but it doesn't much matter; no amount of words from him could coax such a smile out of Zagreus, sifting aside the debris of bated apprehension to reveal the vulnerable pulse underneath.

"I see," Thanatos manages, at last. His voice a ragged gravel, scraping out of his dry throat. Zagreus is watching him silently, intently, long after the smile has faded. His face is impervious. It remains so even as Thanatos reaches out a tentative arm, takes the proffered bottle between his fingers, and stows it.

"Well then," Thanatos says. A new sprout, one like anxious fear but not quite the same, flares in that aching pit of his chest. "The best I can say for now is…I'm grateful, too, for this. Take care of yourself, Zag."

With a swish of his clothing, he is gone, and Zagreus is left staring at nothing.

Thanatos has frequently felt, over his existence, as though he's the only one who truly knows Zagreus. What Zagreus is about. Passion, surely, though often misapplied. Speed, or more specifically, motion, kinetics. Impatience. Impertinence. Brashness. Selfish imposition. In trying to make sense of all of it, this brings some comfort. This imposition, too, Thanatos supposes, is selfish—though not brash. Zagreus has without question taken his time, mulled his thoughts and feelings, exercised restraint. And restraint has never been a strength of the Prince's.

(He wonders whether it had been easy, like breathing, or hard, like a mortal holding down his breath. Compressing, containing, struggling with the effort not to let it free. Every passing second one that must be counted, until breath can again flow, and life can continue.)

It occurs to Thanatos, thinking in this way, that he has all this time been standing at a crossroads. That he has been frozen in a state of inertia like a trapped breath, converting all of his inner torment to external effort, rotated soul to soul, ferried from Underworld to Surface and back. A servant to routine, always waiting for happenstance to set him back into motion. Waiting for mortals to die just to provoke him into action. Rarely acting of his own agency, even as that bated breath strains and strains, like the butterfly in its jar. But now, he is left to trace the pathology of this development. A development that requires from him a decision. A decision Thanatos has never dared dream he might one day (or night) have to make.

(Time. The Cycle. Free choice.)

The sense of disquiet in him undulates and grows, clawing against his skull in an effort to escape, rattling the empty space that shame has left behind. Thanatos touches his temple and makes an attempt at convincing himself that these things are mired in absolute truth. That there is time. That the Cycle will continue. That Death can keep chasing Life. That Zagreus' plan will come to pass. That Zagreus' words, his feelings are true.

(And if they are…?)

He's almost more paralyzed by this outcome, by the daunt of this choice, than by any challenge his role has ever presented. It's too much to take in, too much to ponder. The blade-sharp mind on which he's always relied deserts him. He can't put a name to the constriction inside him, to the way that this choice makes him feel.

(More time.)

His ever-flickering thoughts spill over and settle, tenuously, to Zagreus' smile, his fire-bright eyes. The shifting topography of his battle-stained skin. How he had finally let Thanatos into his inner world, shared his stories and hopes. The earnestness with which he had spoken. Thanatos thinks of these things, and allows them to ground him back to himself. To the evidence provided. To the infallible, irrefutable truth of Time. Time, unable to be escaped. Time, absolute. If nothing else, Time will continue to be. There will be time. There is time. There must be. And if this is true, then perhaps the rest is, too. Perhaps Thanatos can dare to believe in those truths, let them spread their roots in him and bear fruit. Perhaps this fruit, this time, will not rot. Perhaps this time, he can harvest from this a belief in his own power to choose. Possibly even a belief in himself.

But failing that…there is always the Cycle, and the ever-vagrant fancies of Fate.

Lord Hades is standing imposingly at the fore of the administration chamber when Thanatos provides his latest report, on time and alert. Nonetheless, the Master huffs: "I remain concerned by your change in affect," and affords no further elaboration. But despite the tempered volume and ambiguous rhetoric, there is no belying the underlying meaning. What that cold, clenched tone of voice clearly relates is: I know what you have been up to, and under no uncertain terms, you had better clean up your act, or there will be consequences.

Thanatos braces, and takes a long, shuddered breath, having known this would eventually come to be. That he might be forced to choose between duty and desire, just as Lord Hades had foretold prior, and likely the Fates before even that.

In the end, he chooses Zagreus; and not even the reality of treason made manifest is enough to incite him to change his own mind.