It's quite possible that Zagreus has truly destroyed Thanatos' finer senses; or perhaps it is only that this new Underworld, united by his hand, imprints upon all its inhabitants—even the sullenest among them—a blueprint in metamorphosis, in brightness, in cheer, in whimsy. That film has been cast all over Death, shimmering like lights cast off a glassy surface—for all that he continues to champion things like quietude and routine and duty, he finds that he, as everything, has changed.

For one, he is much improved in demeanor; and patience.

And Zagreus—there is an air of settled-ness to him now. Not domestication, because it would be impossible to tame the Prince's passion for any reason. More, Thanatos has the sense—in Life's unhurried, lax posture and unselfconscious, easy smile—that he is happy. It's deserved. He nearly blushes when Zagreus approaches; that's how he knows it's real.

(What had Mother Nyx told him as a child? To love someone meant to protect that which they treasured the most. The ache took its time, but his bones have finally opened themselves up. The art of giving, of giving in, has become all too easy to master.)

It's not to say fear has been vanquished. It exists always in the background, that scritch-scritch-scratching at the back of Death's mind, demanding entry. Cruelly dishing permutations, offering insidious calculations. But his control over anxiety has stood to improve as well, and further—he finds it easier, now, to talk about it.

Well.

The talking doesn't quite come easily. Still, they're talking more.

Sometimes, he wishes that sense of security would just come faster. Sometimes he finds himself craving, craven, and that's definitely new. There are other things, too. Sometimes he thinks of taking the Prince by the shoulder and guiding him through tunnels of darkness toward his bedchambers, toward soft lights and cool sheets and a waiting bed, where they'd crawl in next to each other and sleep: lazy, ordinary, uncomplicated. Sometimes he thinks of doing much more than this.

That's one thing they don't talk about—the special rendezvouses, those between-encounters spent arms-locked and battle-drunk just before one of them inevitably folds and both of them go tumbling into a conjured void back to Zagreus' bedroom. Zagreus quintessentially spotted with new blood, his mouth open and always ready; his green eye flashing; the clothes already pooling at his feet. Like a hunt, like hunting for sport, the anticipation of winning, the prize. He finds himself helpless to it, the taste of thrill and the adrenaline in his veins. No matter how things end.

It happens much less often than not; but when it does…

When it does, they'll each stumble into the other, eyes wide and vitric, slanting themselves away toward the far end of the room, where his old friend the mirror resides; and in that simple gesture, he will have his answer (as he has always). In those moments, human voices might call, and the hard pull of duty might tug at his throat; yet, somehow still, he'll find it in him to refuse to remit these few moments of peace. Set against the backdrop of a burgeoning new world, Thanatos remembers that he is a god; that he is, here and now, unmistakably Death Incarnate, with his lover breathing life in him—making his ichor run hot like blood. His dreams. His realm. Well; if the Underworld is to be reborn, where is the wrong in simply giving oneself over to hope? This is Zagreus' world, always was, the word as will and representation; and there's no use perpetuating bad faith any longer. Thanatos knows now what must be done. With iron and resolution, Death will protect his Prince.

(And so, going forward, Thanatos stands firm, while Zagreus paces, plotting; for once, their roles are reversed.)

He lets his eyes drift shut now every time that he presses a centaur's heart into Zagreus' hand, carefully folding his fingers around the pulsing structure; he holds them open as they move together, each cloaking the other in tiny sighs. His palm finds Zagreus' shoulder, clamping down tight, cold wrist propped by the side of his neck. Warm. They sit and they lay and they stand together, face to face, amidst an oceanic fire threatening to boil over. No need for platitudes. No need for words.

(This is the last lesson, it would seem; appropriately, a lesson in trust.)

Death takes it upon him to bow to Lady Persephone every time that he returns to the House. Most times, she is in the company of her Lord husband (in some stage of grumpiness, and usually scribbling at his desk) and Cerberus, whose heads take turns dutifully watching her, belly on the ground and paws out in front; attentive but restrained.

On one occasion, as Thanatos approaches, Lord Hades is absent (and by his calculation, in battle with his son); the Queen's face is unmaking a mischievous smile, one that draws him to her like a glittering rope. Hers was always a kind of foxlike, clever beauty, the kind that is arresting, that arrests one to behold. Like being captured briefly in time, between the settling dust and the upcoming shatter, in a place where nothing can die and everything grows.

(The apple would not fall far from the tree, it would seem.)

"Thanatos," she greets warmly. "You look well."

"I am, my Lady. Thank you."

Here he hesitates briefly, before coming to heel dutifully before her. Slight tension in his shoulders, neck just turned downward. Beside them, one of Cerberus' heads twitches an ear in interest, while the others loll. Death glances sidelong, alerted.

Persephone misses none of this. "You are much changed, my dear, yet so little. You wear every one of your feelings plainly on your face. Tell me, is something the matter?"

He straightens, to see her more clearly. "Forgive me, Lady. It's just that I…I find it at times difficult, still, to believe that you are truly here. So much has transpired. I wonder sometimes, whether Hypnos has tricked us all."

"Ah…all these years, Thanatos, I would confess that I too have only dreamed of this," the Queen lilts, knowing, in a tone that reminds Death of fresh-rustled leaves. "You cannot know how I've longed for the day when I could see my family, my child; but this—this divine acceptance, this blessed reunion…now that it is here, it feels perhaps more of a dream than it had on Earth."

Beside them, Cerberus raises all three heads and releases a long, heady whine. Lady Persephone outstretches a hand to pet him; his cold, wet nose digs into her palm.

"You have returned such light to us, my Queen," Thanatos bows. "You know that much has already been lost, but now there is new hope. Our Lady has come back to us—and we have all been touched by you. This realm will be united under a new rule."

"So it shall be," Persephone acquiesces. At some indeterminate point, the fabric composing her garment had begun to billow around her, graced by an invisible wind. She presses her finger-tips together and smiles. Thanatos can smell the perfume of fresh flowers on her.

"I must offer my gratitude," she continues wryly, "for I have heard from my son that 'twas in no small part due to your efforts that he was able to come to me. I understand you've been looking after him?"

He senses a slightest release of tension in the shoulders. "Ah…Your son, he is…very capable of looking after himself, as it turns out. Although…I try to be there, just in case."

"I see. Well, I thank you. That one isn't always the easiest to handle, as I see it." Her face is more neutral now, but her eyes relay something deeper, something shimmering and invisible like diamond dust. "Still, I find myself quite impressed by the man that he has become. Keep him on a good path, then, dear Thanatos, and take care of each other. Won't you?"

Death bows deeply, more to hide the gold stain on him than out of deference; somehow, he is certain Lady Persephone knows this, too. "You honor me, my Lady. Though, I must beg your pardon. Someone awaits me on the Surface now."

(The Queen's gentle laughter sounds like lightfall, like gold shimmering in the distance—if there ever was such a sound.)

"I know how mortals hate waiting around!"

Before Zagreus, Thanatos has never thought much of the Surface.

Of course, he has spent so much time there, and certainly he has well committed enough of the mortal world's geographical features to memory as a result of his embarkations. A few hundred million years of recon followed by a hundred thousand years of duty to mortal men, women and children will do that. But duty tends to preclude any indulging of the senses, and if he's honest, Death has long since forgotten of the beauty of the Earth. Or rather, he simply thinks little much of it.

So when Zagreus asks him what's it like, up there, Than? Outside, I mean?, it takes Thanatos by surprise, how efficiently his memory supplies sentiments long dissipated.

He talks first of the deserts: the first touch of golden sands to Death's bare feet (one does not simply traverse through the desert; it consumes), the heat that once scoured the planet, scorching; sand dunes, whirling, shifting, swallowing, transforming the landscape. The air: dry (arid, desiccated), scratchy, too hot even to breathe in.

Then, of the lush forests: the dew of fresh rain dripping, diamond adornments to the lush treescapes like blankets of green—the cool, pebbled streams running through, creating oases for all manner of life. Life among the branches, life beneath the stumps, life in the air and flying on the wind. The noises: all manner of titters and chirps and hisses and growls.

And then Thanatos talks of the sweeping plains, the icelands, the seas—each with their ethological quirks and associated wildlings, how diverse they are, how uniquely conditioned to the fauna and flora they produce. He talks of the sun and the moon and the night (though omits any mention of Erebus). His mother's domain is like a friend, true, but in truth Death favors twilight: that secret space between all things, preferred by so many mortal creatures, if only for the peace of it.

He talks of the mortals, the glimpses he catches of their customs, their odd acts and rituals. Their shared experiences and their forged livelihoods. The love and hatred they harbor for one another, in kind. The pain they feel when one among their numbers dies. How Death would strive to greet the new dead with compassion. To impart upon them that all would be well. That they are safe and homeward bound. That they are loved.

He talks of the sensations that the atmosphere of the mortal realm impresses upon him. How it never fails to make him feel ill, proportionate to the amount of time he has already spent there. So too to the amount of suffering he has seen.

Zagreus listens intently, nodding here and there in agreement but not saying a word, for what is there to proffer toward a concession so earnest?

"I'll take you there, if you like," Thanatos mutters, and Zagreus' eyes go impossibly wide. "Of course, our time would be limited. But if you wanted—"

"Yes," Zagreus exhales, more breath than sound, more sound than word. His head bobs and bobs, up and down, like a spring; and Thanatos smiles, soft.

The next several times he returns to Earth for work, he makes a point to commit all that he sees to memory.

There are still other things they don't talk about.

Upon retrospect, it should have been obvious that Zagreus would be the key—running rogue, causing so much trouble, only to become the one to unite the realms. Having the audacity to not only orchestrate the Queen's return, but to repair Hell's broken foundation—and beyond this, to play the gods like stringed instruments. He should have trusted in this notion rather than in its opposite, the idea that Life untempered would bring about ruin, destruction, an end—it was all, of course, unfounded. Resentment will do that, make fools out of men and gods alike. He should have known better.

He thinks of this at the edge of the clearing, while listening to the distant sound of warriors long dead, while battling the Prince of Hell simply for routine; this time, watching as Malphion's long claws score flame-hot lines that strip flaming wheels to smooth boards. And here, at Zagreus' side and behind and all around, come the entourage: Aphrodite, her hair spun-gold and diamonds; Ares, his fire whipping, a weapon; Hermes, sweeping the very air into a frenzy; and Lord Zeus himself, striking just every so often to remind every shade in the place to whom they belonged. All of them speaking the same language of destruction—all of them raining their blessings down.

Over the endless cycles and the days and nights, the message has become clear: Zagreus has succeeded in winning their favor.

The Prince's strange grip over his estranged family, Thanatos would admit, has reached a level that no one could have predicted; but his judgment remains questionable, because though he may have won each god's fickle esteem, war and violence never fail to follow where the Olympians are concerned. Between their covetous interests and Lady's Persephone's return, the whole of the Underworld exists in restless worry. The Elysian heroes fight because they are restless—because it is all they know to do for comfort. And so, the elemental battles rage—a reminder of the ever-looming threat of confrontation. And Thanatos, as ever, watches.

The air crackles with fire and electricity. Zagreus clutches his fists, knuckles knotted and painfully white, as white as the skin of his blood-drained face. His eyes are enormous, dilated by some potent potion of effort and joy, threatening to consume him outright. Thanatos finds himself again fixed by those eyes—half-mad, geometrical, dangerous—and always threatening to dismantle his resolve.

And then, like the last wisp of smoke from a guttered fire, the battle is over. Zagreus stands alone in the rubble, and tips his chin to the gods.

What transpires next is strange and unexplained. The Prince kneels, faced still toward the ceiling and eyes firmly shut, and mouths long strings of words that Death cannot hear. On all sides, the vast expanse of debris and scorched grass forms a clearing, with Zagreus at the center—like a predator in a graveyard, deceptively docile. He looks to be—

"Didn't take you as one for prayers," Thanatos says dryly, by way of greeting.

Zagreus startles a little and look blindly for him. He can see the flash of surprise in those eyes, like a cursed fish surfacing in a bottomless Underground pond before descending again. Tilting his head now (decidedly different), refraining from asking the expected questions, or making any of the usual statements (Thanatos! or what's this or so, you've found me again). Instead he arches an eyebrow and quips, "Skulking again, Than? You've been wondering what I've been up to, then, eh?"

"I have."

Zagreus shrugs widely, a theatric flair that belies true frustration. "Haven't we overcome this, the sneaking about? You can just ask, you know." He tosses his head, and the wind catches his curls; they rustle, like a flurry of petals.

Thoroughly caught, Death clucks his tongue and circles around the meadow to stand before Zagreus. "All right. Go on, then."

He breaks now, grinning. "Ah-ah. Isn't there a nicer way?"

Gritting his teeth, Thanatos relents: "Won't you please enlighten me as to what you've been up to?"

Death is certain his face makes for a grim sight—he wears his discomfort like a wraith, unable to mask the rigid concern. But Zagreus looks beyond even this surface, deeper into black waters. The corners of his mouth fall into solemn recognition, and he approaches Thanatos and pats him on the knee. His hand is hot and dry to the touch, as it is always. It's somehow not unwelcome at all.

"You've been worrying for me again," Zagreus states plainly. "Because I've been out here more. Calling on them more." He cants his head again.

Thanatos casts his eyes down and says nothing.

"Are you worried they're corrupting me again? A shadow crosses his face. "I suppose this is my own failing. Thanatos, listen. Do you have time? I have a plan."

As Thanatos is contemplating how to reply (which tangled thread of fear to offer up), Zagreus falls to the scorched grass below him and beckons him down with a finger. He folds his legs beneath him, then unfolds them to lie back, peering upward at Death; his thighs reluctantly part from one another, the skin already sheened and battle-flushed.

"If you think I am about to join you down there—"

But Zagreus grabs his calf and (right, strangely now) nuzzles it, sending a column of heat that rushes to his cheeks. Thanatos bristles and dabs at his temples; his fingers flailing, already turning—

"Wait!" Zagreus blurts, and for once, it halts him. Desperate. "Please. Just hear me. Come now, sit." He squeezes his own hands when Thanatos looks down, his gaze serious. "Let me tell you."

And then he simply starts speaking—about his long stints spent securing gifts for the Olympians, about how their scattered and superficial conversations have grown into something deeper—leveraging the gods' self-serving desires to suit him, sculpting their favor into a potential solution. A gathering. He speaks for so long that Thanatos feels the pull of the mortals, tugging at him in every direction; but instead of vanishing, he is brought downward, coming to rest at Zagreus' knees. Zagreus, whose delight eggs him more fervently.

"A gathering," he repeats—a crude one-word synopsis of the whole mad idea, just to taste it, to see if vocalization could render it any less insane. "Of all the gods of Olympus."

"Yes. Call it a party, if you will."

"A gathering, here."

Zagreus blinks. "Yes, here."

"And you think you can arrange it. Successfully."

"Well, so far it's been well-received in theory. They all seem rather eager to meet me, see—"

"And never mind that they are ignorant to Lady Persephone's return, or that half of them are at war with each other."

"Well, it's true that I've been feeding them all different versions of the truth—"

"Why didn't you tell me of this before?" Thanatos interrupts.

The Prince quirks an eyebrow, looking thoughtful. "Well, it is a rather nascent plan. Was Uncle Dio who gave me the idea, if I'm to be honest."

Thanatos scoffs. "Naturally."

"The Olympians may love battle and conflict, but they also enjoy revelry, and secretly they long for union. My mother taught me that." He smiles then, affectionately thumbing Death's knee. "And so have you, Thanatos."

"Oh, yes," he deadpans. "Because I've proven myself to be such a purveyor of fun."

Zagreus laughs so earnestly that it wipes the scowl clean off him, and he is again reduced to thought. Studying the Prince's laughing face, Death finds himself struck with the partly-familiar notion that metamorphosis, true change, can come in many forms. Sometimes it's a corrosive process, a slow wash of existing bedrock, forcing a network of new cracks. Other times, it is complete inversion.

(He wonders which the Prince will bring; he suspects he already knows.)

After this, he regains his composure. "You're certain, then, that the gods are unaware?"

"Of the plan? Each other? That's right; although, it can only be a matter of time. Of course, I intend to have laid a friendly foundation long before they catch on." He brings one knee up to his chest, turning to stare briefly into the distance—the sprawling beyond through which the future would soon come crashing in.

"What do you think of them?" Thanatos blurts, abruptly. "In honesty?"

Zagreus appears thoughtful for a long moment; mercifully, he doesn't ask for clarification. "They aren't so bad, really. Misguided, perhaps. They each have their quirks. I'm most fond of Hermes, I think."

"... I see. What about—"

"I've no desire to involve myself with any of them in that way," Zagreus states with an air of decisiveness. "If you've ever wondered. I'm quite content with you, Than."

"I see," Thanatos says again, more final this time, though still jagged in tone.

The Prince smiles fondly. "Jealousy doesn't become you," he says teasingly. He earns a sharp prod with an elbow for that, which is swiftly returned, and before long they are wrestling with one another like they did when they were children—in that innocent and feckless time while the seeds sown between them were still long dormant.

After the soil has settled, Thanatos asks: "So. You truly think that this scheme of yours will work?"

"It has to," Zagreus shrugs. "I've done as much as one could do to curry each of their favors. Most of them, anyway. I have hope that they'll humor their long lost Prince, at least. Besides, there really isn't another option. Once they're all here, they'll have no choice but to listen. And by that same logic, no choice but to forgive. I can win them here, too, Than. I know it."

Death clears his throat then, and steels his face down, to corral the concern threatening to spring from his mouth. When he speaks again at last, his voice sounds strained. "And what of Lady Demeter?"

Zagreus, still mindlessly stroking Thanatos' leg, imparts a faint, thin smile; a little like shattering glass.

"I'm working on her. She will be the last."

And another time.

It is twilight on the Surface. Thanatos is called to an island beset by a great storm. Under the mantle of darkness, the vast expanse of water beyond the oyster-pink shore retreats into a green-gold jungle, swallowing the horizon. As he ferries the dead to Charon, he drinks all that he sees, its beauty; the wind in his hair speaks softly to him, whispering of life and death alike.

.

.

.

It takes some time before Thanatos can pluck up the courage. Enough time for Zagreus to have maneuvered a few additional miracles to add to his arsenal; the Prince's plan has all but fallen into motion, the strings held at the ready, the grand stage set. He's heard it from Charon, who heard it through Hermes, who has relayed the message throughout a positively vibrating Olympus. Thanatos holds his breath for the worry he's spared himself; he channels it instead into this more immediate undertaking, in fear and in hope that he can summon the gumption; but with some extra encouragement from a mix of sources—Mother Nyx, a recently converted (and highly bemused) Meg, and the other side of a bottle—he manages.

He works and waits until sundowning touches just the right spot of just the right location; before he returns Underground, he looks back over to admire the view. The sun streams over a light patter of rain, so fine and crystalline as to nearly be imperceptible; from the droplets spring new life, blooming in all colors. This this holy place, untouched by the gods or Lady Demeter's winter, save for one. A land blessed by the hand of their Queen.

Zagreus is still asleep when he comes in, and he admires him as he would be embarrassed to do while awake. Mouth just propped open, body gently rising and falling, and with his laurel removed for sleep his curls fall in his eyes. The blanket has slipped down, so that Death can see the muscles of his chest, the way his breastbone rises and falls with his deep sleeping breaths, the way his nipples peak, the way that he sighs as he turns his head in sleep. The sight makes Thanatos feel protective, and the feeling is a sweet pain in his chest.

When the Prince stirs, he immediately beckons from the ransacked bed, and in another time, Thanatos would hesitantly go; but this time, it's different, and he strides right up. It seems to please Zagreus.

"Morning, Than," he mumbles, sleep still straining his voice. "Or night, is it?"

Death brushes Life's hair out of his eyes, and draws the blankets full off him. The movement thoroughly wakes him, as he expected; he looks at Thanatos with sparkling eyes and then—smiles, no context, and the feeling in Death's chest intensifies, sharp as a needle.

"I'm going to the Surface soon," he says.

"Mmmf?" Zagreus asks. His head tilts leftward.

"Come with me."

In such a short time, the rain has cleared. The soft evening lightrays that stream through the cloudscapes are flame-gold and candy-pink, piercing enough to chase away stray thoughts, pouring luxuriously across the horizon. In the allure of sunset, that fresh, golden brilliance perfectly distilled the essence of what it felt to be profoundly, perfectly present.

It's time.

"All right. Open your eyes."

Above Lady Persephone's Earthly gardens, they glide from row to perfect row, taking care not to rustle the lush stalks or disturb the creatures feasting upon them. The verdure has overtaken everything, save for the little hut where the Lady once dwelled.

"It's beautiful," Zagreus mumbles, bowing his head, not expecting it in the least when Thanatos places a kiss to his ear, ensuring both arms are tightly woven around him.

"This isn't all."

He takes them higher, higher, to the sprawling icy mountains reaching up in pursuit of Olympus—the snaking valleys weaving far beneath, their rivers running beautiful and clean. The new twilit sky tinting every surface with rose, threading warm hues to dance all about them.

"Does it meet your expectations?" Death asks him, softly, perching to speak into Zagreus' neck. "I hoped that it would."

(But it doesn't, not really, because nothing could have prepared Life for this—the sheer magnificence of this world's lights and colors, or the way that the warm, perfect circle of Death's arms translates to something greater than any boon, or how he can't help but feel a little breathless, to let that miracle sink deep into his skin and sinew, muscle and bone—and Death suddenly remembers, he's never flown before.)

For the Prince to be awed—well, it is only natural, when Death himself feels such elation. As if simply existing with Life in this place paints it with an entirely new brush.

"It's above and beyond, Than."

This time, the world is still—no whipping wind, weeping snowdrops, no baleful storms. With the Fates' favor, perhaps it might be a good omen. Death cradles Life's head and lowers them gently down, back to the Queen's garden, where their feet just touch down. They cannot stay long—only just long enough to commit to memory the cornucopia of color, the vast swaths of flora—how the whole expanse smells like honeysuckle and roses, how the lolling bees must behold this place as Paradise. Perhaps another time, they will return in the autumn or winter, on another clear day when the dawn is just breaking. Perhaps they'll chart the changing of the seasons, so Zagreus can behold each of the miracles that this realm has to offer.

Perhaps.

"Tomorrow," Thanatos mutters, elaborating no further. A gust of breeze rustles past, barely lifting the heavy, drooping heads of the half-painted blooms, and Zagreus nods in agreement.

"Tomorrow."

"What are your feelings? Do you feel confident in it? This scheme to manufacture peace?" These are the words Death provides, but like a prism of light that comes after the rain, there is a whole spectrum of sentiments locked within.

"Somewhat. We have all prepared well, and this is the best chance we have."

Thanatos smiles, tenuous like a cloud's silvered edges. "Normally, I would say that you could do with a bit more humility. But you ought to give yourself credit, Zag." A few moments pass, and then he continues, softer: "It is a good plan. And if anyone could succeed in it, it would be only you. But. If something were to go wrong…" His face steels. "I am prepared to die in my Prince's service."

Zagreus kisses him then—not desperate, but with the sort of presence and passion that Death has come to expect from Life—and the shock of tangy blood-sweetness on his lips is like sunshine and honey, a touch of summertime out of season—the kind of reassurance Thanatos could drink in until his fingers are sticky and his mind lazy with the sway of an insouciant afternoon.

"I love you," Thanatos gasps when they finally break for air, in the very same instant that Zagreus says "Trust me, Than."

And then, at this moment, the Styx takes them home.