Zagreus begins to rely on Thanatos.

It is not so terribly unexpected. In fact, Thanatos had imagined (hoped? No.) that relinquishing his keepsake would have precisely this effect. Sometimes, being called vexes him—after all, it tends to interrupt his work—yet though he might respond with a snide remark or a disapproving scowl, he responds nonetheless. Sometimes, he even finds himself thrilled; the sound of his name beckoned on the Prince's lips stirs in him some deep-buried thing he'd thought long since dead. Like an impulse—another duty that needs doing. But always, there's an undercurrent of something being stolen, an omission that fails to be captured in words. The encounters never last long, can't, and so they don't feel altogether real. As if every answered call is a whim, or some sort of dream.

(Of course, this isn't to say Death does not put up a fight in Life's name. He does, and a ferocious one at that, taking chunks of Zagreus' foes down with him. Sometimes this is the primary factor that distinguishes triumph from loss; but others, Death discovers that the circumstances aren't nearly so dire as to require his aid.)

Thanatos is aiding Charon on the Surface when he next senses that strain, taut pull of threads to his chest, stretching over his heart. He hears his name (Thanatos!) reverberated in the Styx's boiling waters, like a skipping stone. The rains will come soon; Lord Zeus' bolts threaten to split the Earth, and dark clouds loom heavy with the promise of storms. It feels prophetic, somehow, a slow-drip of dread. Charon inclines his curious head as Thanatos petitions him with a look, then just slightly nods.

(He is thankful, not for the first time, that at least one among his brothers has some amount of decorum.)

Back in Hell, Thanatos arrives to a grisly, grim scene. Elysium's prized arena shrieks with an incorrigible mass of shades, creeping about their makeshift spectator seats. The area is stained heavy with ash and blood from where sharp points have sunk into flesh and spilled. Zagreus is still engaged, spear to glistening spear, in a match against Theseus, that king of gnats. He's tittering, buzzing like one, chanting garish epithets. The bull lies slain, but the Prince sways, badly injured. His blood churns in his veins and streams out, red and weeping, through a network of holes. He whips about so rapidly that he is sure the air must burns in his throat. It looks as if like any motion will set him aflame, as if his legs are dry tinder, his torn ligaments fuel. Thanatos can see them straining as Zagreus forces himself to take bigger strides, faster steps.

With Death's aid, the disgraced king is bested. Zagreus deploys the final blow without mercy, impaling through to the innards of that flamboyant fool who calls himself Champion, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until he (at last) lies silent and still.

(Thanatos knows that he won't be so for long. The king's ability to boast, even in the aftermath of abject, cyclical defeat, is impressive.)

Even wrecked as he is, Zagreus manages to revel in the win. He greets his lone supportive shade with outstretched arms, more flailing than cheering, the flesh marred by deep gashes, dust in the wounds. Then he turns and waves back to where Death still stands. Mort, looking just worse for wear, smiles sweetly.

Thanatos averts his eyes, and returns to the boatman. When he gets there, spirits are quickly filing under Charon's watch, urged now by a rupturing sky. One by one they slouch past him, moving in shuddering steps like living puppets, all in a row. They gape at Death with fearful faces, and their mouths form wide, wordless shapes as they mime the same dark prayers over and over.


Thanatos returns to the arena swiftly once he is done, going off little more than a base premonition. Which turns out to be an intuitive one, as he finds Zagreus slouching slumped and splay-legged against its curving, fractured wall.

When Death approaches, he supplies a pained smile, and a meek "hey, Than."

The prognosis appears dismal. Zagreus' back hardly grazes the half-crumbled stone; most of his mass is borne by Varatha. The sound of his breathing—shallow, labored, in-out—suggests shattered ribs. He coughs and a fine spray of blood streaks the sand red. The spear-tip is lodged deep into the grains for support, making the shaft a brace. Zagreus himself is less stable, and visibly in pain. His body rocks back and forth, anchored to an unsteady point. Still, there is that damned force of will in his swagger, even in the tilt of his head—

A slight cough drags Thanatos' awareness back to the moment, the right-now; and when he blinks, the arena and all its shuffling shades flows around him once more. Zagreus is still teetering, only now just in front of him, wild-haired and wild-eyed, blood and fabric plastered red to his body—a slight tug of an arm, and an outstretched palm bearing—yes, another nectar, blast it all.

Thanatos is reminded—abruptly, violently, painfully—why everything always seems to circle right back to this.

With a small tsch he accepts the bottle, no preamble. Instead of saying what he wishes to, the words that escape are: "You did well out there, Zag. I'm surprised, given the state of you. I was certain that you had no chance at all."

A tickle of laughter. "I seem to have this whole 'easy to underestimate' thing about me, based on a decent sum of my relationships." He coughs again; his face settles into softness. "In any case, I do always welcome your appearances out here. Thank you. I know it's not been easy for you, Than."

Thanatos shakes his head. "That's a fair assessment, I'd say. But then again, it's never been an easy time for me." He sighs, and grits his teeth, trying to try not to look too deeply at Zagreus swimming into focus, the state of him—knowing this war is not over yet, and the next revolution will bring him nothing for comfort. "I don't have to keep on helping you like this," he utters. Quietly, on a breath, with dispassion. Disheartened.

An odd crumpled expression steals over Zagreus' face, of a powdery quality—one that might signal indignation, or hurt. His body slumps further. "Are you…telling me this is it?" He strains from the mere effort of talking, let alone the injection of feeling. "You're going to leave me to my own devices, then…? I've proved myself to you, something like that?"

Anger swells, a mass in Thanatos' throat. Something to cling to. "No, you deadbeat, I'm telling you the opposite! Why do you think I'm still here? Why do you think I keep on showing up? Haven't we settled this? Whether you need me or not, I will take these opportunities to help." He just holsters the impulse to lash out with hands, or show spite with movement; but the stain of guilt on Zagreus' face almost makes it feel as if he had. He sighs, and gestures downward with his head, contrite. "I take it that's all right?"

And here, the Prince's tired face returns to its previous battle-weary softness, drooping eyelids and depressed lines. "It is all right," he nods, solemn. Then appends: "Thanks, Than."

Thanatos smirks. "Good. But if I might offer up a suggestion—don't go relying on me too much. What are you god of, after all?"

He frowns. It is such a tiny, innocuous thing, but it puts barbs in the dark cavern that makes up Death's chest. "I'm not god of anything."

"Ha!" The incredulous laughter comes easily, now. "You're still insistent on that point? After returning from death—how many times, now? Making a canvas of yourself with that red blood of yours."

Indeed, Zagreus is far from fighting-fit; his chest heaves in shallow, tenuous breaths, winded from his injuries. His chiton is torn in patches, his face flushed with exertion; red weeping wounds decorate his body in ribbons. His fingers twist idly where the ambrosia had been, as if he is actively restraining his hands. He looks wholly consumed by the mouth of exhaustion, in need of health and of deep, deep sleep.

Yet Lord Hades awaits his wayward son. And so Thanatos knows what is soon to transpire.

Resigned in so knowing, he settles upon the obvious play.

"Say, Zag. You look tired."

Zagreus stutters, like a shuddered breath, wavering. Perhaps choking upon an unspoken question, or unuttered admission. A lone candle swaying in the Underworld's lack-of-wind, planted with his feet unmoving like he's caught in contemplation of something that he doesn't quite know how to say.

A pause; hushed hesitation. "If you need it, I can—"

"No," Zagreus whispers, with perhaps more gravity than Thanatos has ever witnessed. His face is ghastly pale, but firm intent paints its lines bold. "I can't ask that of you now. I won't take advantage of—of your abilities again."

A tense, viscous air curls around each uttered word. There is much there not conveyed, but this isn't the time, and Thanatos isn't quite in the mood for elaboration. He's not entirely sure of what possessed him to make this offering in the first place. He is even less certain of his feelings toward the matter.

And so, in lieu of argument, he just says "All right, Zag." The swirling green magic is already beginning to steep him when one burned, bleeding hand presses tentatively to the hard edge of his turning shoulder.

"I'll see you back at the House, yeah? And…out here, again?"

(And oh, that face; at once ruined and proud, indebted and beseeching.)

"Yes. I imagine you will."

Death vanishes into darkness and dust (and prays he will not be called again this rotation).


Thanatos attempts, with some degree of futility, not to ruminate upon the carnage that is sure to soon commence. New souls reaching the Surface boundary claw and clamor for his attention, as always; as they do, the living beg for his favor, or else curse his name. Their voices in his head produce a perpetual ache that exists always in the background; but the forefront is now occupied by Zagreus' broken, bloodied, and beseeching face.

He submits his latest report to Lord Hades, and makes a point to stop and make idle conversation with both Hypnos (who is delighted, for the moment and a half that he remains awake) and Mother Nyx. She grants him, for the trouble, an inscrutable smile and some cryptic words about brotherhood and forged bonds, before turning the subject to Thanatos himself. With a chary sort of patience, she enquires on his well-being (knowing full well of the answer) and offers some decidedly un-esoteric advice:

Why not permit yourself a small respite, child, to ease your troubles?

It leaves rather a thick seal on Thanatos' tongue; but he knows that her words hold weight.

The lounge has been cleared of most straggling shades. He goes there mainly for performance's sake, so that Nyx's concern might be briefly attenuated. A fine enough reason, in any case. It's quiet; the only sound to be heard comes from Chef's corner, where a dying fish undulates, struggling for un-life. For a long moment, it captivates Death to behold this, to watch the curious thing thrash and panic for its questionable existence, mouth gaping and wide. Without even a voice with which to scream. Grotesque.

Even with the Prince's newfound attempts at injecting a little warmth, a little humanity, the House seems to Death eternally devoid of vibrance: a discordant collection of trappings in desaturated hues, almost grayscale. Luminance has never been suited for Lord Hades' realm, true; but in the far corners of Thanatos' mind there yet remains memories of this place when it was filled with laughter and light.

(Of course, that was a very long time ago. Before.)

The lounge as it is now, even free of hair and debris and decorated with miscellaneous comforts purchased with plundered gemstones (when did Zagreus commission a cauldron?), feels like a microcosm of the House in its entirety: cramped and claustrophobic rather than comforting. At least Cerberus' fur provided some color and musk. Thanatos feels rather caged.

But then, who else to disrupt that droll dreary air than Meg—storming, snarling, now treading a path of blue fire and fury through the hallway just within sight, teetering and unsteady. Brandishing her whip and a large stuffed sack, and wearing a face like a floor caving in. Just glimpsing Thanatos off a fleck in her eye, the Meg-shaped disaster huffs and tears off with the sack. And Death supposes that must be the end of that—or he would, except that the Fury comes right back. Only now, she comes empty-handed.

She pointedly seats herself in front of Thanatos and scowls. Her presence alone turns the atmosphere heavy, dark matter, dense and unapproachable. Her eyes burn: lit from within by that silent glow, rage. Simpering and smoldering by turns, as if they are sentient creatures. She's by far the most colorful thing in the room.

"Megaera," Thanatos addresses her with a polished respect; far from daring to mention her strange behavior, or the ridiculous sack, or the injuries revealed upon closer inspection—injuries that would signal a recent defeat. He receives a syrup-thick smile for his discretion, sharp and cloying and quick like a flash on a blade. The kind of smile where the teeth become a cage, barely concealing the rabid beast lurking behind. Tentatively, he probes: "How are things?"

"Oh, wonderful," she seethes. "Just got an earful from Lord Hades. Reputation's in the hole. We've all been wrung out and hung up to dry between the war and this fool trying to destroy the blasted House from the underground up."

"It's been trying," Thanatos offers, sympathetic.

"You aren't helping, Thanatos. Why don't you confess your crimes? Go on, take your time. I'll wait."

He frowns, careful. "I don't know what you mean."
Her mouth opens, canines flashing, just on the razor edge of laughing. "Oh, but you do. You're no village idiot, don't need me to tell you. I only wonder, when did your standards droop so low? Are you not ashamed?"

Hard anger, isolated to the basal form. Singular; simple. Existing in Meg's presence always did seem to render things simpler, from the time they were children. Meg, who always reckoned with Thanatos on ambition. Her single-minded focus and primal emotions once helped to organize his developing brain—to remove the hard shell from the slimy, festering layers beneath, the increasingly convoluted spectrum of mortal feeling. To blend all the shades of white and black to one mute grey, at least for a short while.

And, yes, the predominate—

"Do you think I ought to be?" Thanatos probes, knowing full well the answer. "Looking to dish out some righteous arbitration?"

Meg narrows her eyes. "Yes, to the first." Then hesitates. "And no, thank you. I just wanted to believe you weren't really so moronic as your actions would indicate. A Chthonic moron."

He doesn't quite laugh, though it's close. Something about this—the shine to Meg's eye, the challenge in her voice, her play at banter—emboldens. "Let it be a standing offer, then," he says. "Seems to me like you could use a sanctioned release."

She looks incredulous, bordering on insulted. "Excuse me?"

It's Lord Hades that he thinks of when Thanatos says: "I have made and broken oaths, one both explicit and recent. Your whip would be nothing I do not deserve."

Stunned-silent outrage looks wrong on her, and yet, it hardly feels out of place. Perhaps this crack in her armor should be enough to crack his own skin, snap him back to a world filled with sense and with it, shame. Rinse Thanatos clean of this newfound defiance, this concerning desire for the intrepid. A Fate-sanctioned arbitrator who could smite him without mercy, who would look at him and see only flaws: glaring pockmarks of his own treacherous making. Thanatos longs for it: for what is internal to be made external.

When Megaera's laughter finally comes, it strikes, like a weapon; it strikes exactly as Thanatos had hoped it would. "Pathetic, Than. You won't see my whip. Besides, no punishment I could dish out would hold a candle to anything you bring on yourself. Now get out of my sight."

"It's a public space, Meg." (His own boldness staggers.)

"This will be your future," she growls, voice choked. "You may think you know him, but you don'tknow. You don't know anything. You'll argue and you'll fight, and you'll give and give just a little more rope, and this is what it'll get you—nothing but ruin. He will ruin you. Just like he has this House. Go on. Take a good long look."

He does, taken by the passion that musses her fierce, prepossessing face. The chalky, twisted-blue canvas, the shock of pink lips, the eyes burnished gold, almost luminescent. For a moment, it transfixes; but behind that vibrant, venomous glare, there is vast, empty space: a dark tunnel, leading to the raw core of pain. Yellow and shadow, a warning. A promise. A premonition.

An ultimatum.

"I'm sorry," Thanatos tells her, at the same time that Meg says, "Good luck."

It's not much for armistice; but it will have to do, for now. Thanatos thinks of his mother's words then, her well-meaning advice to stop and rest. This forces a twisted smile. On the Surface, even where so many threads pull him, he sees far more clearly than he does here, where the voices all come to coalesce in one complex, caustic stream. Death stands slowly, careful to avoid getting in Meg's way. She watches him with that same dark complexity.

"You've decided, and you have no intention of changing your mind...do you?" Meg asks. "You think it'll be worth something. You think it all means something. You think you're different."

Her strained voice just carries over those in his head, now screeching with a burdensome familiarity. The pain in Meg's face is just as familiar.

"I don't know that, or think it. Any of it. I'm only trying to act for myself, for once. By my own psyche."

The face with which she leaves him is somehow both familiar and unknown at the same time: a crude meld of disgust and disappointment, but with strings of silent, begrudging respect. She makes no comment as he departs; only produces a bottle of nectar from nowhere and drinks deeply, until nothing inside remains.


By some impossible miracle, Zagreus wins the fight against Lord Hades.

Thanatos, who has just returned to the Surface, only comes to learn this because he feels the air churn with Zagreus' presence—the intrusion of a foreign invader, leaking into the atmosphere. His skin vibrates with the force of it, an overpowering sensation, though not outright unpleasant. In the mortal realm, the storm still rages; thunder shakes and rumbles the sky, and heavy rains are now falling. Souls cling to as the like errant drops do, seeking some respite from the cold and the damp, and the abstracted sort of fear that the end of life brings. Charon never enjoyed rain, a fact reflected by his ceaseless shuffling and groaning, but this disdain makes him more efficient. Thanatos pauses to watch the retreating boat for a moment, transfixed by the Styx's raging, its banks overflowing with rainwater. He can do nothing to calm the waters there, just as he can do nothing for the agitated air around him, or the rapid pounding of his own heart within him.

Thanatos.

The tension in his chest snaps in an instant, like a plucked string releasing a shockwave that jolts in three parts. The sound of his name alone inspires awe, even more that its source is Zagreus' voice; but the most shocking is the lightning-quick flash of Mort's smiling face, like an illusion in the shimmering curtain of rain. The Styx roars, its waves reaching up for him like so many hands, beckoning.

He is being called. Here.

On the mortal plane.

Thanatos' body instantly reacts; he plunges headlong into the raging river. Pressure constricts him from every side; choking water pours into his forced-open mouth. He lets himself be propelled to where the pull is strongest, where the tide threatens to suffocate him. His eyes sting; hair clings to his face. Zagreus' body is only just discernible, a dark shape obscured by the river's great body, pelted by the rain. Near the surface, just breaching, he can see Mort's purple nose, and next to it, the blurred metal edge of something else purple, gleaming. It's instinct that spurs Death to reach for that shine on water; he knows before even touching it with fingers. The butterfly keepsake's wings burn cold to his palm; faintly, they glow, something which only occurs if the magic locked within is invoked. As Death grasps it, reeling, the implication strikes him like lightning. The reason why Zagreus won; the reason why he has made it to the Surface. Possibly the reason why he had thought to call Thanatos here.

Zagreus, in his ragged, near-death state, felled Lord Hades without taking a single hit.

Thanatos parts his lips to call out, but no sound escapes. Just out of reach, Zagreus is floating, falling, oblivious, serene. Not at all wearing the face of one who has done something so inconceivable, unthinkable as smite down an old god, his own blood. Death takes hold of both trinkets and swims to that limp, war-torn body, and cradles it in his arms, and lets himself sink feet-first. The river of death billows to admit them, the water drawing them deeper, swallowing, swirling, stirring, coaxing them both back to where they belong.

Rain beats a constant drum on the turbulent surface, leaving indentations, like spear-tips unto skin. Just before he lets his eyes drift shut, Thanatos can just make out the underbellies of stormclouds, painted indigo and violent, and the last remaining traces of Surface light—a barest shimmer through the violent filters, just drifting, as if to bid them a safe journey home.

The Styx deposits them forcefully onto the red velvet entryway that extends into Lord Hades' House. It looks recently displaced, disheveled; a streak runs through middle, a thin silver line neatly separating each half from the other. At the far end of the hall, the master bedchamber is rumbling with a vengeance. The usual calm torpor that marks Hypnos' station has been shattered, shades fearful and in disarray, but Hypnos himself is nowhere to be seen. Hiding, likely. No point to ponder it. There is time only to act. Uneven steps give way to near-gliding. Achilles is present, and will undoubtedly see them, see where they are headed. Nyx, as well. No matter. He can fear for it later.

The Prince's bedchambers feel crowded and cold, revealing. Death moves straight for the bed, its covering tucked together neatly, untouched. The room's many trinkets are filmed with a fine layer of dust. No one has paid this place mind for some amount of time. The bed protests Zagreus' weight laid down there (gently). Swathed by the blue of his blankets, he appears profoundly peaceful—eyes gently closed and dreaming. Seeing him at rest at last brings a pretense of comfort. Thanatos fumbles to find Mort, the butterfly trinket, and lays them neatly next to Zagreus' body. Slumbering, it rises and slowly falls. Shadows paint his face like a canvas. The room calms a fraction, distills. Silence settling, a pervasive chill. The night mirror, soft-smiling, as if to say it's been some time. A wink from the bedside table. A single bottle of nectar there, unopened.

An inkling. The contraband is still strapped to his person. Thanatos thumbs the cold, glassy edge, thinking. This is unlike him, this surrender to whim. Temperance has, through existence, always been an asset. But now this sweet promise tempts him, almost as much as Zagreus' unspoiled hair, or the composition of his scars. He jerks his hand away; but it reaches, of its own accord, to the table. The vial of ambrosia fits perfectly between his fingers, as if it is made for Thanatos to hold. The rich liquid touches his tongue before he can consider what he doing. Essence of pom and pleasure dance on his tongue. For one long, lingering moment, the air around him seems more hospitable.

Zagreus in slumber could be a statue, white plaster besmirched by red wounds, silver scars. Those scars branch and wind like a river snaking, raised and beaded by skin already scabbing over. Once, this was shocking—to see those vivid gashes like licks from the Styx, muscle laid open to bone—he ought to feel nothing at all for them now, because they indicate nothing that has not already happened, or will happen again. He ought to feel nothing, and certainly not drawn to them, those red-and-pearl lashings. They would feel rough, surely. They must. Thanatos' fingers itch with an acute urging to touch them. He flinches and bends and very nearly reaches toward them, to the stretch of torso that defines their center, like the vertex of a dying star system.

Instead, Death does what he had come here to do. He extends a lone quivering finger to the Prince's forehead—not yet a touch, but a promise of one—and blesses him with sleep.


Zagreus continues to call for him with a frequency bordering on untenable, tempting Thanatos' patience with every new rotation. Whether he truly requires Death's touch or not, he puts himself within consistent reach, constantly baiting the edge of too-close.

Answering Zagreus—Zagreus himself, of his own meritbecomes something of an anxious habit. Born of the body, like a spasm of muscle, a tic—unable to be ignored, or controlled. It isn't without consequence. Guilt snakes its way up the gold veins that compose him, at times making him want to turn tail and run, as he has so many times in the past. Sometimes the guilt takes the shape of Lord Hades' wrath, and sometimes it is shaped like Meg's glaring eyes; but Thanatos' whole being, muscle and mind, have all given way to this condemned choice. A choice that is his alone.

Death continues to monitor Life's progress closely, treading on the fringes of the Prince's shadow, and at times gives in to the temptation of challenge. Sometimes, the temptation is directed—steering Thanatos to Asphodel's scald, or Elysium's spring fields. Now, it guides him to Tartarus, to a sere, creaking chamber just beyond the borders of the House of Hades—the very start of a new revolution. The place is teeming with wretches, bodies thrown with abandon, each one aiming to snuff that Life out. Death approaches with a grim-set smile, and Zagreus, grinning wide, disposes of no fewer than thirty louts using nothing but Lady Demeter's fists. The aftermath is crowded and cluttered with a nervous chatter, spilling unfettered from Zagreus' mouth. It's not so unusual: the Prince is fond of talking. He's rather a penchant for shaping empty silence with conversation, for chattering Thanatos in circles, stealing the last word. Still, it seems out of sorts. There's not a speck of blood yet on him, and this too feels odd.

(Perhaps it should not be. Is Thanatos not now so well-accustomed to the way violence shades subtly, incrementally into the mundane?)

The Prince inquires about Hypnos, and Mother Nyx. About work, of all things. Nothing of Olympus, or of his greater plight, or Lady Persephone; but Thanatos has already learned not to ask.

(Thanatos doesn't speak of the Surface call, either; presumably for the same reason he can't seem to feel upset by it, or spited. Never mind it that these would be simpler to embody, simpler to act the part of wronged party, hurt party, used party. He can't bring himself to be these things, because they aren't the truth of what he feels.)

The unspoiled marble of the Prince's cheeks floods with color from talking. Spirited, he produces a bottle from his chiton—another ambrosia. He appears truly excited to have it in his possession, to be offering it to Thanatos now. "A tribute," he ribs, with a goofy, grandiose bow. Playful. Teasing. (Familiar.)

Offerings are made to be taken.

"You know," Death begins, trying a hand at levity. The Prince's ears perk. "The Olympians do have good taste in certain things. The last bottle you gave me…it was better than expected. Though, I almost decided to not try it at all."

Concealing the truth here is not much of an object, because the statement is not quite a lie; only because Thanatos soon earlier had, in a continuation of this long stretch of lapsed judgment, touched a single drop of the stuff to his tongue. That incident, at Zagreus' bedside—the honeyed touch of liquid, and that secret spell of sleep—it had changed something, unlocked something within him. Some capacity for temptation, transgression, like a scar. The ambrosia tasted like a promise—too sweet to be real, and almost too temptuous to resist.

(But then had not been the time for scorched-earth defection, to let the old him snuff out fully and be reborn anew. Not just yet.)

Zag's face, elated, is more reward than any sacred imbibement; it shakes Thanatos from the snare of his internal discourse. "Ah! But try it you did, did you? Marvelous. And now you'll get to try this one for comparison's sake. Each one's supposed to be different, you know."

Death tries a smile, quirked, a lopsided lip-curl; small and ill-formed, but true.

"Different, huh. I guess I'll have to see what you mean by that." (And he would, assured; one day, or night, soon.) "Thank you, Zag. You didn't have to do this."

As Zagreus beams, Thanatos feels rather blearily fond. Fond for this brash fool who drags him all though Hell and talks off his ear and plies him with endless goods—all these riches and treasures plundered from shadows, from the mount of the gods, even from mortal Earth itself. The Prince's poppy now lives where Mort once had, close to his heart. He's thinking of precisely this when he spots the mouse's telltale purple nose, his exposed little teeth, just peeking at the pair of them from the Prince's belt. Thanatos can't help but to screw up his face, to distort his awkward half-smile with true, unmarred mirth.

"Good to see you taking little Mort there on one of your strolls. Perhaps this means I can keep a better eye on you out here."

Zagreus' grin stretches to his ears. With care, he lifts the little mouse, waves his tiny paws. Holds him out to Thanatos, an invitation, crossing the scant distance between them. (When had…?)

"He's been great to have around, for sure," Zagreus lilts. "Still can't believe you found him after all this time! You used to always carry him around. I was so sad for you when he got lost."

Little lies must be a theme of the day, because there isn't a way that Death can relay the truth of this, either. No sanctioned way to inform Zagreus that Mort had never been lost; only the subject of willful neglect, back in that long-ago time when they were yet young gods. In that time when all things Chthonic felt like a curse, and Thanatos was plagued by self-doubt and diffidence. He rejected his Companion in a fit of misplaced resentment, ashamed of his reliance on Mort for comfort, reassurance. Nyx had been gracious, reclaimed and kept the little mouse safe, raised no complaint when he came to her weeping once he had realized the gravity of his error. In all, it had been a formative lesson.

"I cannot believe you still remember that," Thanatos mutters instead (though this, too, is a lie). He touches Mort's ear and smiles his silent thanks, daring to believe that the beloved thing will heretofore be well-cherished. "Regardless, he will not be getting lost again under your supervision, accurate?"

"Accurate," Zagreus heartily confirms, and tucks Mort safely back into his clothing.

After a few long-stretching seconds, both of their smiles fade (though not Mort's, as his is everlasting). Thanatos returns to work, and Zagreus begins the newest among his quests.


Sometimes, it aches; but he accepts it.

Sometimes, it aches when Zagreus goes through his rhythms and motions, climbing up and up through the Underworld's bowels. Sometimes it aches to follow, to track him, to watch his back for him—to look for Mort's ears just peeking, or the glitter of wings. It might ache when he catches one of those things, or both; it often aches when he doesn't. It almost invariably aches to feel the scrutiny of Lord Hades on his back, or Nyx's quiet concern, or Meg's grudge palpable as he passes, any time that they must share the same space. It aches when the ghost of Zagreus' presence lingers on Surface air like an ethereal stain. It aches to hear Zagreus' voice, ripped from his throat in a violent cry, calling for Death to come to his aid. It aches every stab, every metal punch, every arrow that flies, every whip of the shield, every challenge, every call, every victory, every death. Every bottle of nectar (twelve), ambrosia (three, now). Every time Zagreus looks at him with that face. Soiled with blood and spirit; spoiled with gratitude.

Sometimes, oftentimes, all times, more and more, it aches. (It aches, it aches, it aches.)

But Thanatos accepts it anyway.