The next several days and nights pass by in relative peace.
So long has darkness reigned in Lord Hades' domain that its inhabitants were left rather at a loss when Hell's rightful Queen returned Underground. All in the House, be they low shade or high charge, now find themselves scrambling. They buzz about the foyer to kiss the Lady's hand, hanging helplessly off of her every word. Chatter, color, and light, in these fast-coming days and faster-coming nights, fill up every crevice, and with them, the Prince's new plunders. From her royal seat—and yes, it is unmistakably hers, perhaps even more now as before her departure—Persephone smiles in her regal manner. Where she treads, one could smell lilies.
In the mortal world, by contrast, the turbulence is ceaseless. The sky itself seems unable to cope with Persephone's absence, by turns shrieking, then hushing to all-chilling silence. Shuffling souls cling to any available substrate to avoid being set adrift, forming quick, grateful lines into Charon's boat. Wondering, plain as the forgotten day, what sort of prodigious event had come to pass, and whether it was worth the icy sermon of tears.
Seeking distraction, Death roams.
In the Queen's gardens, the verdures blur and blend together into vibrant swaths of all colors; a single section puts all the Elysian fields to shame. Wherever one looked, flowers grow—even Earthly specimens that should have long since died. Through the days and nights, Lady Persephone can be found walking among them, humming, infusing them with magic. In her greenspaces, all things living could thrive. Truly, Life's mother.
Death roams this realm that has belonged to both Master and Queen; though this he has always done, he now finds himself stunned by the differences between them. While parted, both Hell and Earth suffered. But now, even as the Queen's absence is so painfully felt in the mortal world, this one flourishes. Exalted joy emanates by her presence alone; the same is palpable in the song of every shade, the way that time flows faster and purposeful, rather than languored in oppressive routine. Death thinks that perhaps time has not truly touched this place since Persephone left it. As if all of the Underworld had been collectively holding in breath.
Even the ever-obdurate Lord Hades—and by this standard, he perhaps signifies the most significant change, with his newly pacified and palliated demeanor. (Though some things, as could be expected, remain as they had been: for instance, the Master's despotic insistence that they all uphold protocol, for even the return of their long-lost Queen is no excuse to slack off). In all though, the House has become more lively—more alive—than Death could ever recall it being, even within his most distant memories. It is nothing short of a miracle, heavens-sent. An act of the divine.
When the Queen smiles her quick, clever smile, Thanatos thinks of roses—silken petals, vestigial thorns. Delicate yet strong, and divinely constructed. They would all toil just the bit harder to be rewarded with that smile. It is not unlike that which she gave to her son. Except when Zagreus smiles, Thanatos thinks of some things other—new life; fire and blood; the changing of seasons; the rising of the sun and the hanging of the moon. Intense heat and an undercurrent of static. A beginning only just unfurling.
The Prince, for his part, revels in his new purpose, taking to his freshly sanctioned position brilliantly and with quite a flair for the dramatic. Given the freedom to keep running rogue, yet having the good fortune to make fighting and thievery a full-fledged career. Somehow, it all ended up so inspired. How odd, Death might muse, is this thing called existence. (But they are each pleased in equal measure.)
The future is ripe on his lips when he smiles, just after Zagreus makes this announcement. Stating proudly: "it's good to be working with you in a more official capacity, Zag." Receiving a rakish, eager grin in return, he adds: "Well, then. Shall we get started?"
With this unabated menagerie of new developments, Thanatos expects something of a grander shift between them than what actually comes to pass. But when it comes to it, nothing of their dynamic really changes. At least, not at first.
He can't pinpoint the reason; but it is disquieting.
Their next rendezvous is distinctively charged. Tartarus is the destination: in that labyrinthine collection of greenlit chambers, the ever-shifting walls exhale their anticipation. All around, the air hums with the drone of the damned; it lingers, refusing to set. The room breathes and expands to let Thanatos in, accommodating his silent entry.
And ah; the Prince in his new seat of power is ruthless. He makes this time, upon Death's entrance, an ominous silhouette, framed in the cold glare of Athena's light. Portrait-like; statuesque, an effigy formed of sunlight and jewels. The demon-souls that flank him snap their venom mouths and snarl, wailing banshee cries and leaping for what will be a fruitless impact. Death laughs, loudly as he approaches, and Zagreus looks back. His delight, a beacon. And a battle-call.
(Ah; fun. Death, too, had nearly forgotten.)
"These wretches never seem to learn," the Prince bellows in greeting, cocking a brow in invitation. "Do they?"
Thanatos draws his scythe and gives a hearty sweep, the spirit of battle guiding his very bones. "They really don't."
"Think you can beat me?"
Death bares his teeth. "Try me."
The air crackles with fire, shimmers with water and light. Death can see Zagreus clutch Malphon's Fists, knuckles knotted and stunningly white, belying the blood that supplies them. His eyes are dilated with elation; he looks a wild thing, a force of nature, a creature securely in its element. The flock of wretches forms a dark and infinite cyclone about him, exuding menace: scores of them, amassed and screeching in hair-raising decibels. Bloodflood thrills; adrenaline supplementing ichor. It is easy to see now, how the Prince of lifeblood could so lose himself in this fantastical head rush. It is suddenly all so, so easy to see.
"Ey, Than. Here's something for the show."
Thanatos follows the source of the sound, and there Zagreus is, suspended on air: spinning himself in a grandiose arc, soaring through the horde like a star. It is a stunning apparition, one to which Death cannot help but submit; it coaxes an impatient twitch from his muscles and arrests him for so long that the score is rendered forfeit. One weapon snaps out of the Prince's hand, forming a deadly fractal arc, shredding everything as it goes. The swarm clears, and again there is the hush: the hush, and the looming green-and-crimson horizon.
"Well done, Zag," Death might have said, except that he seems still rather frozen, unable to move or speak; and the Prince is already bounding up too quickly, to exchange his newest ill-gotten bottle for another heart. And Death finds himself flushed and thrumming with the faintest brush of fingers, the mere promise of heat, that life; and that voice in his ears, dark and oily and craven, whispering,
"Thanks for the challenge…Find me out here again soon." And he has the gall to wink, of all things.
"Wait," Thanatos squeaks (much too high-pitched, and too quickly). "Are you already going?"
Zagreus cocks a brow. "Mm? Isn't it you who has to go, now?"
He cocks his head just so, and their eyes lock properly; and Thanatos wonders, in the haze of that shared, scintillating gaze, whether each of them wants the same thing in this moment. His pulse picks up, carting with it an energized sense of dread. A foreign yet familiar sensibility. This is nervousness of a different sort; the kind that mingles with excitement, coursing stronger than Lord Zeus' lightning. In such an electric world, Zagreus has become conductive and grounding all at once, and Death—
(Death would shock himself in an instant.)
The art of titillation is not among Thanatos' repertoire of skills, has never been a necessary savvy for his work (and neither god nor man has ever dared test him to this, not he—the morose harbinger of death). And so, he hasn't the means to convey the I wants. Inside his head, every word to this effect has a strange, jarring sound, like it clashes with his every reason, but at the same time reinforces. And this is to say nothing of the potential for delivery. All of it tastes wrong. Like such open reciprocation is not for him to even ponder.
So he dusts himself of, shifts to touch down with his feet, and finally summons the courage to say: "I will come back. Soon."
Zagreus always smiles so beautifully. In parting, they graze, touching shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing warm skin—Zagreus is always warm, like a celestial body burning itself out—and after, he flashes a roguish look, and grasps Thanatos' hand in his.
"I'll count on it."
Thanatos might have cursed just then, knowing the time has come in earnest for him to depart (oh, for a little more time!); but instead he permits this momentary surrender, and commits for now that solid press of calloused fingers into his own sweat-thatched palm.
Death waits, and patiently. But nothing of note happens.
He meets Zagreus many times Underground, in ascension, and several more at the House. It's still different, still charged. Further, the Underworld itself is so. Remarkable that this, once a place beyond life, could so thrive by Life's hand. Death is yet to become accustomed.
Well, not by Life alone. The Queen's charms seem imbued, instilled in the House's very walls. Lord Hades wears his newfound temperance loosely, but reconciliation certainly suits him (though none would dare express this outright). Hypnos has done well in making himself useful (to think lists, of all things, would be the key). Of late, even Megaera's spirits have lifted. The surly, sullen Court musician, of all shades, has resumed his singing (Thanatos had begun to question whether the bedraggled man truly had the talent, but Zagreus clearly knew better).
For all the Prince's indelicate meddlings, Hell has never been happier. All of it feels rather like a dream.
Each time that they meet, Thanatos cannot help but think this might be the time—he isn't even sure what he's expecting, whether source or resolution to this unspoken tension between them. Tension that has remained unbroken since their last foray to Asphodel. Surely Zagreus thinks more of him, of his feelings, than this. Or is Thanatos mistaken, despite the Prince's declarations? Was Meg correct, all along? Was it an inevitability, that Zagreus would grow bored with him so quickly?
The disparaging thoughts follow him between worlds. Hypnos notices first (astonishingly) and comforts Death with some ill-conceived jokes that send him shaking his head all the way to the lounge. Inside, Chef is wielding his magic on some truly monstrous fishes, spreading ghostly hands to fill up a gold dish. In it, fine-chopped onions and broth and dried tomatoes; olive oil and salt and a bit of cinnamon. Taken by the aroma, Thanatos walks toward the kitchen to watch the dish come together. It's a miraculous spread, one that could only be reaped from Queen Persephone's garden.
Then, from nowhere, the Prince himself strolls right up to the counter, spears a morsel of cooked fish and puts it right in his mouth. Chewing indecently; then grinning too widely upon spotting Than there. Already preparing a second bite.
"Why, hello, dear Than—Chef, you've outdone yourself this time, marvelous job, mate—what brings you here? Following my good advice to take a break now and then, are you~?" He's picked up the bowl now, eating from it heartily; one lone fleck of onion clings to his cheek. Thanatos stares blankly at it for a brief moment, before snapping his eyes back into focus.
"Something like that."
"Well now, cheers to that, I say! Warms the heart to see it. Ah, speaking of, I've a gift for you—"
Death, whose idly wandering gaze has just shifted to the Prince's clavicle, quickly lets his eyes fall to the now-empty bowl. "If it's nectar, why don't we share it together?
Zagreus' mouth spreads wide in a satisfied grin. "Share it, eh? I could get used to this newfound hedonism."
(And though Death would like intensely to protest this line of reasoning, he can manage little more than a dispassionate tsch.) "I'm sure you could."
The Prince holds out his palm, and Thanatos snatches up the bottle and swigs. After a few mouthfuls, he passes it back rather clumsily. Chef looks on with a bemused interest; or as much so as he is capable of producing.
The nectar swirls in Death, drips an acid hole from his gullet to his brain. His eyes dart in all directions as Zagreus drinks, from the bouncing knob rising and falling in his throat to the shining, silvered cords of muscle, the way those fingers grip that golden vial. This time, it tastes of lavender and vanilla. The pull of the nectar makes Death unsteady; the sight of a jubilant Prince, more still.
There's nothing he wants more in the worlds than to touch, to taste that sweet liquid from the Prince's lips; but fear and apprehension stay him where he stands. But perhaps it's alright, because Zagreus' (warm, so warm) fingers are coming to rest now at his spine, rubbing in small, affectionate circles.
"Mm—can't say I ever tire of this stuff," the Prince sighs happily. "Thanks for that, Than. And you, Chef, for the meal. May not have been the wisest venture, given that I'm overdue to report to Father, but I'd say this was time well spent!"
Thanatos glances carefully down, trying to dispel the disappointment from his face. "You'll be going, then?"
"I'm sorry, Than. Wretched timing. I only meant to have a quick bite before having to go see the old man. It's a good thing he's gotten a bit more pleasant to deal with now that Mother's back…"
"Zag."
Zagreus pauses, licking his lips (curse it all) and tilts his head sidelong. "Mm?"
He draws on the nectar to fortify him, and says:
"Kiss me."
For a beat, the Prince goes stock-still, and Thanatos fears he has done wrong. But before he can vanish, Zagreus is kissing him—coaxing and sensuous, almost teasing. Stoking that lingering spark within him—feeding this ever-fluctuating fire. The warmth—it isn't enough, for he who is so apparently wanting to burn; but it is, at least, reassurance. Assurance that for now, at least, Zagreus still finds him worthy enough. Interesting enough.
"You're becoming so bold, Than," Zagreus chuckles fondly when they break. "We ought to indulge you more often, eh? I'll see you soon, and we can continue, if you like. You'll come find me, won't you?"
He gives a long wave and winks as he sidles away, and Thanatos feels his face glow hot, his nectar-addled head still reeling. "Indeed," he finally mutters, long after Zagreus is gone, and only Chef remains to hear him.
The usual antidote to unpleasant emotions is simply to drown oneself in work. But even this, it seems, is losing its utility.
On the Surface, the sky weeps. Not quite a rain- or snowstorm, but the kind of in-between deluge that must have gathered slowly, clouds growing fat overnight, new tears commingling with old. Cold ice drizzles finely in disjointed skeins. Has Zagreus made more progress with the Olympians? Death can recall the state of the sky as it was during his last several visits. The rain then had been heavy and unforgiving, as if Lady Demeter wished to drown the mortal world entire.
Charon, upon arrival, offers his brother a sympathetic glance (not unwelcome, but perhaps a bit too perceptive for comfort). Thanatos offers no response, save to gaze out at the rain-washed horizon. The warm, comforting scent of steeped soil perfumes the air. For the duration of this trip, at least, perhaps they could both tarry in the fragile illusion that nothing more of note is amiss.
Thanatos holds a small, wary girl's hand, guiding her gently to the boat. She is very young; but Death learned long before not to dwell on the injustice of a life stolen too soon. The rain falls in sheets, turning every patch of greenery blurry and distant. Out of the mist, a woman—the girl's mother, as it would seem—approaches Death with an uplifted head, love and acceptance in her blown-glass eyes. Her lips slowly forming words—thank you, thank you. She has kind eyes and a pretty, wry smile, and though the world is wet and dark and she can no longer truly feel, her face is traceless of fear.
He should feel content, or relieved, or anything apart from what he actually feels: a crude, sourceless ache, not unlike the weaker kind that his work tends to stymie—at least for a while, until the next trip. But this ache is different. An acid-water cavern, clawed into his chest. Dripping as it burns.
He is suddenly taken by an urge to apologize to the mother and her little one, and perhaps also to Charon; but this would be baseless, and so Thanatos does what Thanatos does best. He suppresses it all.
Back in Lord Hades' domain, he emerges from interdimensional nothing and collapses against the nearest solid thing, knock-kneed and dizzy. To his misfortune, Achilles shares the space, though he stands still as a statue and pays Death no attention. He's grateful. The catastrophe that is his mind has always been subject to half-proofs and paradoxes, a tangle of what is real and what is conceived. But now, his every thought seizes both his heart and the breath in his lungs like some airborne illness—one among myriad causes for mortals to perish. Perhaps this is what it means to become infected. He thinks he would likely pray for death then, too.
The night on which he finally gives in is a night like any other, deceptively so. Nothing untoward or glaring, but there is that certain something. A hush given voice, as if he is being called. This time not to the plane of the living, but to a haunt he's not dared frequent in quite a long time.
Just after the Prince has departed to start the next run, Death finds himself confronting the night-mirror once more. At first, its expression is beautifully and coldly blank as ever, but each encounter is different, and this shows in the shape that takes form: Thanatos himself, true-to-likeness save for a self-assured air that belies the true version. The figment's posture, even the tilt of his head portrays a calm confidence.
What do you seek? the mirror asks him; and it's a bit of a comfort, this time.
He feels before he sees it—the first shard of excitement that causes his thighs to clench and the fabric of his chiton to stick to his skin. Then, that gnawing hunger. And everything—all the shame that would take him, all the roots that make up his unrealized greed—they lose their substance, their sting, upon reflection. And reflected they are, for Zagreus has now joined his mirrored form: a pillar of might and beauty, curling himself around Thanatos' body. Bone-white fingers fluttering against his lips, inviting him in. Those long coils of hair for him to tug on, the vast expanses of disclosed skin, the sturdy arch of the spine and the cheeky quirk of mouth. That mouth is what seizes him, more than anything else. Desire, those snakes, slithering down; disappearing in the hidden dark of his gut.
He understands the meaning: he is at a standstill, unable to move forward or go back until he has solved this conundrum, this mess that is constricting him.
It's dangerous, this knowledge, because it means he is too fearful still, too thwarted by his eternal lack of self-regard. He still doesn't see matters as they truly are, not those pertaining to the self, not even when they are revealed before his very eyes. He still can't reveal them for himself, and this is dangerous because fear is an internal disease: a slow disintegration that starts from within and steadily eats its way outward. If Death knows nothing else, he now knows this.
The mirror reshapes its image to project him again, stalwart, standing tall and strong and proud. This time, his counterpart appears defiant, and itching for battle. Again, he understands the message: if Zagreus would seem unwilling, it is up to Thanatos to make something happen, to get to the heart of the matter—whether this be a flash that has long since fizzled, or a sign Thanatos has done wrong. This is a war waged between want and fear; and that, at least, is nothing novel.
The glass winks its assent, ostensibly pleased, and then wipes itself blank; and there, Thanatos finds his resolve.
