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

(For one, he is much improved in manner.)

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. Beyond this, he blushes every time that Death approaches; that's how Thanatos knows it is real.

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

That's not to say fear has been vanquished entire. 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, even to talk about it.

Well.

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

Sometimes, Death 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 an awaiting bed, where they'd crawl in next to each other and just sleep: lazy, ordinary, uncomplicated. Sometimes he thinks of doing much, 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 and helpless for it, for that taste of thrill, adrenaline in his veins. No matter how things may 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 toward the far edge of the room, where his old friend the mirror resides; and in that simple exchange, he will have his answer (as he has always). In those precious moments, human voices might still call, and duty might yoke his neck; yet, somehow still, he'll find it in him to refuse to remit these few precious moments of peace. And set against the backdrop of this burgeoning new world, Thanatos will remember that he is a god; that he is, here and now, unmistakably, Death Incarnate—with his lover breathing that 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 that 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 safeguard his Prince.

(And so, going forward, Thanatos will stand firm, while Zagreus paces; 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; and holds them open when they move together, each draping 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 something of a penultimate lesson, it would seem; appropriately, a lesson in trust.)


Death takes it upon him to bow to Lady Persephone on every occasion that he returns to the House. Most times, she is found in the company of her Lord Husband (in some stage of grumpiness, and usually scribbling away at his desk) and Cerberus, whose heads take turns dutifully watching her, belly flat 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, engaged in battle with his son); the Queen's face is unmaking a mischievous smile, one that draws him to her as by 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 meekly 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.

Persephone misses nothing of him. "You are much changed, my dear, yet in some ways, 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, Queen. 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 at times, whether Hypnos has tricked us all."

"Ah…all these years, Thanatos, I would confess that I too have only dreamed of such a happy outcome," the Queen lilts, in a way that reminds Death of freshly-rustled leaves. "How I've longed for the day that I might again see my family, my sweet child; but this—such a blessed reunion…now that it has come to be, it feels perhaps more of a dream than it had even 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 and levity to us, my Queen," Thanatos bows. "For all that was lost, 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, I should hope," Persephone acquiesces. At some indeterminate point, the fabric composing her garment had begun to billow around her, graced by an invisible wind. She joins her the tips of her fingers 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 scapulae. "Ah…Your son, he is…very capable of looking after himself, as it turns out. Although…I do 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. This, I suppose, was destined." 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, eh?"

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. I am awaited 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 had never thought too much of Earth.

Of course, he has spent a significant amount of time there, and certainly he has committed its many geographical marvels to memory through these embarkations. A few hundred million years of reconnaissance, followed by some hundred and fifty thousand years of service to mortal men, women and children, would ensure that. But duty tends to preclude any indulging of the senses, and if he's honest, Death had long since forgotten of the planet's beauty. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he simply hasn't the time to remember, as most of his visits now are restricted to the Surface, the souls suffering there. In fact, over the course of his very existence, he has had less and less of a reason to roam the Earth.

So when Zagreus bounds to his post at the House, and asks him say, what's it like, out there, Than?, it takes Death by surprise: how faithful the sentiments memory waxes. How abundant. How fond.

He talks first of the deserts: the searing 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), scratching the throat, 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, flying on the wind. Life's music: 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 wild things, how diverse they are, how uniquely conditioned their fauna and flora. He talks of the sun and the moon and the night (though omits any mention of Erebus). His mother's domain is a friend, yes, but in truth Death favors twilight: that secret space in-between all things, and preferred by so many mortal creatures. A transient yet indulgent time, before the toll of darkness sets in; providing a brief and momentary peace.

He talks of the mortals, what he's observed of their customs, their odd acts and rituals. Their shared experiences and their forged livelihoods. The fierce love and hatred they may harbor in equal measure. The crippling pain that they suffer, when one among their number dies. How Death, feeling such pain, would strive to greet the new dead with compassion. To impart upon them the assurance that all would be well. That they are safe and soon homeward bound. That they are loved.

He talks of the sensations that 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's seen.

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

"I'll take you there, if you like," Thanatos murmurs, 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, a soft, secret thing.

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—for so long running rogue, causing so much trouble, only to become the one to unite the realms once that fire was focused toward something good. Having the audacity to not only orchestrate the Queen's return, but to repair Hell's broken foundation entirely—and beyond this, to play the Olympians like stringed instruments.

As he himself once said: I think the Fates quite like this sort of thing.

Were he a wiser god, with an unstrung heart—and perhaps bearing no grudge against his sisters—Death might have trusted much sooner in this. The notion that Life untempered would bring about ruin, destruction, an end—it was all, of course, unfounded. As time passes by, Death comes to recognize this for what it was. Fear, resentment, even longing will do that—make fools out of men and gods alike. He is thankful, often, to acknowledge that truth.

Now, though...

Of late, though, that trust—so meticulously earned, yet so fragile—has been tested.

Their rendezvouses have grown fewer, for one. Since he last spoke of Earth, some time ago now, Death has seen neither flank nor flamed feet of Zagreus at the House. And this is not by dint of any slacking on his part. Indeed, by Death's observation he's been throwing himself in it more frequently than ever. Nor is it due to a lack of Death trying—rather, Zagreus has proven tough to pin down. Further, he has been experimenting profusely with different weapons, chasing many different boons, and Death cannot ascertain the reason why. And when they do meet—when Death meets him, out in the Underworld—Zagreus will not speak on it. And he still can't quite find the momentum to ask.

It is all really just too close for comfort.

This is the thought that now pervades Death, emerging in one of Elysium's clearings. Wanting to approach him simply for the routine; ultimately reneging to watching. Indeed staring, captivated, as Malphion's long claws (indisputably the Prince's favorite weapon) score flame-hot lines that strip flaming wheels to planks. And here, unleashed from his fists and surging all around, come the entourage: Aphrodite, her hair spun-gold and diamonds; Ares, his flames forming a wall; Poseidon and Dionysus, flooding water and wine; Hermes, sweeping the very air into a frenzy. Artemis and Athena are there too, twin pillars of wild magic and wise might. And then, there is 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.

The message is clear: Zagreus has succeeded in winning their favor.

The Prince's odd sway over his estranged relatives, Thanatos would admit, had been reaching a height that no one could have predicted. But his motivations, and his judgment, remain questionable. Though he may now enjoy the Olympians' esteem, their favor is notoriously fickle. Dissention's never failed to follow where the old gods are concerned. Between their rapacious sensibilities and the erstwhile Queen's return, what could the Prince truly hope to accomplish? What is it that he's been plotting? So grand, so awful, or perhaps so hurtful, that he would keep it even from Death?

(He wouldn't—)

The air crackles. Zagreus clenches his fists, knuckles knotted and painfully white, as white as the skin of his bloodless face. His eyes are enormous, dilated by some potent potion of strain and joy, threatening to consume him outright. And Death finds himself once again fixed by those eyes—half-mad, burnished, dangerous—and always threatening to dismantle his resolve.

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

(He looks to be—)

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—always, always, always at the center. Of course it would be so, that he would become their attractor as well.

Thanatos has always been a rational creature. He does not covet, nor would he begrudge any fondness the Prince might extend to any other being. It is not envy he feels, nor any sort of desire to tame or mold or hold down. To do as much would be unthinkable. These serpents are far more complex than that; and their fangs are pointed not at the sky, toward any god, but right over Death's heart. Poised and ready to strike.

(Yes. There are many things that they don't talk about.)

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

Zagreus startles and look about blindly for him. Death can see flashes of Zeus in those eyes. He jerks every which way, a flopping fish out of water, or pinioned by Chef's knife. Tilting his head now (decidedly different), refraining from asking the expected questions, or making any of the usual statements (Thanatos! or it's him or you've found me again). Instead he just arches an eyebrow and quips, "Skulking about again, Than? Wondering what I've been up to, then, eh?"

"I have."

Zagreus shrugs, performative, a theatric flair that play-acts true frustration. "Haven't we moved past 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."

The levity returns swiftly. "Ah-ah. Isn't there a nicer way?"

Gritting his teeth, Thanatos all but snarls: "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," Zagreus states plainly. "Because I've been out here more. Calling on them more." He cants his head again, briefer this time.

Thanatos casts his shame-filled 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. Than, 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 slumps to the scorched grass below him and beckons him down with a finger. He kicks his legs beneath him, then unfolds them to lie back, peering upward at Death; his thighs readily part from one another, the skin already sheened and battle-flushed.

"If you think I'm about to join you down there—"

But Zagreus grabs his calf and (quite strangely) nuzzles it, sending up a column of heat that flares to Death's cheeks. And then he pulls. Death tumbles to the ground, sputtering; his fingers gathering green, already curling—

"No!" Zagreus blurts, and for once, it halts him. "Please. Just hear me. Please don't go." He gingerly takes hold of Death's hands and orients him upward, so that he is sitting. "Let me tell you, I—"

"Stop. Level with me, Zagreus. Are you not..." The words are pitched in his throat and out of his mouth before he can spear them. In any case, it's too late. The Prince already appears terribly interested in what he has to say. "I mean, you are not...ugh. Are you going to leave?"

"Wait, what? Why would I—"

"Tell me. Tell you are not leaving."

And, ah, there—those eyes. Those same eyes that mired him in Asphodel's fire, Zagreus' fire, those eyes that flitted over his face and pierced into his soul. Not piteous, but understanding. Empathizing. Those eyes fix Death's gaze for as long as he maintains sight, those few dizzying seconds, until he is pulled right back in again—trapped by that boiling and bone-crushing embrace.

"I'm not, Than," Zagreus breathes, into the wet hollow of Thanatos' neck.

It's unclear how long they remain like that. Death's threads had moments earlier threatened to snap, but with every elapsing second he is made ductile by that touch, he reclaims another of his vital organs. His legs are splayed, his arms uselessly limp and content to be caged. And after, once the most steadfast waves of panic have evaporated away, Zagreus takes Death's face in both his hands. Turns it back toward him, so he cannot look anywhere else but those eyes. All the regard that resides there.

"I am not ever going to abandon you again, Than. I know your trust is not easily won. I won't squander it."

Thus defeated, rationality again takes hold. But as always, the Prince's touch emboldens. Tentatively, Death does something that he does not often: he traces a scar on Zagreus shoulder, one of many like it elsewhere on his body, rendered with steel's edge. "I—apologize. For jumping to conclusions. I only thought..." he sighs. "It isn't important."

The Prince's voice is baleful and small. "It is."

Death sighs, relinquishes those sweet-grazing fingers to brush back his hair, to yank, to fill the space with movement. Simply to delay.

"Sometimes...I still feel it, that's all. How I felt back then, when this all began."

"It's okay. You're learning. I'm learning." Carefully, he extricates Death's fingers from his hair, and coaxes him gently back to him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, too. For not looping you in again. It's no excuse, but it's just that I'd gotten so wrapped up in—oh, but hold on! If you'll permit me, I can explain."

Death rests his head in the place where it has always belonged, and assents.

And then the Prince becomes a babbling brook, running over his own words in his eagerness to elaborate—about his long stints spent securing gifts for the Olympians, about how their scattered and superficial conversations have grown into something deeper—all of this, Death had known, or at least surmised. But the rest—leveraging the gods' self-serving desires to suit his purpose, sculpting their favor into—

(A solution. No. An agora.)

He speaks for so long that Thanatos feels the pull of the mortals many times over, building in power. Tugging at him in every direction. But Death will not be moved, not just now, not this time. This is too important.

"A gathering," he utters—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 every god on Olympus."

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

"A gathering. Here."

Zagreus blinks. "Yes, here."

"And you think you can arrange it. Successfully. And that nothing at all will go wrong."

"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 uninformed of our Queen's return, or that half of them are at war with each other."

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

"Why didn't you tell me any 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. Quite recently, if I'm 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." Zagreus smiles then, affectionately thumbing Death's knee. "And so have you, Thanatos."

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

Zagreus' laughter then is so genuine that it wipes the scowl clean off him, and he again retreats to logical thought. And there, in studying the Prince's laughing face, Death finds himself struck; bludgeoned by the forgotten realization that metamorphosis, true change, can come in many forms. Sometimes a corrosive process, a slow wash of substrata, forcing a network of new spiderlike cracks. Other times, complete inversion. He wonders which the Prince will bring; he suspects he already knows.

Zagreus is no agent, no envoy; he knows this. Not for the gods, not for Lord Hades, not for death. Zagreus, like life, plays emissary only for himself. Zagreus, Life, is his own sort of wonder. His own sort of danger.

(The gods cannot ever hope to control him, as much as Thanatos would not ever dare.)

Shelving this revelation, Death regains his composure. "You're certain, then, that the Olympians are unaware?"

"Of the plan? Or my relationship with each of them? That's right; although, it can only be a matter of time. Of course, I intend to have lain 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. "Honestly?"

Zagreus appears pensive for a long moment; mercifully, he asks for no 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 finality. "If you've ever wondered. I'm quite content with you, Than."

"I see," Thanatos says again, more final this time (though perhaps still a bit frayed).

The Prince smiles fondly. "Jealousy doesn't suit you," he ribs. 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 had when they were children—in that innocent and feckless time when all 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's got 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 spider-cracks, a little like shattering glass.

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


And another time.

On Earth, it is twilight. Thanatos is called to an island beset by a great storm. Under the encroaching 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 new dead to the fastidious Boatman, he drinks all that he sees; the wind in his hair speaks softly to him, whispering of life and death alike.


.

.

.


It takes some time before Death can properly pluck up the courage. Enough time for Zagreus to have maneuvered a few additional miracles to add to his repertoire; the Prince's plan has begun to fall into motion, strings held at the ready, the grand stage all but set. He's heard it from Charon, who heard it through Hermes, who has relayed the message throughout a positively explosive Olympus.

Death holds in his breath and tarries his worry; he channels it instead into this more immediate undertaking, hoping that he can summon the gumption; but with some extra encouragement from a mix of sources—Mother Nyx (in her cryptic way), Hypnos (in his backwards way), a delightfully scandalized Hermes (with whom Thanatos has not consorted in ages, and who apparently misses nothing where gossip is concerned; he has his inklings as to the god's source), and the other side of a bottle—he manages.

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

Zagreus is still dozing when he comes in, and Death can't help but to admire him, as he would be abashed to do so while awake—slack mouth just propped open, body gently rising and falling. With the laurel removed for sleep, curls fall in his eyes. The bed-covers have slipped down, so that Death can see the textures of his chest, the way his breastbone rises and falls with his drawn-up breaths, the way his nipples peak, the way that he sighs as he turns his head. It makes Death feel protective, and the feeling is a sweet, prickling pain in his chest.

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

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

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

"I'm going, now," he says. "To Earth."

"Mmmf?" Zagreus asks. His head tilts just leftward. It's unbearably endearing.

"Come with me."


In such a short time, the rain has cleared. Gossamer streams of evening light filter through the cloudscapes, flame-gold and candy-pink, pouring luxuriously across the horizon. Soft enough to cast the landscape in a warm, comforting glow; piercing enough to dispel any errant poison thoughts. This is the true allure of sunset. It is the pure, distillate essence of being profoundly present.

And the present is now.

"All right. Open your eyes."

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

"It's beautiful," Zagreus gasps, 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 soars diagonal and takes them higher, higher, to the sprawling mountain ranges that reach up their icy zeniths in pursuit of Mount Olympus—their snaking valleys carved beneath, their rivers beautiful and clean. The new twilit sky tints every surface with rose; a spectacular illustration. The planet entire welcomes them.

"Does it meet your expectations?" Death asks, when they have at last finally settled. "I hoped that it would."

But it couldn't, not really, because one cannot expect that for which one has no context; and Zagreus dealings with this world had been so tainted by determination. Death wonders in secret whether he had ever truly paid any mind to his surroundings at all, when he made it here. Having freshly conquered his father, and in a desperate state to get to his mother. Was there ever a time when he'd stopped to—(hem.)—smell the roses, as it were?

But truly, even if he had, Death knows nothing on the Surface could have prepared Life for this. Not the sheer transcendence of the mortal world; not the protective, perfect circle of Death's shielding arms; not how these things make him feel a wholly different kind of breathless. A many-splendored thing. He prays this miracle will sink deep into the Prince's 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 though simply existing with Life in this place paints it with an entirely new brush.

"It's...above and beyond, Than."

In this place, this time, the world is still—no whipping wind, no baleful storms. Perhaps the Fates mean at last to grace him with a favor. It shall not be wasted.

Death cradles Life's head and navigates them due west, then makes a gentle descent, so that their feet touch down right back in the Queen's gardens. They cannot stay long—only long enough to commit to memory the cornucopia of color, the vast swaths of flora—how the whole expanse smells like honeysuckle and lilies, how the lolling bees must revere this place as Paradise. Perhaps another time, they will return on another clear day when the dawn is just breaking. Perhaps they'll chart the changing of the seasons, so Zagreus may behold each of the miracles that this realm has to offer.

Perhaps. As long as—

"Soon," 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.

"Soon."

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

"I do. I think...I think this is the best chance we have."

Death smiles, tenuous like a cloud's silvered edges. "There was a time when my refrain would be to have some more humility. But you ought to give yourself credit, Zag." A few moments pass, and then he continues: "It may be half-mad, but it is well-conceived. And if anyone could succeed in such a scheme, it would be 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 with desperation, but with the sort of presence and passion that Death has come to expect from Life. And the shock of tangy blood-wine on his lips is like sunshine and honey, a touch of summertime out of season—the kind of reassurance Death 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 break for air at last, in the very same instant that Zagreus says "Trust me, Than."

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