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Chapter Text

It has been a long time since Zagreus last made it topside, but now he finds himself in Elysium with Malphon covering his fists and a modicum of hope. 

Aphrodite, Ares, and his Uncle Zeus all grant him aid as he makes his way through the underworld. He is desperate to see his mother again; to smell her garden and the flowers within. He wants to feel the grass beneath his feet that is so different from whatever facsimile of grass that grew in Elysium. He wants to see her, wants to be around her, and wants to spend as much time with her as his body will allow.

As he makes his way, sustaining injury after injury, the idea that she will tell him stories and he will regale her tales of growing up in the underworld keeps him moving forward. If he makes it to her, he might even bring up father, if she is so inclined, although it's always a touchy subject.

After taking a breath, he pauses at a door.

Two choices appear before him; Charon’s shop or a boon from Aphrodite. He looks into his coin purse, a gift from Hypnos, sighing at the lack of Obols within. With the purse empty he only has one choice. He waves his hand over the door with Aphrodite's symbol and clenches his gauntleted fists. Boons from Aphrodite, lighting from his uncle, and so many blade rifts had him quickly moving through both Tartarus and Asphodel. He's not worried.

The door raises and Malphon sparks, rippling with electricity. It would be quick work with quick hands. He steps in with a disarming swagger and the door behind him slams shut. 

He takes a moment to reflect when he sees the large group of enemies milling about the chamber. So much for quick work. He sucks in a sharp breath, wincing when he realizes the sound will alert his many enemies of his presence.

The large group of Great Shields, Longspears, and so many Splitters turn sharply to look at him. 

Good, he’ll just take them all out at once and then-

They all rush towards him and he hefts the fists up, obscuring his face. Shields, spears and splitter orbs all come at him more quickly than he can dash.

Ok, so maybe this would be a little more difficult than he had imagined.

He moves, dashing through most of them,  and punches the stinging orbs out of the way, and dashes again. He feels slightly more confident, light on his feet, and although their shields and their spears catch him a few times with their weapons, he does not fret, as the splitters have been taken care of.

He dashes again, his feet slipping on the shore of the Lethe, but steadies himself and buries his toes into the dirt. A longspear stabs at him with its spear, but with a smirk Zagreus quickly dashes through. 

His smile just as swiftly turns into a gasp as he dashes straight into a heavy shield. The greatshield, with no emotion on its blank face, swings its shield wide, shoving Zagreus into the mist-covered waters. 

With a quick yelp and the wind knocked out of him, he reaches up to grab at something before he falls beneath the waters but as he reaches his hand glances off of a spear, now embedded in his shoulder. The familiar pain of being impaled by a spear mixes with the unfamiliar stinging pain of falling flat into the river flat on his back.

He hits the waters with a loud crack, followed by another as the fists, crackling still with lightning, hit the water. Zagreus opens his mouth to scream but finds he cannot as his muscles seize. He can only sink and fully submerges into the river.

Once his limbs begin to cooperate with him once again (albeit with an incredible amount of tingling), he tries to pull himself up and away. The longspear  pushes back, using the weapon still embeded in Zagreus's shoulder to keep him from breaching the surface. Even from beneath the waves, Zagreus sees the Greatshield waiting at the shore, no doubt waiting to knock him back as soon as he dashes out.

The Longspear plants it’s weapon further into the river, Zagreus’s back hitting the riverbed beneath. He won’t be able to back away from the spear now, but maybe if he moves up he might be able to pull himself up and off from the other side. His stomach turns at the thought of it, knowing what pain would be to come, but he's a little short on options.

There is a moment when the longspear's grip weakens, so he takes his chance and dashes, the pole of the spear moving within his wound. He screams again, this time his vision going white from the pain. Zagreus is used to pain and even welcomes it sometimes, but with the water, the electricity, and being impaled, it's too much; he prays the Styx will take him soon.

No. No-

He needs to see her, to see the warmth radiate from her smile, to feel her unfaltering love as though they’d known one another his whole life. He had been so close and it had been so long. He would not keep her waiting. Not again.

With a sudden rush of determination, he pulls himself up the spear, and grabs the spearman’s arms right. He can do this. For her. 

Of course, he’d forgotten about the greatshield. It lashes out again, the shield crashing into his chest. He can feel a crack in his sternum as he falls back into the river with a heavy splash before he can take a breath, sinking. He feels the bottom of the river at his back again. He kicks. He tears at the spear. He has to get free.

But first, he needs air. He needs to breathe; he swallows the waters in an attempt to keep from breathing in, no matter how much his lungs burn for it. He wouldn't give up, not even with the dark bleeding into his vision, and the sound of the Styx rushing in his ears. It is not the Lethe; he knows the call of the Styx well enough to tell the difference.

He does not let himself fall towards it though. He fights and thrashes, even as his lungs feel ready to burst. He can feel himself tiring, but cannot stop fighting.

His mother. He needs to see his mother. He needs to tell her stories. He takes another gulp of water and his stomach turns, the dark creeping back. He injuries are grave and he cannot keep this up forever. He struggles and fights.

His assailants fight as well, but unlike Zagreus they are not injured. They do not hurt or even feel pain. They hold him and keep him beneath the waters until he stops moving.

Only then does the longspear remove its weapon and the greatshield walks away.

The enemies remaining mill about as if nothing has happened, only remembering that they are to kill the prince if he arrives in their chamber.

Zagreus's body floats up to the surface, obscured by the mists as the river takes him. Slowly, he drifts along the Lethe like a dead fish bobbing across the surface.

-------

Zagreus wakes, eyes fluttering open to blurred brightness; far brighter than where he’d fallen asleep last. It’s strange but he doesn’t remember falling asleep. His head is hazy and his vision is fuzzy. The intense light makes it hard to focus, but who needs to focus when one is being held? Zagreus squeezes his eyes shut as he sinks further into the warmth of a body. 

On second thought, that is also weird. He definitely doesn’t remember falling asleep in anyone's arms. 

“...It’s alright, Stranger...” 

And he certainly doesn’t remember falling asleep in the arms of someone with that voice. He doesn’t recognize it; the soft cadence, the weight of which he says stranger as though it were a title on not, well, the truth.

When Zagreus opens his eyes again, his gaze falls to a dark hand at his chest, making slow circles at the skin there. He notes the lines of his own chest beneath a transparent hand. This stranger must be a shade. 

The shade shifts, pulling Zagreus closer which… Well, it hurts. It hurts a lot. He can feel a sharp pain in his chest and his shoulders and a pulsing heat along most of his torso. He breathes in sharp but that causes a streak of pain that radiates from his collar to his ribs. He shakes and feels arms shift around him.

“Are you awake, Stranger?”

Zagreus tilts his head to catch a glimpse of the shade, and rests his cheek on the shade’s cuirass.  It’s frustrating. The corners of his vision go dark instead of sharpening into focus. He’s cold too, but he can’t seem to find the will to care. That's odd too, because if there's one abilities Zagreus never lacks, it's caring.

“I’ve got you, stranger. I’ve got you.”

Well, that’s very nice of you, Sir, he wants to say, finally catching the shade’s deep brown eyes. If the coughing hadn't that now shakes his entire body had not stopped Zagreus from speaking, he would certainly have been rendered speechless by those distant eyes. The shade looks out and not at him, but his arms tighten as Zagreus coughs and coughs.

There is a chance he might never stop coughing, Zagreus thinks. He wants it to stop so he can breathe, and also possibly catch another glimpse at the very handsome shade holding him. But mostly because every time he shakes, a sharp pain radiates from his chest and his lungs scream. It's mostly the latter.

“Shallow breaths. Take slow, shallow breaths. It will help with the coughing.”

The shade attempts saying this in a reassuring manner, but his voice is as distant as his eyes are. 

Still, advice is advice. 

Slow, shallow breaths.  Zagrues nods, but it starts another fit of coughs.

“There’s no need to fret, stranger. I’ve got you.”

It’s soft, but Zagreus wouldn’t call the sentiment reassuring. He can’t help but laugh. A mistake, but sometimes he cannot help it. No need to fret? Of course not; he doesn’t know where he is, every part of him hurts, and there is a sound of rushing around his ears that he is sure should not be there. But if this shade bids him to calm, Zagreus will certainly try.

“Try not to laugh, it will only make it hurt more.”

Zagreus thinks about where he should be, at home… in the administration chamber. Blast, he’s going to be late again. The idea makes him want to continue laughing, but he stifles himself and instead takes slow and shallow breaths. The coughing subsides.

The shade continues to rub small, soft circles just below Zagreus’s sternum, which Zagreus decides is pretty soothing despite the circumstance.

When he dares, he speaks because he really is dying to know.

“...Where are we, sir?” 

He speaks softly, afraid if he uses his full voice, the coughing will start and never stop.

The shade takes an eternity to answer. 

“Elysium, Stranger.”

Zagreus looks out, blinking as he takes in what is around him; the grass, the mist-covered river, the stone architecture. It certainly sounded like Elysium from what he’s heard of it. 

Which begs the question:

“...How?”

The shade doesn’t respond for a long time. Zagreus starts to wonder if most shades in Elysium are as contemplative as this one, or if it’s just because he is holding a bruised and battered man in his arms.

“...I suppose you would have walked.”

Don’t laugh, Zagreus. Do not laugh. He stops himself, but not before he jostles and can feel the sharp sting at his chest again. 

There is another long moment of silence. Well, besides the rushing sounds at his ears and the sounds of the Lethe in the distance.

“It will not be long for you, Stranger. Rest here until the Styx takes you.”

He’s dying? Well, it makes sense, his vision going dark and everything seeming so fast, but also very slow. Dying is a strange feeling, but at least he’s being held by a very handsome man during his last moments. He stifles another laugh. Maybe his father did have a point when lectured him often about Zagreus’s priorities.

“There wouldn’t happen to be anything I could do about it, would there, Sir?”

The shade answers quickly this time. “No, I don’t believe there is.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate,” he finds himself saying, but it feels distant again. He can feel the rumble of a laugh, or the echoes of one, from the shade. It's dry and bitter .

Zagreus wants to ask more, but settles on resting his cheek on the shade. He wishes there was not a cuirass in the way. To rest his cheek on the warmth of someone might have made this experience worth it.

“Sir, maybe I could have your name since I'm dying and whatnot?” He whispers. “I’d like to remember it when I wake up.”

Zagreus distantly hopes that this is all a weird and very painful dream.

“It’s Patroclus, Stranger.” 

There is a hint of something there, but Zagreus can’t seem to focus, the pain subsiding, but there’s something else that Zagreus has not experienced before.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir.” He wants to smile, laugh it all off, but he can feel that distance growing larger.

Zagreus hears himself say something else in the distance so he settles into silence, breathing to the rhythm of the hand still brushing at the skin of his chest in slow, soft circles until his vision finally goes dark.

Chapter Text

The Lethe confounds Patroclus. It rolls swiftly towards the Styx, in and through the temperate halls of Elysium, and yet, it carries with it a shroud of mist as if it had something to hide, or perhaps wanted a final barrier between itself and those that would seek to forget. Like him, for instance.

He sits on the shore of his glade, (his glade, as if he could lay claim to it) watching the waters pass, the mist curling and dancing above the surface. He stares. There it is again, the notion that he might take another few sips.

He thinks on it for a long while, the gentle sounds of the river occasionally accompanied by the far off but ever present metallic clangs of weapons. Another thing he can’t seem to get away from. War, battle, violence. It is ever present, even in this cursed afterlife.

Patroclus closes his eyes and breathes out a deep sigh. The ground he sits on is fairly loose earth, reclining back on his hands. The grass is sparse here, waning near the water’s edge. He dips his toes in, hoping the cool would give him some clarity. Nowadays his thoughts all seem like muddled circles going round and round and round with no end in sight. An eternity of it, like torture. Maybe if he gave something away, the path his thoughts take might straighten or become clear.

Tsk.

It is a fleeting wish.

The Lethe moves, the waters passing over his feet. A sip. Just one this time. No need for more than that.

It had been long since he’d seen the Prince, long since he’d heard news of his Achilles; of the plan to reunite them. The idea that he might see his Achilles again feels like false hope. He looks over at the empty bottles of nectar gifted to him by the stranger and recalls the fleeting feelings it gave him, but it too felt like false hope.

Patroclus reaches a cupped hand into the water, and pulls out a handful. The mist from the top rolls back, rejoining the rest as it lazily moves downstream to where the Lethe meets the Styx. He wonders if memories are the same, falling slowly back into the river; down, down and then away.

In the distance, something else floats down the river. Not mist, but obscured by it. He swears it is a mass of red, making its way slowly down.

The water feels heavy in his hands, but he does not let it go, not yet. Perhaps it is a mirage or-

He squints to see a human like shape. Is it an errant shade who’d taken too many sips with nothing in their head except the ambient sounds of the Lethe? As it nears, he marks it’s vibrancy. Striking reds, bright whites and deep blacks. Nothing like the muted greens and greys of the shades who reside within Elysium.

It floats along nearer to the other shore, but it becomes clear. A mass of black hair, a crown off laurels, pale skin in a red chiton, and those flickering feet that seem to sputter in the cool water of the Lethe.

The Prince.

Patroclus doesn’t know why he does it, why he doesn’t just let the Styx take him. The Prince lives a doomed existence, to die over and over for a purpose the Prince will not say. Patroclus should let him go back to his home.

But with a fervor he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an age, he jumps to his feet, quickly rids himself of his cloak, and rushes into the Lethe. The water soon rushes up his thighs, then his waist. He had never thought to wade into the waters, but it is much deeper than he’d imagined. He continues to walk, now partially swimming, regretting as the water begins to fill the chest piece of his armor.

No, it is still Achille’s armor, no matter how long he wears it. On any other day or night, thinking of him would stop Patroclus in his tracks and he would sit, thinking and thinking, but there is a task at hand. He is almost grateful for it.

Patroclus begins to take broad strokes, all to reach the Prince faster to...

What? Pull him to shore? Surely the Prince is already dead.

Still, despite what Patroclus assumes is true, he reaches out, grabbing at body as it swiftly floats by. The rush of the river takes him by surprise and he struggles to catch up with Zagreus. His fingers fumble against the Prince’s hair and instead grab his laurels. The crown falls away, leaving a trail of leaves as he tosses it aside. The river can have the crown, but it cannot have the Prince.

He reaches out again, only partially submerged to keep his head above the water. It would be no use to drink from it now.

He reaches out again, the fabric of Zagreus’s chiton nearly slipping between his fingers, but he holds tight and pulls him in. With him close, he wraps an arm under Zagreus’s and around the top of his chest, repositioning himself so that he floats on his back with Zagreus’s weight resting upon Patroclus’s body. He floats for a moment and would take a breath if he was still inclined to but since he is not, he paddles towards the shore.

Patroclus tries to ignore the fact that the Prince’s chest is not moving, that he isn’t breathing. He tries, but all he can think is that Zagreus is inclined to breathe and should be doing so regularly. The fact that he is not rolls around in Patroclus’s head in those muddled circles.

With a heavy grunt, Patroclus hefts Zagreus’s body up to the shore. The grass is not as soft as Patroclus would hope, but there is no mud in the very least. It is something he’d not noticed before and wonders why of all times he would now.

Patroclus takes a seat, water dripping onto the grass beneath both of their forms, and he pulls Zagreus between his knees, so Zagreus is seated and stable with his head resting on Patroclus’s- no, Achilles’ cuirass.

Patroclus holds Zagreus, arm still secure around his chest. He tilts the Prince’s head up, and leans in with the hope of hearing the faintest sound.

Nothing.

Pat’s hand sweeps under the front of Zagreus’s chiton and he begins to brush small circles into his chest to coax a sound, movement, something.

“Breathe, prince. Breathe.”

Zagreus does not.

Patroclus should let him go, but all the despondency of his earlier mood is gone and is replaced with… worry? He shouldn’t be bothered by this. The Prince dies all the time. This is what the Prince does. He fights, he dies, he fights again and he dies again; a muddled circle, everything a muddled circle with no end. His hand continues to move like an echo of that pattern.

He looks down at the unconscious prince and notices red blood turning sticky from a fairly gruesome wound in Zagreus’s shoulder. Next, he catches the bruises ever present that bloom past his chiton and trail down to his stomach, no doubt; deep reds and purples Patroclus has not seen since he was alive and prone to bruises himself.

Finally, opts to lay Zagreus onto the grass so he is positioned on his back. It would be easier to get him to breathe if he had his hands free.

Leaning over Zagreus, Patroclus takes his hands and with a degree of strength (that he’d forgotten he’d had) he presses down on the space between Zagreus’s ribs. He feels the bones beneath crack and shift and wonders if they were already broken. They had to have been; Patroclus does not think himself strong enough to break them on his own.

The prince does not move and so he presses down again. An eternity of this, dying over and over, alone with only his enemies as company. Patroclus does not want to imagine, but cannot help where his mind strays but to press a rhythm into Zagreus’s chest like a pulse.

“Stranger.” He says. Is it a plea? “Zagreus.”

Patroclus bends down so that his face hovers just above Zagreus’s. He inhales sharply through lungs that don’t need air and touches his lips to Zagreus’s own. Somehow they are dry, cracked, and also have faint traces of blood.

It won’t work; he knows this, but he keeps trying despite it all. Perhaps the stranger’s attitude is rubbing off on him a little.

He tilts Zagreus’s head back and breathes into his mouth. Zagreus’s chest expands but it is not of his own volition.

That determination, borrowed from Zagreus no doubt, leads him to continue his endeavor. Patroclus leans back to press firmly against his chest once more, a steady rhythm, until he decides again that it is not enough, sits above him, balling his hand into fist and strikes down.

He watches. Waits. There is too much waiting in Elysium, Patroclus decides. He raises his arm once again.

When Zagreus begins to sputter and cough, Patroclus tilts him over to his side so that the water can spill out. Zagreus coughs and coughs but his eyes do not open.

Patroclus sighs and moves to pick up the body of the prince. He cannot hear the Lethe as he carries the body back towards the glade.

He settles back into his stone circle, an old forgotten foundation, and rests his back on a statue, settling the stranger into a similar seated position, resting him on his chest, so that he can keep Zagreus sitting up.

He doesn’t know why, but he smooths out Zagreus’s hair, straight and still sticking up at odd angles even though he is drenched. It is so different from the waves Patroclus sports, although he wonders why they’ve yet to matte when he doesn’t care to brush or tend to them. He holds Zagreus’s head to his chest, squashing the hair down. His hand idly returns to its place just below Zagreus’s collar bone, and again rubs small circles there. When he notices that he is doing it, he tells himself it is to encourage Zagreus to breathe or maybe to encourage his heart to keep going. To beat.

He hopes he will wake, but doubts. So many doubts as always. The Prince’s wounds are other grievous to say the least. That hole in his shoulder, no doubt made by a spear. Oh he’d seen many a spear wound in his life, and that thought begins to follow the circle towards Achilles. Why isn’t he here, tending to his ward. He’d cared for him enough to give him his bracer...

He shakes his head, and lets his eyes fall to the deep bruises forming on his exposed chest that probably extend down and across his entire torso. Anything to keep his muddles, circular thoughts.

Of course, there are the wounds he cannot see; the broken bones and everything that must be muddled on the inside. Even with hydrolite or the Kiss he would not survive long.

Why does this bother him, he wonders again, the frustration building. He’s sent the stranger off to his death many times before and never cared before. Sent him away with nothing but a paltry gift. Why does he care now?

Patroclus clings to Zagreus, looking out at the Lethe instead of all the wounds, the bruises, and it hits him.

He’s never seen it. One of his many deaths. He’s heard Zagreus retell it, but never experienced it himself. He wonders if it’s always this slow.

Zagreus shivers in his arms and Patroclus pulls himself out of his own thoughts, that muddled circle. There is another shudder, a spasm maybe as the prince struggles to stay. There’s that determination again. Had he a heart that still beat, it would break into a thousand pieces.

“It’s alright, Stranger.”

He exhales, slowly and steady. He stops the movement of his hand and lays his hand flat. Zagreus’s chest expands beneath it. Patroclus does not move, he’s nowhere else to go.

“Are you awake, Stranger?”

His voice steadies as Zagreus shifts.

He tilts his head back to look at Patroclus and begins to cough. His pupils are blown, he looks confused, lost.. Patroclus has seen men fall into shock before. His body is still fighting. He wonders how long he will try.

“I’ve got you, stranger. I’ve got you.”

There, more reassurance.

Zagreus tries to speak, but ends up coughing again instead. Patroclus holds him tightly; this will hurt, the coughing will hurt. Everything will hurt. He plants a soft kiss on the crown of the Stranger’s head and whispers.

“Slow breaths, take small, slow breaths. It will help with the coughing.”

He can feel Zagreus nod slightly as he attempts to follow Patroclus’s advice.

Patroclus’s hand resumes its original task, circles into the skin on Zagreus’s chest, the other hand drifting to his forehead to keep him still. He can feel Zagreus’s chest slowly expand, but his heartbeat dulls.

Zagreus places a cheek on the cuirass, eyes closed, and Patroclus remains still. It will be more painful if he jostles around, Patroclus tells himself.

Zagreus opens his mouth to speak again, but he shudders with more coughs.

“There’s no need to fret, stranger. I’ve got you.”

Even in this, he can feel the stranger let out a laugh. It turns into another violent fit of coughs and Patroclus holds him.

“I realize this is an ambitious request, but do try your best not to laugh, it will only make it hurt more.”

He feels the stranger stiffen as if doing his best to hold back another chuckle.

There is a long moment of silence before the Prince finds his voice. It is soft and filled with an unnerving rasp.

“...Where are we, sir?”

“You are in Elysium, Stranger,” Patroclus answers simply.

Zagreus looks up at the misty skies in wonder. “How?”

Patroclus mulls over the answer before deciding to respond. “...I suppose you would have walked.”

He feels the stranger shake in his arms but does not hear him laugh. A pity. The stranger has a nice laugh, but it is nice to know Zagreus is trying to heed Patroclus’s advice.

“It will not be long for you, Stranger. Rest here until the Styx takes you.”

He swears he can hear Zagreus huff.

“There wouldn’t happen to be anything I could do about it, would there, Sir?” Patroclus can tell Zagreus intends to say more, but he replies quickly before Zagreus can try.

“No, I don’t believe there is.”

“Oh.” Zagreus lets out a huff and stifles a cough. “That’s unfortunate.”

He settles again, breathing short and sharp now and rests his head against Patroclus’s chest, a quiet resignation. The quiet doesn’t last for long, but with Zagreus, it never does.

“If I’m going to die, maybe I could have your name, sir?” He asks softly, so polite, even in death. “I’d like to remember it when I wake up.”

Patroclus frowns. What a strange question to ask, although he would not put it past the Prince to tell a joke now of all times, although the earnestness in which it was asked made it seem honest.

“It’s Patroclus, Stranger.”

It’s me. The love of Achilles, the loneliest of Elysium except when visited by a kind hearted but nosy stranger. The same stranger who promised to reunite him with his Achilles; he promised.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir.” he says, or at least, Patroclus thinks he is trying to say before the Stranger falls into another fit of coughs. With no power behind them, they are just shakes and low rattles now. “Although I do wish it were under different circumstances.”

There it is, another wish.

Patrpclus looks towards the Lethe, confounded by Zagreus’s unending determination, even in this. The remnants of the water drip off of the fists the stranger wields. Patroclus holds him tighter and continues to rub small circles into Zagreus’s chest, small muddled circles, short and shallow.

And then he no longer feels the stranger move; his chest stops expanding and Patroclus stills once again. He hears the calm waters behind him trickle downstream, all the way to meet the Styx. He wonders if it takes the Stranger’s memories down with it.

Guh-dong.

A single toll of the bell. Death has arrived.

Thanatos floats above him. He is not frightening, but certainly has a presence. Patroclus has no fear of death now that he is no longer living. It may be foolish, but Patroclus allows himself a vice every so often.

The god looks down at him and purses his lips, seeing the body in Patroclus’s arms. Thanatos sinks, stepping towards Patroclus once his feet touch the ground.

Patroclus still does not move, choosing to watch the water of the Lethe pass once he notices that Death hesitates.

When Thanatos takes the Prince from his arms, Patroclus releases his grip and lets the body easily slip away from him. Had he still been holding him tight? He can feel it in his arms, the tension. Strange.

Thanatos’s arms, strong enough to heft around that unwieldy scythe, hold the body gently, with a reverence almost unbefitting of a god. Patroclus tries to concentrate on the waters of the Lethe and not the oddly personal moment he seems to be stuck near.

The river takes, doesn’t it? He doesn’t say it aloud. Like so many things, he only thinks it.

“Is this a habit for you, Master Death?” He muses, his voice distant, uninterested even. “To take him back to his house personally?”

Thanatos sighs. “Only when he dies of natural causes.”

“This was far from natural. He was stabbed several times and then drowned.”

“I heard the call, so it must have been natural enough.” His voice grows more distant, as he wakes away.

Patroclus doesn’t speak after that.

When he finally looks up, he sees that Thanatos has walked to the river. Thanatos glances back, and in the most unfortunate of moments, Patroclus catches the grief in Thanatos’s eyes. Death is more than a friend to the Stranger, and the Stranger more than a friend to death. Patroclus tries not to dwell on the memories that that feeling invokes. He’s thought enough of Achilles today.

Thanatos, Death, wades into the river as if he’s going through the motions. He sets the body gently in the waters, releases him from his arms. The mists cover the stranger like a white shroud. Not a dark shroud as is custom, but one of light. It’s fitting, Patroclus thinks.

Before the body floats away, Thanatos reaches into a bag that is tied to the belt on his side. He pulls out two obols, then places coins over Zagreus’s closed eyes. It is a gift; a request of his brother to take him gently through the Styx. It is the action of a loved one, to treat their dead like that.

Ah. Patroclus cannot seem to pry his eyes away.

Thanatos turns to make his way to the shore. As he exits the river, his bare feet shuffle against the dirt. He always thought Death would be more silent, but he doesn’t seem to know how much noise he makes when he walks. Perhaps he is not used to it, and instead make a habit of floating around.

Thanatos does not leave immediately after exiting the river. He makes his way up to the glade, steps up to the ruins of whatever temple Patroclus has claimed as his own and stands silent.

Patroclus waits. “Is there something else you needed, Lord Death?”

Death takes another moment before responding. “I just… want to say thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

Thanatos shuffles, eyes cast to the ground. “I-”

Death speaks in starts and stops, like he starts before he knows what he wants to say and is nearly pained to speak at all.

“-well, for not letting him die alone.”

Patroclus notes Death looks weary. What he will do with that information, he does not know.

Ghostly wings spread from his back as Death rises. That is a little unnerving.

“Wait,” Patroclus says sharply before the bell sounds. “You must know, our Stranger may have consumed water from the river.”

“What? Why would he do that?” Short and sharp, like he is bordering on angry

Patroclus makes a noncommittal gesture. “I would tell you if I knew. But I did not think to ask as he was dying in my arms.”

Thanatos stops, takes a breath. So even the god of death breathes. For some reason, that amuses him.

“How do you know?”

Patroclus settles his back on the statue he rests upon. “When he awoke, just a moment before he passed, he asked my name and looked at me as if we’d never met. We’ve met before many times.”

And then, surprising himself, he adds. “He made me a promise to help me. I did not ask for this but as you must know, he is stubborn.”

Thanatos cannot hide his look of surprise, his eyes widen as he turns towards the river with a grimace.

Ah, that is the look of heartbreak. Patroclus remembers it like an echo. There is a pain in his chest. Perhaps it is the loss of his stranger after holding him for so long.

“Thank you,” Death echoes before he disappears with another deep guh-dong and a sharp sound of wings flapping.

Patroclus does not watch the stranger float away. He can hear the Lethe trickle down into the Styx, the mist seems thicker now. He tries not to think on if the stranger will return or not. He focuses on the sound of clanging, like distant tolls of a bell.

Chapter Text

Zagreus floats.

He doesn’t remember getting into a bath, or any pool of water for that matter, but the liquid around him, temperate and thick, holds him. It’s nice, floating on his back, water past his ears, the ambient noise of the house muffled. His thoughts, fairly idle, settle on his most recent dream; discomfort, pain even and the stranger who held him, whispering comforting words even as the pain overtook him. It felt so real that he’s sure he won’t be forgetting it any time soon. The pain or the stranger.

Patroclus. Zagreus certainly does not want to forget him.

He keeps his eyes closed, a warmth at his chest where the stranger’s palm had rested. He can’t stop thinking about that either. He assumed the experience had exposed some long buried desire to be held and cared for by a handsome stranger, but wouldn’t anyone want that given the chance? He imagines the hand on his chest, recalls lips pressing a kiss onto the crown of his head. His thoughts unwind, slowly drifting away. Zagreus breathes in this moment of respite and lets his weight bob across the surface of the water, neither cool nor warm. He still does not remember how he got in the water but after a dream like that he feels obligated to be a little disoriented.

A shrill voice cuts through his moment of peace. “Welcome to the house of Hades!”

Zagreus’s eyes snap open. He’s not in a bath, nor is he in his chamber, but in the entrance hall, a surprising discovery. Even more surprising is the hovering presence of Thanatos above him, lips pursed into a displeased look.

“Um, hi, Than,” he awkwardly says as Thanatos stares.

“Zag. You’re back.”

Zagreus wants to ask where, but he realizes when he sees the reflection of red near his face. The Styx?

“It’s nice to see you, Than. Can you tell me how I got here? Did I fall asleep in the Styx or was there-”

Thanatos cuts him off. “-I have to get back to work, Zag.”

Before Zagreus can protest, Thanatos disappears.

Zagreus sits up in the waters, drenched in red.

“It’s good to see you, Zag. Why are you in the Styx, Zag? Oh, just woke up floating in a river of blood. You know, the usual. Thanks for asking, Than,” he mutters to himself as he pulls himself out. He feet splash in the Styx as he takes the steps out, but they quickly dry once he in on the stone floor, the liquid evaporating from the heat of his feet.

Zagreus shakes out his hair and brushes off his leggings. The red waters drip off of him easily, and roll back into the Styx. Shades exiting the Styx pass him, some nervous, some with purpose as they process towards the main hall and Zagreus’s father. Zagreus picks up speed as he goes, passing the shades, some who frown at him, others showing a small bit of reverence as they notice the flaming laurels on his head. Respectfully, he gives them a smile and a nod but does not wait to see how they respond. Instead, he jogs up to Hypnos, a list in his hands.

Zagreus has a creeping suspicion his name would be on that list and has it in mind to ask when Hypnos smiles.

“Welcome back!” He greets, his eyes flicking back to the list. He motions for more shades to process through to the hall.

“Hypnos, my name wouldn’t happen to be on your list, would it?”

“Always is!” He responds quickly without looking up.

“Wowee,” he continues. “It looks like you drowned! That one’s new. Maybe next time, try swimming! Don’t you know you can use both your legs and your arms?”

Well, there’s the answer to the question he didn’t get the chance to ask.

“I saw you in the Styx, but you weren’t moving. You were in there so long, I thought you’d died. Again! But when Than showed up I realized you were probably just taking a quick snooze.”

“... you thought I was taking a nap in the Styx?”

Hypnos shrugs with a yawn, and looks at the list in his hands. “Well, yeah! My brother showed up with that look on his face… Oh boy, I knew what happened. He only gets that look at me when I fall asleep on the job!”

“Are you saying I fell asleep in the Styx, then drowned, Hypnos, mate?”

Hypnos gives him an odd expression, like he had been suddenly awakened with a jolt. He looks at his list again.“Huh. No, it looks like you died in Elysium. Then you took a nap in the Styx.”

“Elysium, like my dream?”

Hypnos frowns. He didn’t know Hypnos was capable of it. “If you were dreaming, I would know it. So you definitely weren’t doing that.”

“So are you saying I died?” Zagreus asks.

“So are you saying you don’t remember dying?” Hypnos counters.

Zagreus notices several shades stop at Hypnos’s loud question. They scatter when Zagreus notices them.

“No, Hypnos, I don’t remember dying.”

“Huh. Isn’t that strange…”

Zagreus has a hard time reading Hypnos’s expression, who continues to check shades into the underworld, even as they discover this conundrum.

“Boy.” A statement. Not a true one, but a statement nonetheless. It reverberates through the hall and the shades who stopped begin to move again as if trying to escape the ire of the lord of the underworld. It's not like it is aimed at them. Zagreus rolls his eyes and turns to his father’s desk. Great. No answers, and now he waits to be reprimanded by his father.

“Father.” Zagreus says, a matching statement, full of truth but stained with irony. Hades looks down as Zagreus approaches the rather large and overbearing desk, normally strewn with stacks of parchment piling high. There are times the stacks climbed so high it was nearly impossible to see his father, which, truthfully, Zagreus was thankful for. But now short stacks litter the surface, framing his father's displeased expression rather than obscuring it. He can see his fathers stern expression in its entirety, an unfortunate development in Zagreus’s opinion.

His father’s voice cuts through Zagreus’s thoughts. “You’re late.”

“I know, father.” It is an admission of the truth, but lacks an apology as he’d grown accustomed to not taking the blame as his father would gift it to him no matter the circumstance.

Hades lets out a noise of disapproval, a loud hmph that Zagreus is very familiar with.

“But but in my defense, apparently I died. Unless Hypnos is playing a joke on me and I fell asleep.”

Hades looks down at Zagreus from his desk. He laughs incredulously although even his beard does not hide his deep frown. “Asleep in Elysium? Have the exalted been slacking in their duties then?”

Elysium, again. Did everyone know where he had been except for Zagreus? “Look, Father, I’m not really sure what’s going on, but if this is about me being late for my work in the Administration chamber-”

“The administration chamber?” Hades echoes. “Is this some sort of joke, boy?”

“Of course not, Father,” Zagreus says, immediately falling back into the rhythm of trading jabs. “Although, would say that my work in the administration chambers could be considered a joke, since you never bothered to actually train me on-”

Hades’s frown turns into a scowl. “That’s enough.”

The finality of it stops Zagreus in his tracks.

“Leave me, I have work to complete,” Zagreus opens his mouth to speak, but Hades continues over him. “And furthermore, you are banned from the administration room. “

“What” and “why” are the only words he can think to say in response.

Hades huffs in the way he does when he feels he is repeating himself. “Find something else to do, boy.”

“Fine, I’m sure there’s plenty for me to…” he begins but his father buries his face into paperwork, pulled from their eerily short stacks, the hall filled with the familiar scratching of a pen on parchment.

-----

During his journey to his room, he can’t help but note the changes in the house. His meet with plush and vibrant carpet and lavish rugs. In fact, the entire house had been decorated quite extravagantly within the past however long he was out. Zagreus walks, surveying the upgrades to the house; new rugs, a nice relief above the entrance to his bedroom, flowers, and a lot of vases and urns.

And it’s not just the decor that changed while he slept. Zagreus notes the shade now sitting at a post adjacent to his father, near the empty seat of Orpheus where a new music stand resides. Was the shade some sort of contractor? It would explain the renovations to the house. He also notes how quickly the line of shades processes. Lastly, he notes the lounge and its inviting foods in decorative cases, the warm fire in a corner, all settled around upholstered chairs, and intricate tables. One could even call it cozy.

Settled at one of those intricate tables, Meg and Than sit, quietly discussing… something. Meg sports an unusually soft look on her face, stirring her drink absently as she speaks to Thanatos who has the same hard look as earlier when he found Zagreus in the Styx. Zagreus considers approaching them to ask what might be wrong as maybe he could help, but he does he feels a knot of nervousness begin twisting in his stomach as he does.

It’s just Than and Meg. Nothing out of the ordinary. He takes a breath and with confidence, strides into the lounge.

Zagreus waves his hand to motion to an empty spot near Meg and neither respond. Instead, Meg stares directly at him, her soft look turning hard in a flash. Her jaw tightens. Of course. It’s him. He’s done something wrong.

Both stare directly at him.

“Meg.” He greets her with a modicum of confidence.

“We were talking, Zagreus,” Meg says. More finality. Go away, she says without saying the word “go” and “away.”

“Than?” He intends it as a greeting, but he can’t hide his confusion and hurt.

Meg leans into the table, obscuring Thanatos from view. “This conversation doesn’t concern you, Zagreus.”

Zagreus stands, dumbstruck. “If there’s something I’ve done, if we could talk about it-”

“-You should listen to her, Zag.”

Than looks down at his drink, his silver bangs further obscuring his face. The frown he wears is surely directed at Zagreus. Zagreus feels the urge to fight back, to get some sort of answer from them, but Meg’s glare gives him second thoughts.

Maybe it’s best to respect their wishes.

“Well, you two have a lovely evening,” he says, unable to hide his frustration. He turns back to them as he leaves. “Oh, and be sure to tell me when you’ve figured out why you’re upset with me. I’d love to know.”

Meg offers no other explanation but instead waits. He expects her free hand to draw menacingly over her whip, but both hands remain steady on her drink. He looks to the left, and notices a nearly empty bottle of amber liquid in a round bottle.

Zagreus puts his hands up and begins to back out of the lounge. Frustration builds a path to anger, but he tries to contain it as he backs away, step by step by step. They would come to him in their own time, wouldn’t they? He tells himself that over and over.

He takes a breath, and looks across the hall, perhaps to find Achilles, or maybe to do as he was bade by his father. He finds himself laughing at that, the frustration lessening slightly. Of course he didn’t want to do that, if not because he knew there would be no answers in his room, then because he finds on instinct, he rather likes doing the opposite of what his father decrees.

Zagreus looks towards an empty west hall, past the shades and his fathers neat desk to an empty space between two columns. Achilles must be on break. He considers walking past his fathers desk to wait, without saying a word, but he has probably antagonized his father enough for one day.

So, Zagreus turns on his heel to make his way towards his room, but instead slams directly into a small floating gorgon head. Dusa sputters frantically, the snakes of her hair recoiling and letting out small anxious hisses.

“Prince- I mean, Zagreus! I didn’t expect to see you out and about!”

He can’t help but laugh and gives her a warm smile when he hears her say his name. It is a welcomed familiarity against all of the foreign terseness he had been met with previously. With just one word, his own name, he feels a sense of levity.

“Well, Miss Dusa, my day was looking pretty grim but I’m pretty glad I’ve bumped into you. You haven’t happened to have heard anything around the house regarding me.”

“Not that I can think of, Zag-”

She stops, her eyes catching something in the distance behind him. She catches Zagreus’s gaze once again, but her jovial demeanor shifts towards anxiety again.

“Look, Prince, I have to go,” she says with a smile that attempts to hide the nerves that had crept in. “There is so much work that has to be done.”

“Dusa, wait! Please don’t go.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, eyes darting around, no doubt to find an escape route. “I think I just saw some dust fall from the rafters, Zag- I mean, Prince!”

“Of course-“ he says as she floats up and away just as quickly as she appeared. “-You did.”

He turns to see what Dusa could have possibly been looking at and finds Meg, staring at him still.

That deep pit of frustration fills once again. He pushes it down or at least he tries too.

-----

Later, Zagreus sits in his room, idle.

Well, not idle. Since he was… gone, wherever he’d been, his room had been redecorated and he finds himself exploring. Lots of wall scrolls, Aphrodite… Achilles. He can’t choose which to stare at longer. (Ok, it’s Achilles.) A huge mirror leans against the far wall, shadows clinging to its gilded sides.

Zagreus wanders in a wide circle, trying not to let his frustration with the house grow. There is something they are hiding from him, but he cannot fathom what. Did it have something to do with his dream? Or his death, as Hypnos had said. He didn’t want to think about that, but if it was true, he had to figure out why and how.

He paces and notes his new bed and the small fainting couch. They’re incredibly nice and extremely tasteful but the fact that they're there only adds to his confusion. Who had purchased them and placed them in his room? He likes them, and thinks that if he felt like sitting or sleeping, he would find them comfortable enough... He inspects the area they rest and finds little indents in the new rugs as if both the rugs and the furniture had lived in that spot for a while.

Zagreus stops his pacing once he makes it to the front of a set of golden weights next to the entrance of his room. Instinctively, he sticks out his arms and flexes. He’s never been insecure about his body before, but as he looks at his own muscles the back to the weights, he wonders if he should be. He’s not a weak man, a little shorter than most maybe, but not not strong. In fact, his muscles seem to be a little more defined than the last time he'd inspected them. Not that Zagreus went around checking his own biceps often, but he can't help but note the definition in them now. Maybe he is strong enough to pick up one of the weights. Distracted by his own insecurities, Zagreus sidles up to a barbell. He reaches out his arms, then lets his arms fall back to stretch the muscles of his chest. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this right.

He glances around the room to make sure there are no onlookers, then bends down to pick up the biggest weight in the set with a nonchalant look.

The glib indifference fades quickly to a grimace as he strains to lift them. His arms and legs, and so many other muscles strain and burn. He recalls a piercing searing heat, pain his chest, his shoulders and if the barbell had not still been planted firmly on the ground, he would have surely dropped it.

He catches his breath and quickly steps away as if he had not been standing near them at all, fidgeting in the quiet of his room. So, the weights are a prank. And the harp behind the bookcase? That had to be a prank too. Any sound would probably be heard in the quiet of the house but his curiosity gets the best of him and he crosses his room to make some very out of tune plucks at its strings. His fingers drag along at first then in a moment of impulsivity, he plucks at them unceremoniously.

“You trying to break that harp in there, boyo?”

Zagreus jumps, droping his hand from the harp as if it had shocked him. There's someone in the courtyard. Curious.

“Come on, don’t leave me hangin'!”

With careful steps, Zagreus makes his way to the outside, popping his head out of the archway with all the curiosity of a child. A curiosity that is not sated when he sees a skeleton, bouncing on its feet in its center. Tufts of hair jut out from the sides of its skull and a single coin glints in its grinning mouth. It greets him with a familiarity that is a little unbecoming of a stranger, but then again, it isn't even the first time that day Zagreus had been treated as a friend by a stranger.

"Boyo, you gonna hit me or what?"

Zagreus does not let his confusion get the best of him.

“I think you have the wrong boyo, mate,” he says with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin. There are certainly stranger things that had happened than a lone skeleton standing in the courtyard.

“What? Are you getting tired of slicing me up with that big stick?”

Zagreus notes the sword hanging in the air, and the other assortment of impressive weapons that now decorated the courtyard. “Maybe it’s time you switched things up. You could grab that bow of yours and make me into a pin cushion.”

Ok, that stumps him. The skeleton didn’t seem to have any weapons, so it can’t be a fight he looks for.

“I’m sorry, mate, but who hired you?”

It sighs. “Oh come on now, that old bag of bones? You know I can’t tell you anything. Now come on, don those claws and grind my bones into dust!”

For the third time that day, Zagreus finds himself speechless. So this might actually be turning into his strangest interaction of the day.

“You know, I think I have someplace else I need to be. I’ve got an appointment with Achilles, you know. Training.”

Zagreus moves slowly, giving the skeleton a salute before jogging off to find some answers. He isn’t lying. He had to speak to Achilles about all of this. If no one else in the house would speak to him with any kind of honesty, surely Achilles would. He found Achilles would always speak plainly and truthfully to him.

“See you then, mate.”

The skeleton stops its banter, and drops the grin as Zagreus exits, his expression changing to something more questioning. This unnerves Zagreus even more.

“I’ll be seeing you around then, boyo.”

-----

“Zagreus, you’ve returned. I only wish I had been here when you had. Is everything alright?”

Achilles asks as if he hasn’t noticed the quiet that settled over the house, or the way that those within part when Zagreus is near.

“Achilles, sir, is there some reason everyone in the house is upset at me?”

There is sympathy in his tone and a fondness in his expression. Zagreus wants to find relief in it, and does for a moment. “Why would you say that, lad?”

“Meg and Than were incredibly short with me in the lounge,” Zagreus starts as the anxiety begins to build once again. “Dusa is more flighty with me than usual and my father refuses to speak with me.”

Achilles looks thoughtful but also a little amused. "Your father refusing to speak with you hardly seems strange, lad."

“Do you think it has anything to do with the bloodless in the courtyard behind my room asking for death?” Zagreus continues.

A laugh of surprise escapes Achilles. “If people in the house were cross with you, I doubt Skelly would be the reason. Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me, lad?”

There is a joke in there somewhere, Zagreus thinks, like there's an inside joke Achilles expects him to understand. Hereaches out a hand to clasp Zagreus’s shoulder and shifts low to catch Zagreus’s gaze.

“Forgive me, Zagreus, I only meant it as a joke, nothing more.”

Zagreus shifts from one foot to the other. “...so his name is Skelly? Isn’t that a little too on point for a skeleton? You didn’t hire this ‘Skelly’ as a training dummy of some sort and happened to forget to mention it, did you?”

Another laugh escapes Achilles, strained this time. Confusion settles into his expression. “No, Zagreus, I didn’t.”

Zagreus sighs. “Well, it has me stumped. I’d ask Father, but he’s been refusing to speak to me ever since I woke up in the Styx. Told me to find something else to do. He even banned me from the administration room.”

Achilles pulls his hand away from Zagreus and straightens. “The administration room?”

“Yes. I think Father found my work there ‘unsatisfactory’ as he finds most things when considering me.”

“...Zagreus, are you alright?” More concern.

Zagreus pauses and stands still just long enough for the rug to start to singe beneath his feet. He moves his weight from one foot to the other, hoping that would be enough. The quiet in the hall is almost intrusive. As if the house holds its breath waiting for Zagreus’s response. If Achilles breathed, he probably would be doing the same.

“Lad?” The concern he shows and the genuine worry has that pit of frustration in Zagreus falling away, leaving nothing but a gentle ache in its wake.

“...I don’t know, Achilles.” He had done something to gain the ire of so many in the house and if he only knew maybe he could fix it. “I had the strangest dream. I was in Elysium, dying. When I woke, it was in the Styx. Than was watching me with that stern expression he gives when he is trying not to say what he feels. He looked so upset. After that I went to Hypnos who said my name was on his list, which makes no sense. How could I forget dying, sir?”

Achilles's tone hushes. “Tell me, Zagreus, what is the last thing you remember before waking  in the Styx?”

Zagreus thinks. The Elysium skies, drifting… drifting. Warms arms holding him, a hand caressing his chest. He probably shouldn’t describe it as caressing, but has a hard time thinking of any other word for it. He tries not to blush as he remembers soft words whispered to only him.

“it’s, uh, all a bit fuzzy, sir,” he says, scratching the back of his head, hoping Achilles won't see the sheepishness with which he avoids describing his encounter. “But I remember waking up in Elysium in a lot of pain.”

Achilles nods. If he notices, he says nothing. “And before that?”

Zagreus closes his eyes. That’s all a bit fuzzy too. “I remember training with you… and then running out of the courtyard because I was going to be late for my work in the administration room. But that’s all I remember. I don’t remember going to sleep or going to Elysium.”

Achilles leans against his spear, chewing something over. He looks over the hall, then at Zagreus. When Achilles speaks again, he speaks carefully. “Well, lad, I don’t know what’s happening either, but tell me this: did you grant him his wish?”

Zagreus gives Achilles a lopsided grin. Better to act like everything as normal. “Whose wish?”

“Skelly's, lad.”

He sputters, blindsided by the abrupt shift of topics. “Well, no- but should I? I thought it would be rude if I wailed on someone I had only recently met.”

He searches Achilles’s strained expression for something, anything. Normally Achilles is transparent with him, but now he struggles to keep up with his mentor.

“Sir?”

Achilles glances around the hall and turns back to Zagreus. “Go to the courtyard. Pick up a weapon and practice. Skelly will be happy to help. Destroy him if you must.”

Zagreus mulls it over before continuing. There obviously is something Achilles can’t, or wont say. Is it because they’re in earshot of the shades and Zagreus’s father?
Maybe it’s for the best if he keeps playing along. “I don’t know if I could destroy something if it wasn’t trying to destroy me back… My only sparring partner has been you, sir. I’ve never destroyed anything except an actual training dummy…”

Achilles stands speechless. There it is, the same look his father had given him just moments before sending him to his room.

“You know what, sir. You’ve convinced me,” Zagreus says in an attempt keep things light. He turns on his heels towards his chambers. “Let’s go beat up Skelly.”

Achilles's frown deepens. “I’m sorry, lad. You go on ahead. I’ll meet you in there. There are some things I need to take care of before we continue our training.”

Zagreus knows he shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help it. “Sir, does this have to do with the reason everyone is upset with me?”

“I’m not entirely certain, Zagreus. I ought to speak with Lady Nyx, and I will return to you immediately after.”

“I haven’t seen Mother around all day… or night. But I’d like to speak with her too if you find her.”

Achilles frowns deeply, but doesn’t say anything more, and instead clasps a hand on Zagreus’s shoulder before exiting into the main hall.

Zagreus would be damned if he returned to his room to wait for another unspecified amount of time for answers he is beginning to think will never come.

-----

It hurts him to disregard a request from Achilles, but he cannot go back to his chambers and he isn’t sure if he can handle this Skelly. Oh, he’s sure that could… how did Skelly put it? Grind his bones to dust. But there would be no answers there and the last thing Zagreus needs is a distraction. Instead, he finds himself wandering down the west hall. A table and chairs now occupy the space Thanatos normally stands so he can stare stoically over the Styx. It couldn't be because Than got tired of standing all the time, since his default tended to be floating when stood over the Styx. Zagreus wonders what Than looks for in those red waters.

Zagreus watches the Styx for an uncertain amount of time, the slow pace in which it finds its way back to the house. He recalls floating and drifting away, not in the Styx but in Elysium. Soft words in his ear that blended seamlessly with the trickle of the river. He had been in Elysium, he’s sure of it. The hands of the Styx curl out of the waters, ushering the recently departed to the underworld. He imagines them gently carrying him to the house, a soft procession worthy of a prince of Hades. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about it and almost hopes that they just unceremoniously dumped him on the shore.

When he tears himself away from the river, he does so with a purpose. With forced casualness, he makes his way towards the door to the administration chamber. If there are not records of his journey to Elysium, at least there would be records of his journey of his journey back. He leans on the door and pushes but the door doesn't budge. Of course not.

He pushes again, flattening his body against the stone, frustration building as it remains unmoved.

“Achilles, you are certain that Zagreus resides in his bed chambers, even now?”

Nyx.

Zagreus flattens himself against the door. He takes a deep breath, hoping to remain invisible as Nyx, Achilles, and his father enter the west hall, turning right, thankfully. They probably don't see him for they continue towards his father’s chambers, Nyx at Hades side, Achilles trailing behind the rulers of the underworld.

Nyx raises a hand in the air and the others stop. She turns to Achilles and Zagreus freezes, hoping to hide in the shadows. From Nyx. In the shadows. He presses himself further against the door trying not to dwell on his less than stellar idea.

“It would not do to have him wandering about while we spoke on such a sensitive topic,” she continues.

Achilles nods at her. “Yes,” he responds carefully. “I saw him enter his chamber not just a moment before finding you.”

Then Nyx makes direct eye contact with Zagreus. Of course the shadows could not hide him from her. He gives her a pleading look, begging her to not give him away to his father.

“Very good, Achilles,” she replies, looking back to Achilles. "I rather hope he finds respite there."

Hades hrmphs in his usual manner and does not turn to look at the two. “What foolishness to discuss what cannot be changed.”

Nyx turns away from Achilles back now to Zagreus as she faces his father.

He ducks behind a stand with flowers on it then with some stealth, moves from pedestal to pedestal to hide from view, if not from Nyx, at least from his father. He squats between two stand, the one behind him with a marble bust and the one in front a golden urn.

Nyx lets out a long sigh. “Lord Hades, while I understand your predicament, you cannot deny that he has made much progress. You yourself have noted the change in his disposition, the purpose with which he now carries himself. Would you have that lost?”

Hades turns to Nyx with a deep sigh, always as if he is in a perpetual state of being done with the denizens of the underworld. Zagreus is surely done for. But when his father continues the conversation, Zagreus leans back with relief.

“Whatever was lost would be his fault and his alone.” There it is, the gifting of fault so easily given to Zagreus by his father. “Besides, my opinion has no weight in this matter. If for some reason he has forgotten, the pact still stands and there is nothing left to say.”

“Lord Hades,” Achilles starts, but his voice is muffled over the loud huff Hades makes in response.

“You have said enough, Shade. You are to watch the hall to ensure no others are listening. Do you hear?”

Achilles says nothing but Zagreus can see the grip on his spear tightens. No doubt his father would see it too.

If he does, he makes no comment, brushing off Achilles with a mere wave of his hand.

For some reason, this infuriates Zagreus. He wobbles, unsteady in his crouch as red flashes before his eyes. He does not notice he is nearly vibrating.

Nyx cuts through the silence. “Lord Hades, is there not a way to give him back what he has lost?”

“Give him what he has lost? If Zagreus was last in Elysium, the only explanation for his memory loss would be the Lethe. If he drank from it of his own will, then should we not respect his wishes?”

Achilles steps forward again. “With all due respect, Master, but Zagreus would not do this. There must be another explanation.”

“Enough! Both of you have been aiding my son’s ransacking of my domain for long enough but it seems the problem is now solved. He has nothing to be unhappy about and all further attempts will stop." Silence falls between the the three. "I will not discuss this any further.”

Zagreus clenches his fists at his side, unaware of how he shakes as his father reprimands the two. Nyx’s hair flairs, the shadows that normally cling to her, falling off of her in wisps and there's a stillness to Achilles that is reminiscent of the stillness in the air before a storm. It is clear they don’t agree with Hades's decision, and the three stand in a stalemate. Zagreus tries to resist the urge to fight for them, his pose growing more unsteady with each passing moment, prompting Zagreus to grab at the stand in behind him to find his balance.

It shakes, rocking and rocking until the bust teeters off the edge.

Blood and Darkness.

With quick hands, he catches it. The three don’t seem to notice. His worry eases from his shoulder as he holds onto it and grins at the stoic face carved within the marble.

Crash.

The pedestal in front fumbles to the ground and with it the urn. Zagreus freezes in his crouched position, clutching the marble bust to his chest as if he could stop the urn from crashing to the ground if only he held the face of this unknown man tigheter. The urn flies through the air, and crashes to the ground. It shatters, and instead of ashes, like one might expect from an urn, obols clatter to the ground from its remains.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hades voice booms.

“Show yourself immediately and we will not harm you,” Achilles echoes.

Well, there are those who’ve found themselves in worse situations. Not Zagreus prior to this, but certainly worse things had happened to others.

Zagreus stands from his crouched position, turning to face the three with the bust still in his arms.

“Mother. Achilles,” he greets with a rakish smile.

His smile disappear as he faces to turn to the third.

“Father.” 

It is a challenge. He locks eyes with his father.

“Boy.” Hades jaw is set, but he does not raise his voice.

“That’s a lot of coin,” Zagreus says, freeing an arm to motion at the obol on the ground. “Have these urns always been filled with it? It doesn’t seem like a great way to keep the treasury of the whole of the underworld, in my opinion.”

Hades turns to Achilles, choosing to ignore Zagreus's comment. “In his bedchambers, you said? This doesn’t seem to be his room, does it, Achilles.”

Achilles remains unmoved, but the hand on his spear goes from a grim shade of green to white.

“No, Lord Hades, it does not.”

Nyx steps forward toward Zagreus, creating a break between Zagreus and his father. She wears a soft expression on her face as gently lifts the bust from his arms. She hands it to Achilles who places it gently on the ground away from them. Right, he had been holding onto that for some reason.

“Child,” Nyx says. “While I deeply enjoy your company, in the present moment I would prefer to speak with your father alone. You could, perhaps, find solace in the lounge.”

Zagreus feels a spark of nerves flare when she mentions the lounge. Nyx must have caught it for she amends her previous statement just as quickly.

“Or better yet,” she says, turning to Achilles. “Achilles.”

Achilles relaxes at Nyx's request. “Yes?”

“Would you accompany Zagreus to his chambers? Perhaps you could spar with him while I continue this discussion with Lord Hades.”

"In the courtyard, Mistress?"

Nyx nods and Achilles returns the gesture with a simple bow. He turns to Zagreus and walks toward the entrance to the main hall, but turns back when Zagreus does not follow.

“Zagreus?”

He does not move, the rug beneath him beginning to smoke, and watches his mother.

“Why was I in Elysium? What have I forgotten?” He can't help the desperation that leaks into his voice. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

There is something on Nyx’s face, akin to longing, or perhaps grief, and he feels that pool of frustration well up in his stomach. What could it be to make her so… sad? She is resigned, gentle, speaking carefully to him as if he is a piece of glass already showing fissures and cracks. He didn't feel broken, so why was everyone treating him that way?

He feels an arm rest on his shoulder, heavy and firm. “Come along, Lad. As I told you earlier, I’ve been meaning to show you a few new techniques. Perhaps we can put that Skelly to use.”

Zagreus lets himself be led by Achilles, carrying Nyx’s resignation like a shroud. He grounds himself through Achilles's touch, but he turns his head back to watch Nyx, who has turned back to Hades, follwing him into his chambers.

-----

Zagreus is more aware of the tension that fills the house than ever. He can hear his feet patter against the floor in the silence, the scrape of Achilles’s spear against the tile. Achilles himself makes no sound as he walks, but shades usually did not.

“Sir, what is going on?”

Achilles sighs. “I’m afraid I cannot say, lad.”

He tries to hold back his anger. It is not Achilles who has put him in this situation. He did not deserve it. “Of course not. Everyone knows what is going on but Father has told everyone that they can’t say, is that it?”

Achilles looks at him, pained. Hurting. Everyone is hurting because of him. “The situation is complicated, Zagreus. If there was a way…”

“Achilles, sir. How am I supposed to remember something if no one will tell me what I’ve forgotten? How am I supposed to help?”

They walk side by side through Zagreus’s bed chamber, falling into an uncomfortable silence, broken as soon as they enter the courtyard. Zagreus has never been so thankful for the presence of a skeleton before.

“Sounds like you’re a little mad, boyo. Why don’t you use that energy and give one of those weapons a go? Might make you feel better.”

He’d have to hand it to Skelly, he did seem to have an unending source of enthusiasm.

“Can you tell me what’s going on, mate?”

“Nope! Now, how about it?”

Zagreus sighs and passes a case containing a lot of knick-knacks. Beside it, a very large sword hovers above the ground. He picks it up and turns to Achilles, who looks at the case now lost in thought. Zagreus looks back to Skelly, who grins and gives him two boney thumbs up.

Well, if this is what he wants…

Zagreus lifts up the sword, Skelly grinning all the while, beckoning him, goading him to attack. Zagreus hefts the sword above his head, intending to strike down, when Achilles interrupts.

He pauses mid swing, the sword above his head. It either is surprisingly light or his biceps have gotten stronger during the time he'd forgotten. “Uh, sir?”

“I cannot tell you what you wish to know.” Achilles pulls several things from the case and hides them within his cloak. “I cannot tell you what you have forgotten."

He closes the case shut. "But, and you’ll forgive me for being vague, you could follow me.”

Zagreus drops the sword to his side as Achilles walks to the window that looks out on the streets of Tartarus. To Zagreus’s bewilderment, Achilles hitches his long skirts up and throws a leg over the railing.

“Uh, Achilles?” is all he can seem to say.

Achilles hops over the railing and from the other side waves to Zagreus to follow. “Hurry, Lad, before your father catches wind of this.”

“Catches wind of what, sir?”

Achilles grins a sly grin, filled with just a hint of mischief. Zagreus has not seen this in Achilles before. He is confused, but does not mind this confusion so much. This is more than the others had given him. He trusts Achilles and always had.

“Of your first escape attempt.”

Before Zagreus can respond, Achilles jumps from the balcony and peels off into Tartarus’s green glow. There is nothing for Zagreus to do but follow. He can feel his laurels spark and he feels a growing sense of excitement, not knowing why. Skelly, the light glancing off the coin in his mouth, offers a hearty wave.

:”You got this, Boyo.”

There is never a moment where he doubts Achilles. Zagreus would follow him, trust him to lead him where he needed to go without pause. He gives Skelly a curt wave in return and climbs over the window's railing.

He turns away from the house, so quiet and still, and jumps.

“Goodbye, father.”

Chapter Text

Patroclus sits in his glade as he always does between two shapeless statues as he always does. He thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks as he always does. The Lethe is loud as it always is; loud enough to drown out a wide variety of thoughts, if only his thoughts were not triggered by the Lethe itself.

He tries to keep it out of sight, obscured by the statues. The river in its own irony runs along the perimeter of the room, surrounding him, a constant reminder of what he could have. It is as though every day the river widens and his little glade shrinks, caging him in further. And still, he tries to keep it from view.

He, of course, keeps his back to the river in an attempt to create space between him and the temptation to drink, to forget, the idea of keeping his thoughts separate and finite so alluring. He longs for the solace found in the simple act of forgetting like the waters could stitch old wounds back together and hide what was inside, but when he turns towards the Lethe, instead of solace he sees the prince, lifeless and still, floating away as Death’s bell tolls.

He’d tried once to put physical distance between the river and himself, wandering through a number of Elysium fields to find a remote room it did not flow through, but no matter where he went, there the Lethe seemed to be. It was as if it were following him, begging him to give in. Perhaps it thought itself kind to offer such a gift, granting aid to a man with wounds that refused to heal. No matter what it was, he’d received its gifts willingly, taking handfuls of water to sip and in turn gave memories to the Lethe as it tried to stitch him back together. He often wonders if he’d lost anything good, something cherished, something kind. It is the reason he keeps his distance from it now, lest he lose something important.

So now with no anchor, thoughts of his Achilles float up to the surface. He bids them to sink but as they do thoughts of the stranger emerge in their place.

Had he truly forgotten? If he had, how much? Would he forget his promise to Patroclus, to Achilles? He cannot stop himself from asking these questions, ones that will have no answer if the stranger does not return. But they turn in his mind again and again and again, just as they always do.

He intends to bury the thought, but they act as though they have no weight with nothing to hold them down. Just an every present numbness as they bob up to the surface like apples in a barrel of water.

He sighs, his feet digging into the dirt beneath him and there the stranger is, shaking in Patroclus’s arms. It is not enough that most things remind him of Achilles, but now by just existing, he cannot help but think of the stranger. He hears the gentle trickle of the Lethe and thinks of the stranger. He notes the splash of a fish jumping and he thinks of the stranger. His thoughts so often wander to him it is a wonder he has any left to spare. What a nuisance the stranger has become.

He stops burying his toes into the earth and looks to the Lethe. No, that is not it, is it?

He ought to chide himself for his own thoughtlessness. The idea that he had at one time been a good man is laughable for he now sits in a glade in paradise lamenting at his own misfortune. Patroclus wonders if he has always been this selfish, or if his time in Elysium had twisted him so. There are many things Patroclus should be grateful for. For instance, the strangers dip into the Lethe. It could be considered a blessing by some. He could forget things meant to be forgotten and without memories (those tying him to a bitter old ghost fading away into eternity) he could pursue what made him happy. Patroclus wants to want this for the stranger, but cannot help the bitterness the idea creates. All he should want is to aid the stranger, just as the stranger had aided him.

When visiting the glade, whatever journey the stranger was on came to a halt, even when covered in gashes and bruises on the verge of dying. And although there was not much to be done in regards to Patroclus’s pain, the soft questions and gentle quips did ease it just a little for which he found himself grateful, not stitches, but a balm.

Patroclus recalls holding the prince, and the prince melting into his touch as one might when raised in the absence of touch or affection. The heartbreaking notion occurs to him that even when dying, Zagreus longed for something so easily given. Perhaps Patroclus should be thankful he had been able to grant him this and to ease his pain so simply.

The river trickles. Patroclus closes his eyes, pretending that it is not water, but perhaps something else. A sizzle of oil in a hot pan, rain pattering on a roof and not water falling off rocks to join the mist of the Lethe. He turns, expecting to be tempted by the waters once more, but is greeted by an even more maddening sight.

“You there, Shade! Do you wish to try your hand at fighting the Champion of Elysium?”

So lost in trying to avoid the river and thoughts of the Achilles and the Prince (trying and failing as was the nature of his time here) that he had failed to notice the doors open and usher in two unwelcome guests. (All guests being unwelcome, but this pair especially so.) Theseus, Champion of Elysium, and his companion Asterius, the Bull of Minos, stand before him, unwelcome for different reasons but both unwelcome nonetheless.

“Well, Shade?” The fool demands, hands resting staunchly on his hips.

For a moment Patroclus wonders what led to Theseus’s wandering about instead of fighting in his ‘grand’ arena, but the moment passes quickly and Patroclus decides he simply does not care. The fool would do what he always does; create a nuisance.

“Leave me, Champion,” Patroclus says, sighing deeply, eyes never looking directly at either of them. “There is nothing for you here.”

Theseus balks, taking quite the offense from such a simple request. “You would sit here, wasting away into the fields while there is glory waiting for you?!”

Then he grins like the fool he is.

Patroclus does not move and leans back into his hands as if to prove his despondency. “Do not speak to me of glory, Champion.”

Theseus does not do that. Instead, he speaks, blathers, and prattles on about “glory.” Patroclus has become very practiced at ignoring the incessant prattle of the Elysium shades, and while he is very good at ignoring most of it, he finds himself glad that he does not have an eternity of only this.

A large fur covered hand appears on the Champion’s shoulder as Asterius interrupts Theseus with nothing but a touch. It would seem he knew how to handle the fool after an eternity. It would impress Patroclus, but there is something about Asterius that unnerves him.

“King, it would be wise to leave him be.” There is silence after Asterius speaks. Theseus is headstrong, but his companion is as wise as he is strong. That insight worries Patroclus to no end. He can feel the inquisitive eyes of the Minotaur upon him, no doubt attempting to unravel the threads that kept old wounds sealed.

“You truly think so, Asterius?”

Asterius looks to Patroclus before turning back to Theseus with a resolute nod.

“Very well, my friend. Then we shall leave this shade in peace!”

They did not leave in peace, but instead continued their conversation as they exited the glade. The Lethe is not loud enough to drown out their voices. Patroclus tilts his head to catch the river, wondering what memories it would take if he drank now.

“...he waits, my King.”

The Bull, far away but still present, tugs on the sutures the Lethe had given Patroclus. He keeps his eyes on the river, as though the reminder might keep that thread taught.

“What nonsense, Asterius. Everything one would need one can find here!”

The Minotaur pauses and though Patroclus sits hidden behind a statue, he can tell that Asterius looks towards him. With pity, no doubt. He wanted none of it, but the idle of Elysium gave it to him in droves. If he’d gathered anything in his time waiting, it was an abundance of pity. He did not need it, and did not want it but the Bull still offers it to him.

“Not everything, my King.” There he is again, pulling at threads that ought not to be toyed with.

“That is very true, Asterius! You were not always here in Elysium,” Theseus says, chuckling as if the vague comments were somehow amusing to him.

“Indeed.”

The doors to the glade open, and the unending prattle of Theseus fades into the distance followed by the loud steps of Asterius.

Again, Theseus laughs. “Well, if there is anything I have learned about this place, is that if what you want is not here, then you must fight for it!”

The door slams shut and once again, Patroclus is alone.

Only then do the threads snap.

Chapter Text

The idea that Achilles would be bad at his other duties if given the chance to exercise them had never crossed his mind. He had assumed that he would do what could be considered an adequate job given the slim chance a disturbance occurred within the halls. 

Who would dare start something in the house of Hades? With gods around every corner, gorgons in the rafters, and furies in the lounge, not one soul would be foolish enough to cause trouble. Unless, of course, the trouble maker himself happened to be a god as well. And a god Achilles contained a certain fondness for. 

Achilles had never considered that possibility.

No, he never thought that any one shade or being would be foolish enough to go against the will of Hades. And he definitely never thought that shade would be him. 

Achilles finds himself rummaging through Zagreus’s keepsake cabinet before he can even register what he’s doing. Obviously, this is not good. There would be consequences for his actions, but Achilles could not dwell on it. He could only focus on helping the Prince. He sets his attention on the cabinet, tucking as many trinkets as he can into his chest piece and cloak in the hopes that whatever whim he follows will be successful. The exact abilities of these bobbles is unknown to Achilles, but Zagreus had spoken no shortage of trust in their powers, and Achilles knows they can use all the help they can get. 

When he turns, the keepsakes tucked safely away, he catches Zagreus hefting Stygius above his head, swinging it towards Skelly who looks absolutely determined to be ground into dust. Achilles can’t help but smile, as the pose Zagreus holds looks a little silly, which he must know as he swings down on the skeleton with a incredulous grin. This feels right, like perhaps Achilles should have done this before instead of wasting his time in the halls doling out advice. Zagreus deserves so much more than words. Achilles does not have much, but what he does have, he finds he would risk everything for him.

What a strange feeling to stumble onto now.

Achilles wonders what he is risking and the mystery of it grips his chest for a moment, settling at the pit of his stomach, but he breathes and steps towards the open window. Tartarus glows a soft green below, similar to the color of his robes and skirts. He hopes that once his feet touch the stone of Tartarus that twisting pain will stop.

“I… I cannot tell you what you wish to know.” Achilles finds he speaks stilted now as he reconsiders his words even as they tumble from his lips. It is such a change from when he was alive and had no thought for his actions, let alone the impact of his words. “I cannot tell you what you have forgotten. But, and you’ll forgive me for being vague, you could follow me.”

Zagreus’s lips twist into a look of confusion… or perhaps intrigue as he watches Achilles climb over the railing of the small balcony.

“Um, Achilles?” 

The lad just stands there, bewildered, and Achilles isn’t sure what to say to get him to follow.

He grips the railing with one hand and steadies his spear in his other. Urgency. Whatever he says, he much convey it with urgency for Zagreus to follow.

“Hurry, Lad, before your father catches wind.”

When he jumps, as Zagreus must have so many times before, Achilles feels a tingle in the tips of his fingers, the simple buckle of his knees, and a rattling in his chest akin to being alive. Achilles doesn’t look back to ensure Zagreus follows and instead runs, spear in hand clacking against the stone. 

Zagreus is at Achilles’s side mere moments later. All those runs have made him quick; far more agile than when Achilles had been training with him. They run in silence, Zagreus easily keeping up with Achilles’s pace before Achilles puts a hand out in front of Zagreus to stop him. Excitement and nerves had claimed him, so much so that he almost forgot about the trinkets.

“Take this,” Achilles says, pulling a small jeweled butterfly from his stash of keepsakes from his chest piece. Achilles has seen it on Thanatos before, and assumes it was a gift at some point, a token of reconciliation if Achilles recalls correctly. Zagreus had mentioned it made him stronger each room he passed without injury. Achilles plans on seeing Zagreus without injury as long as he is by Zagreus’s side. “Stay behind me for now. I’ll take care of your father's wretches.”

“I can fight, sir,” Zagreus says, frowning. He is unhappy with the request, but secures the broach to his chiton before taking Stygius in hand once again. The green glow of Tartarus catches the blade, a glint finding its way to Achilles’s eyes. He looks away for just a moment before finding himself reaching out towards Zagreus, a hand landing firmly on his shoulder. For a moment, Zagreus stills, long enough for Achilles to catch his gaze. 

“I know you can, Lad.” He punctuates it with a soft smile. Zagreus’s face furrows and he looks away from Achilles, rolling up onto the balls of his feet as if to stop himself from moving forward.  “This journey will be difficult and only get more difficult as we go. Keep your strength up for later. So for now, we must be cautious.”  

“-I thought fear was for the weak, sir.” It is a flippant answer, one that Zagreus would normally reserve for his father and his father only.

Achilles pulls his hand away quickly and feels the color drain from his face. A shade with no blood, with nothing to fill his veins, yet he can feel his face blanche. 

“Lad, I-”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean... I’m-”

Achilles sighs. “-Upset?”

That lopsided, sheepish grin returns to the prince as he settles on his feet once again. He nods. “I’m used to being in the dark, sir. But not like this...”

“How about this, lad…” Achilles reaches out to straighten the broach affixed to Zagreus’s chiton. “I lead, but the moment it looks as if I might be overwhelmed, you take that blade of yours and do your worst.”

Zagreus watches Achilles’s hands, and Achilles becomes so aware of how stiff his fingers are. He stumbles with the broach a moment and although his focus is on the pin, he can tell Zagreus grins again. “There is no way you could stop me if that were to happen, sir.”

Achilles strains a smile and pulls his hand away. All of it feels dishonest; he knows Zagreus can fight, he knows Zagreus can lead, but Achilles cannot see him hurt. He’s seen it from his post too many times to allow it now. 

“I would expect nothing less.”

Achilles most certainly does not know best and never did, yet Zagreus trusts him. As his soldiers did in life, Zagreus trusts him to lead even when Achilles has no right to do so. He had not been a tactician back in his day; he had not been a great leader. He’d been nothing but a warrior, fueled by an unearned rage, running ahead of the charge with his spear out. And it was all they needed. He never needed a mind for tactics. That was what… well, what someone else had excelled at. 

But it was not something to dwell upon. So Achilles pushes further into Tartarus, ignoring the distant crack of a whip and wails of those the whip greeted. If he had not made the deal with Hades and signed that contract, he wonders if Tisiphone’s whip would have been met with a silent stoicism or barbed wit like returning daggers with every crack-

No, it was also not the time for that. It was never the time for that, for what ifs. He was safe in Elysium, even if he…

Achilles drives forward, hoping outrun the thought. He would not think of his own woes or his own mistakes. He'd had an eternity to think on those. Achilles shakes his head, remembering himself, remembering why he stands in Tartarus, Zagreus patiently waiting for him to lead. 

Achilles reaches into his skirts again and pulls out another trinket. This time a shawl, glimmering with stars and endless void. He secures it over his own shoulders, the fabric blending into his own cloak like a soft shroud. It is so light Achilles might forget its presence if only it hadn’t caused Zagreus to laugh. 

“I don’t think purple is your color, Achilles, Sir.”

Achilles can’t help but smile as Zagreus easily breaks the somber silence that had fallen over them. “It’s a precaution, Zagreus. If I were to be caught aiding you…” 

He cannot finish the sentence, but Zagreus does it for him.

“-My father would be very unhappy.”

“You could say that, lad.”

Zagreus gives Achilles a conciliatory smile, slinging Stygius over his shoulders with that lopsided grin, stopping as they approach a set of doors.

“Weird, but I don’t remember there being so many doors,” Zagreus muses.

“Your father had certain security measures installed…” Achilles trails off again and again Zagreus finishes the thought Achilles cannot.

“-To stop me from escaping.”

Achilles does not respond. He wants to; to nod, to confirm Zagreus’s statement, but whatever contract he is under stops him. “Zagreus, put your hand out and will the door open. Once it lifts, keep behind me, your back to a wall, and be ready.”

“For what?” Zagreus asks as the door slides open.

The wretches in the room before them stop dead in their tracks and turn on their heels with a bone chilling stare (if Achilles had any bones to chill). Achilles gives Zagreus one more look and tilts his head towards their enemies. He takes his spear in both hands.

“Ah.”

For a moment, he thinks he sees Zagreus grin, as if this might be the easiest task in the world, not a tinge of regret or fear in his stance. 

“We should probably get on it then, Sir. Wouldn’t want my father to catch on or anything."

Fear is for the weak. 

Achilles grips his spear. He’d never considered himself weak in life; how could he with the power of the gods flowing through him. But the idea that he might not be able to protect Zagreus, that he had not been able to protect Zagreus… It grants him pause. His hands tighten their grip on his spear. They won't tremble if he holds tight to his spear.  If he were alive his knuckles would turn white. He swallows the lump in his throat and rushes into the room, leading Zagreus straight into danger.

Fear is for the weak.

-----

The orb in front of Zagreus glows, a voice echoing from it. Achilles stands beside him, still and unwavering as if he’d only been standing at attention like he'd done for years at his post, a guardian of this orb instead of having just fought his way through several angry wretches only moments prior.

“So my family up on Olympus are helping me escape?”

Achilles tries to hide his struggle, keeping his brow level, his lips unpursed, but Zagreus knows that Achilles cannot find words he is allowed to say. Zagreus continues as if his questions were rhetorical and not needing an answer.

"Because I want to be with them?"

Zagreus keeps his eyes on the orb and not on the tightening grip Achilles has on his spear or the small bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. 

"That doesn't sound like me," Zagreus says with a frown. Achilles shifts from foot to foot. “They can’t hear me, can they?”

Achilles shakes his head. “No, lad.”

Zagreus tries not to note the sting of relief in Achilles’s voice. It feels intrusive to note the weakness of his mentor, especially when he is doing what he can to help Zagreus. Not that Zagreus minds being a little intrusive from time to time.

“So they don’t expect a response?” 

Achilles smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “How could they, lad, if they can’t hear you?” 

Zagreus decides he hates this. He hates that it’s causing Achilles distress. He hates that his friends can’t speak to him. He hates that whatever happened causes them pain. Blood and darkness, he hates...

"Lad?"

He probably shouldn't let it show  so he leans to the side to give him a playful elbow to Achilles's side as he huffs another laugh.

“Right. So I just take whatever boon they offer.”

Achilles motions forward with his spear.

“Go on then, lad.”

The light of the orb flickers off his hand. He doesn't have any hesitations, but there are so many questions he'd rather be asking. "Well, then. Here goes nothing."

-------

Achilles makes easy work of the wretches they face, carving through them with quickly and efficiently. He shakes the rust from his joints and the stiffness from his limbs, but even so the wretches are no match for him. He goes through the motions, driven by memories and the ghosts of what he’d once been, when he'd fought wars instead of being a wall fixture in the House of Hades. Memories guide his hand, but he does not dwell on this and instead lets his spear lead him. See, always lead by something and never the leader himself.

His spear guides him right into the back of a wretch, impaling it before slamming his spear into another, the first shade still mounted on it. Back during the war, he might have been proud of himself for a such a display and found excitement in the pride of his soldiers. He might have even been proud of the body count that steadily rises at his hand. But Achilles cannot be proud now; not of this, not of his bloody deeds during the war. There is only truly one thing he is proud of now, Achilles thinks. 

Zagreus stands behind him, his back to the wall as Achilles had instructed. He made the mistake of looking towards Zagreus several rooms prior during a fight and found there was nothing but awe on the lad’s face. He would not make the same mistake again.

“Achilles!” 

Zagreus’s cry tears through him. Achilles turns, but it is too late. Chains wrap around him like a vice and tighten as a spectral hand pulls him close. Bound, he watches another shade, this one burly with balled fists, slowly approaches menacing and with intent. The Styx would take Achilles soon, leaving Zagreus to fend for himself. Achilles would not let that happen. Not again. So he struggles against the chains, trying to pull himself free.

“Get away from him!” 

Zagreus.

From behind the wretch, Stygius pierces through mere inches away from Achilles. When Zagreus pulls the blade free, he does so with a heavy cry. With another wild swing, he tears another apart before planting Stygius firmly into the ground, a shockwave letting off a loud crack that echoes throughout the chamber. It is almost as loud as the scream Zagreus releases as he charges further into the room. Achilles tries to find himself beyond Zagreus's yells but they leave Achilles breathless and frozen. He’d seen frustrations, a soft and low simmer when Zagreus would speak to his father, a spark of anger when he’d caught Nyx talking about him. Achilles had seen him upset, but never like this. It is a raw fury, unbidden and unbound that Zagreus uses to fight.

Rage. An emotion he'd hope that Prince did not contain. He sees it there and feels it and remembers.

Zagreus drives forward with the momentum carried by that deep heat, now unconstrained and overflowing like a bottle of wine that had sat in the sun for too long, finally uncorked and overflowing. Achilles tries to focus, to take his spear to aid, to stop the rage, but can only hear the angry guttural sounds of Zagreus tearing through shades. Stygius scrapes the stone floors, a hollow sound as if ut were in the distance and getting farther away. Achilles feels something filling that pit in his core and he desperately tries to push it away, to keep it empty.

A shade slams into the back of Zagreus and Zagreus turns, jaw set in a hard line before pushing further into the room.

Achilles's heart shatters and as the pieces fall away, the pit that had been slowly forming expands into a large cavern, leaving nothing but fury and rage in its wake. Nothing but blood and death. The sound of the battle is so far away. He opens his lips to call out, but that sound is distant too.

Zagreus.

With that pit now uncovered all that he had pushed away rises up to the surface. Achilles remembers tearing through men and armies fueled by a rage unearned. He remembers the men he'd lead to their deaths. He remembers the proceeding event as well; a stubborn refusal to action, a selfish sense of ownership over things that could not and would never belong to him.

And then he remembers the weight of a body in his arms.

Chains must still wrap around him for he cannot move. A small part of him is thankful at least for that, as the rage bubbles up and threatens to break free. He wants to scream as if a burst of sound would release the memories from him, but the chains. The chains bind him into place. Why would they not leave him?

Sir?

It is a soft but distant call.  

Achilles, sir.

Zagreus.

Sir, it's going to be alright.

Achilles swallows, the taste in his mouth bitter and dry. He draws what focus he can to the green glow between the stone tiles. He breathes in the crisp smell of the Styx in the distance.

He remembers.

Tartarus. Escaping. Zagreus.

He doesn't know how long he's stood there, or how long Zagreus has been calling for him. But his voice steadies Achilles, grounding his feet to the cold ground of Tartarus.

Achilles balls his hand into a fist, squeezing his eyes shut. It's hard to see anything but Zagreus before him now. Blood trickles down the bare shoulder of the prince, a red and angry bruise already forming beneath.

“The shades, lad. Focus,” he says through gritted teeth. He wants the fire in his chest to fade, to stop burning, but the more he looks at Zagreus's injury and the way he shifts in discomfort through the pain, the hotter it becomes.

The pain of death is but another obstacle. He'd said that to Zagreus once. What a callous thing to say now that he knows the cost.

“They’re taken care of, Sir.”  Zagreus's fury disappears just as quickly as it emerged and he is left with soft and reassuring words. Would that it could be that easy for Achilles. “It's going to be alright.”

Achilles reaches out and without explanation, Zagreus takes his hand. Zagreus's hand sticks to Achilles's with sweat earned by wielding Stygius and he gives Achilles's a gentle squeeze, the warmth in stark contrast to the feeling that fades from chest. The chains no longer bind him and the blur in his vision fades slowly, coming into focus on Zagreus beside him. 

Not only does he have his hand, but Achilles can feel a warm palm pressing against the center of his back. It is a steady warmth like the sun at his back on a clear day while throwing rocks into the river, a friendly competition with his friend-

“-We can turn back if you’re unwell.”

“No,” he says, his denial cutting sharp through the memory. "No."

The Prince tenses, the hand on Achilles's back pulling away suddenly.

“Lad, I...” He didn’t mean-

“It’s okay, Sir. We can keep going. I think I’m getting the hang of this thing anyway.”

Achilles catches Zagreus’s gaze for just a moment before the guilt fills the cavern. Zagreus did not need another person in his life lashing out without knowing the reason.

“I’m sorry, lad, I didn’t mean to be cross with you." Achilles does not know what drives him to say what he says next, but what is done is done and he would not take back what was the truth. "'You deserve better than what this house has given you.”

Zagreus doesn't respond but Achilles notes the absence of Zagreus's hand in his.

“It’s alright, sir,” Zagreus says, slipping Achilles’s spear back into his mentor's hand. He hadn’t even noticed its absence but Zagreus must have taken it while he had been… away. “We just need to keep moving forward.”

Achilles nods, taking steps towards the doors with the aid of his spear, unaware of the pit in his chest steadily growing. 

-------

Thankfully, the next chamber offers respite in the form of Sisyphus who stands with an unerring smile next to his eternity of punishment. If he is a little confused at Zagreus’s new partner in crime, he does not let on and offers two sets of boons instead of only one.

Zagreus politely thanks Sisyphus and despite Achilles's wish to push forward, Zagreus pulls him towards the river and takes a seat, letting his feet hang off the stone into the waters, the Styx hands gently waving and curling around the prince’s ankles. Fear grips Achilles for a moment as he ponders what would happen in Zagreus were to fall in, but Zagreus relaxes and Achilles is not about to take that away from him over small anxieties.

There is a small exchange of words as they decide how to proceed and at what pace, but Zagreus wins and Achilles finds himself seated next to the lad eating gyros and chips. Achilles does not put his feet in the waters, feeling it might tempt fate or some nonsense like that. So he sits with his legs crossed, skirts pooling around him, and spear resting on the stone beside that. Zagreus kicks his feet in the water every so often and Achilles recalls being at the edge of a river as a child, kicking his legs in cool waters. 

“Alright sir, answer me this; was I actually in Elysium or was it all some sort of dream?” Zagreus says through a mouthful of fried potatoes after the silence has thoroughly settled between the two of them.

Achilles ponders his answer, wondering what might set off the pact, but his lips move with ease. “I believe you were, lad. In Elysium, I mean.”

He opens his mouth to speak more on it, but the words stop before they can reach his lips. “...I would say more if I could.”

Beside him, the paper of Zagreus’s meal crinkles, and Zagreus lets out another frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Sir. I know you would tell me if there wasn’t something holding you back.”

Achilles shifts, wanting to say something. To tell him of his mother, of his family. To tell him that someone loves him no matter what his father bids. 

Zagreus sighs, swallowing another mouthful. “Why does my father care if I know about… whatever is it I’m supposed to know and also not know?”

Achilles does not answer, instead opts to change the subject. “Let’s not speak on that, lad. Perhaps you can tell me what you remember of Elysium. I have not been there for quite a long time.”

Zagreus turns to Achilles, intrigued. “You were in Elysium? Was it before you came to be in the house?”

Achilles's heart leaps into his throat and he wishes he had something in his hands besides the food Sisyphus gave them. Like that fishing pole Zagreus always carried with him. He’d shift the pole in the water, gripping near as tight as he gripped his spear though he doubts an errant fish would rescue him from this moment. He doesn't know why he expected anything different from Zagreus. The lad always leapt at the chance to learn more about his friends. “I… it’s a story for another time, lad. Perhaps over a bottle of nectar in the lounge.”

Zagreus nods and pops a chip in his mouth before idly describing what he can remember of Elysium. He tells Achilles of the grass, of the sky. The sounds that the Lethe makes as the waters find their way back to the Styx. Achilles tries to keep his attention on Zagreus’s words, but the effect of them shift and now needle at the guilt that Achilles cannot let go of.

Zagreus, of course, is more intuitive than most give him credit for. Whether he notices the rote responses Achilles gives, or the way Achilles looks out at the Styx but does not truly see it, he does not falter in stride and opts to distract.

“And of course, there was the man...”

Achilles blinks, finding an anchor in Zagreus’s newly glib tone. 

Zagreus grins when Achilles turns to face him. “A man, truly?” 

Zagreus huffs with bright laughter. “Well, a Shade really, but he was also a man."

Well, that certainly was not expected though unsurprising. Achilles raises an eyebrow with a smirk, all but forgetting that guilt that had threaten to eat at him moments prior. He doesn't think on the empty feeling in his chest and instead focuses on Zagreus's tale.

"And a very striking one at that," Zagreus adds.

It amuses Achilles how quickly Zagreus finds others. And by the sound of it, falls for them too. It happens so often, Achilles can spot Zagreus’s love struck look all the way from his post. He supposes that the lad just saw things in people that most could not.

Normally, Achilles would not press, knowing better than to pry into Zagreus’s romantic dalliances for Zagreus had always been... well, shy wasn't the word for it, but there had always been a hesitation when talking to Achilles about his romantic endeavors. Achilles learned early on not to press and found himself having to find other means of gathering information. (The lounge, while somber at the best of times, had offered some illumination on the subject depending on who Achilles chose to spend time with.) But circumstances as they were, Achilles presses just a little to see what information Zagreus might offer.

“Will you tell me how you met this shade who is also a very handsome man?”

The prince pulls his legs from the river, tucking his knees up to his chest. He wraps his arms around them as if to steady himself as he rests his chin atop his knees. He does not look up at Achilles, but at the river, the same smile glancing over his lips.

“Well, sir. When I woke up in Elysium, I just happened to be in his arms.”

Achilles stares, dumbstruck. “You just happened to wake up in the arms of a beautiful shade in the middle of Elysium? This is not another one of your tall tales, is it, lad?”

Zagreus shakes his head, chuckling all the while. “I know what it sounds like, but I swear to you, this man held me and said incredibly nice things to me as the Styx took me.”

Achilles is not sure how to respond to that bit of information. He stalls out for a moment, before regaining his composure. Stranger things have happened, but Zagreus stumbling upon a handsome stranger in the middle of Elysium had never crossed Achilles’s mind.“...that was very kind of him, Lad.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it, sir?” Zagreus shifts, still holding onto his knees. “It was a pretty new sensation if I’m being honest.”

“Dying?" Achilles asks. "I’m sure it was...”

“No, well, I mean yes, dying was definitely a new feeling. but I was talking about, uh-” His cheeks turn rosy as he blushes. “Being... held. Like that. Or at all.” 

Achilles wishes he could fill the silence, but the guilt begins to creep in again, robbing him of his words. He tries to keep his smile on his lips.

Zagreus continues as if it isn’t the most heartbreaking thing that Achilles has heard in a long time. Well, that isn’t necessarily true. His day had been filled with heartbreak regarding Zagreus. Perhaps he should have been gentler with him when he was younger, put a hand on his shoulder when he did a good job, or ruffled his hair when he was being smart with him. Achilles’s own childhood had been filled with gentle touches, hugs, and affirmations. A reminder he had been surrounded by love even if he had not been deserving of it.

“...He was even kind enough to give me his name. I’m surprised I remember it. I was not doing great, with the dying and all.”

Achilles focuses back in on Zagreus. The past was where it was meant to be and there was no use dwelling on it. “Well, lad, I don’t think anyone would think poorly of you for forgetting a name under the circumstance.”

Zagreus laughs and unfurls his legs as if the worst of the embarrassment is over. 

Achilles presses further. “So, what was this shade called then?”

Zagreus smiles as if recalling it is sweet enough on its own. 

“Patroclus.”

Achilles could not be certain how many times he would find himself dumbstruck today, but Zagreus continues to confound him. “What did you say, lad?”

Zagreus finishes off the gyro like he’d said the most mundane thing in the word and stands, brushing his hands off on his leggings. “He said his name was Patroclus. An interesting name, isn't it?”

His head spins and were he alive, he’s sure he would be sick. Of all of the handsome shades in Elysium...

Achilles wills himself to nod. He stands. He would not dwell on the name of a familiar shade, especially if Zagreus did not recognize it. Zagreus had more to worry about than a pair of old forgotten warriors. And there is a chance Zagreus would find comfort in those pair of strong arms and the warmth they held and Achilles would not take that away from him.

 “Yes, lad, I suppose it is.”

---------

They make their way through several more chambers, Achilles at the front, Zagreus, now getting used to Stygius, aiding with the help of several boons from his Olympian family. It feels good to fight alongside his mentor. 

There is something off with Achilles and Zagreus doesn’t want to pry, but he worries. There has to be a way to fix whatever ails his mentor, but without knowing the cause, Zagreus can only take stabs in the dark. 

And yet, there are moments when it feels as though everything might be alright.

He doesn’t know how many rooms they’ve been through. Enough that he finds a rhythm with Achilles, Zagreus shifting from spot to spot while Achilles nearly glides across the stone with swift but fluid movements. 

It almost feels like a dance, although Zagreus had not done too much dancing himself to be sure. Orpheus had not been one for lively tunes, let alone ones to be danced to, but Achilles had taught him about beats and breaths and the wretches are almost predictable in their movement that he only needs to memorize their rhythm to find his own. 

He tries not to give into it, keeping his movement methodical and fluid. Achilles stays present if Zagreus is less than emotional during combat. Zagreus find it easy to lose himself in the fight, to let his instinct drive him, but he prefers to have Achilles with him rather than wherever he went when he got lost in his head. 

They slay the last wretch with ease and he takes his boon, a gift from the lady Artemis. 

“Something's troubled me a little, about you," she says. "You fight so desperately.”

Her voice echoes throughout the chamber. Achilles pays little attention, picking up stray obols dropped by shades and wretches, but Zagreus finds himself hanging off her every word.  “At first I thought you simply lacked in patience. But now I see it's urgency that drives you.”

Zagreus stills under the soft glow of her boon. She cannot hear him no matter how many questions he wants to ask.

From across the chamber, Achilles looks up at him. "Have you picked a boon yet, Lad?"

Zagreus shakes his head, and shifts his focus back to the orb. It glows with his cousin's voice again.

“What is it that you're after, really...?”

------

Charon is Charon is Charon. 

He seems a little perturbed, but all in all, like he acts normal. Zagreus prides himself on being able to read people but Charon is always a mystery. So he’ll guess that this is normal for Charon.

The boatman tilts his head at the sight of Achilles. Appraisal perhaps? Confusion? 

No matter the feeling, he still takes Zagreus’s obols. 

Achilles waits at the door ahead of them, staring up at the symbol; a strange globule of blood floating above. 

Zagreus wants to ask about it, but stops himself. Most likely Achilles would not answer and would only respond with that guilty expression. Zagreus could hold his tongue long enough to avoid that. 

“Shall we, sir?” Light. Like they’ve done this thousands of times before.

Achilles turns to him and without a question asked Achilles already looks grave. “Open the door, lad.”

Zagreus feels his stomach drop, all those gyros and chips turning in his stomach as he reaches out. 

“That bad, huh?”

Achilles takes one grave step towards the door. "Yes, lad. That bad."

----------

The door opens up to a large room. Zagreus has described it to Achilles before, but even description fails to convey how vast and empty the chamber truly is. Their footsteps echoe on the stone as they approach the center slowly and follow the other sound in the hall; the distinct sound of the pommel slamming into the meat of someone’s palm with intent.

Megaera hovers before them, wing flapping, unreadable expression on her face as she hits the pommel of her whip in her hand again.

“Zagreus,” she nods then turns to acknowledge Achilles. “Shade.”

It is followed by another slap of the pommel into her hand. 

“Mistress," Achilles starts. He knows she is headstrong and duty-bound, but if he could convince her duty is to the prince... "If he escapes, there is a chance he will-”

“Save it, shade. I don't want an explanation." Her single wing flaps. The whip meets her hand again. "I have to be honest with you. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Achilles stands tall, feet and spear planted into the ground like roots. “I didn’t expect to come, but I stand here now with intent."

She lets out a huff. “You go any further, Achilles, and Lord Hades will know.”

Achilles grits his teeth. Was she trying to scare him away? “What do you expect me to do, Mistress? Am I to leave him to die alone in Asphodel?”

Meg stares at him and he stares back, a battle for sure to see who would break eye contact first.

"Do you intend to send me to the Styx?"

Meg grabs the other end of her whip and pulls it taught with a loud snap. “Now, I know you cannot be this dense.”

Achilles steels himself, plants his feet in the ground as he takes the spear in both hands. She is certainly trying to get him off balance. 

“Wait.” Zagreus says, stepping forward with a conciliatory hand out. “You don’t have to do this, Meg.”

There is a fraction of a second where Meg’s expression changes before settling back on disgruntled and annoyed. “Get back, Zagreus.” 

Zagreus looks towards Achilles and Achilles nods. If Zagreus stands behind him, Meg will fly towards Achilles first, then lash out with her whip. Achilles only needs to be faster than her and to drive her away from the Prince.

“Then shall we get on with this then? I'm sure Lord Hades will catch on soon enough and I would prefer to be halfway through Asphodel when he does.”

“I don't want to hurt you, Achilles." she says, her tone sharp, tilting her head back with an exasperated groan. "But I can't let you go any further. Once you leave Tartarus that shawl you have on will do nothing to hide you.”

Achilles stands at the ready, taking a single step back when she advances towards him. Why isn't she attacking?

She stops walking and even takes a step back as if she might startle a caged animal. “The moment you leave Tartarus you break your contract with Lord Hades. You know how I feel about oath-breakers.”

Achilles slams his spear in the ground. The room is vast and empty and it fills with its echo. “I need to help him, the consequences be damned.”

Megaera's tone is flippant. “Martyrdom isn't a good look on you, Achilles. It never has been.” 

Achilles gaze goes cold, steely as the sharp end of his spear.

"Look, you old fool," she says. Is she pleading with him? "Don't throw yourself on my whip. Drinking in the lounge would be very boring without you around."

He pauses. He doesn't appreciate being called old and more so a fool, but her words hold fondness in them instead of venom. The grip on his spear wavers.  "...I'm afraid I don't understand, Mistress."

She responds with a deep roll of her eyes. "Achilles, just keep me keep me talking, would you?"

“What?”

“I said keep me talking. If I were distracted by an annoying but persistent shade, a certain someone could slip past me. He might even hide behind the pillar to my left,” she says, swinging the pommel of her whip towards the aforementioned pillar.

Achilles tries to keep himself from stammering as her meaning finally hits him. Keep her talking. She wants Achilles to distract her. “I-oh, of course, Mistress.”

He looks back and Zagreus is gone. Smart lad, smarter than his mentor, Achilles is sure.

She notes the absence of Zagreus with a raised eyebrow. "Tsk. Seems I'll have to follow him into Asphodel. See that he doesn't forget the crack of my whip."

Achilles gives her a low bow. "I could not hold you back even if I wanted to, Magaera."

The Fury takes to the air and rockets toward the exit, but stops before the door opens.

“Wait. Do you have any companions with you? The stuffed ones from Lady Nyx.”

Achilles nods. 

“Do you have Mort? It's the little rat.” 

"Yes, he's right-"

"Hand him over. Now."

Achilles pulls the tiny rodent from his stash of trinkets and tosses it towards the Fury. She catches it, tucks it into her belt, gives one last look to Achilles, and disappears within. 

While the door remains open, Zagreus pops out from behind the left pillar. 

“I'm a little confused, but I'm going to assume this is all part of the plan and if walk into the next fountain chamber Meg won't try to kill me.”

Achilles finds himself laughing his relief. This day does keep getting stranger. "I'm not certain what she has planned, lad, but you should be safe for now as long as she is not seen neglecting her duties."

Zagreus nods, pausing in front of Achilles with an air of hesitation.

“Go on, Lad. You’ll find what you’re looking for out there. I’m certain of it.” Encouragement. He can give Zagreus that.

“Right. Thank you, Achilles. For everything.”

Zagreus turns to leave, but Achilles, on a foreign instinct, reaches out to catch Zagreus's hand.

“Sir?”

It is then when Achilles pulls Zagreus into a hug. Zagreus freezes but settles into it quickly as if they'd always done this. Achilles himself is surprised at his own display, but wraps Zagreus in his arms nonetheless. Achilles knows he will find it hard to let him go but Megaera was right about Achilles’s penchant for self-sacrifice. “There is no room to doubt yourself out there, Zagreus. I’ve seen you do this many times. This is no different. You’ll get there, I know it.”

Zagreus gives Achilles a squeeze before turning to the door. “Thank you, sir.”

Zagreus is a smart man. He knows enough now not to ask where there is. 

------

Zagreus tip-toes into the chamber room before the entrance to Asphodel. Meg waits, perched on a railing, her expression blank, well, as blank as Meg’s expressions can be. “Fortunately for you, this is a safe place, little man. But once you get into Asphodel you better run. Don’t look back. I intend on catching you and killing you, even if I have to get passed the Bone Hydra to do it.”

“Meg, I- wait, what do you mean 'bone hydra?'“

Before she can answer his query (which he's not entirely sure she would answer) his father’s voice echoes through the chamber. “Boy- I… how is this possible?”

“Ignore him,” Meg says, jumping down from her perch. “He doesn't matter. Drink from the fountain, Zagreus. And be careful of the Phlegathon. More than just your feet'll burn if you stand in it too long.” 

"Right. Don't stand in the lava and drink water."

Zagreus drinks, letting the cool waters wash over him. Don't stand in the lava. Make sure it looks like Meg is working. Be careful of the Bone Hydra. Zagreus has nothing to worry about.

“You look like you're feeling better, Zag.”

Zagreus laughs. He swears that’s a hint of a smile on her face and is that genuine concern? “Yeah, I think I might be getting the hang of this.”

“Good.” And instantly the smile fades as she unfurls her whip. “Now run.”

Chapter Text

Patroclus sleeps.

He often does so in the same pasture that he thinks of as his eternal cage (though he would not be found preening in it like birds so often did in their own cages). Sleep is not a permanent escape from the pressures of being contained but it frees him from his thoughts and their constant barrage temporarily enough. (His thoughts are the bars of his cage in this poorly constructed metaphor. Would that his thoughts were thin enough to bend and break under the weight of more words, he might actually be able to find rest.)

A story weaves itself in his mind, simple and serene as he falls into a dream. A notion occurs to him that there might be interference in what normally is dreamless sleep. What cruelty one would have to have to weave such a simple dream to a broken ghost who found himself out of wishes and wants.

The dream itself is seamless, his glade a little softer at the edges, his limbs a little lighter as they settle on the grass. The Lethe makes no sound and a breeze does not stir through the glade. It is quiet and Pat revels in it.

-----

Zagreus sits across from him, his back resting on one of the two weathered statues that flank Pat day after day. He does not speak but flips through the pages of a book, engrossed by the story within. Every so often Pat breaks from his meditations when Zagreus turns a page, the sound breaking him from his silent reverie.

He catches a glimpse of an illustration on the page. A simple drawing of a boy with a pair of wings on his back flies through clouds with a look of serenity on his face. Pat knows this feeling will not last.

“Sir, would you like me to read it aloud?”  He asks with curiosity, turning the book up to look at Pat.

Pat laughs, shaking his head. The thought that Zagreus might sit there speaking in a gentle dither tempts him, but there is more to consider in the moment for a story, more often than not, contains more than just words.

“I’m quite familiar with this one, little prince,” he says as if it is the most natural thing to say in the world. Little prince. “You may keep your stories to yourself for now. I find myself enjoying the silence.”

Zagreus nods, no offense taken as he returns to his book. Pat greets the silence, his mind wandering to the story of a boy who was granted the gift of wings, only to be struck down by the rays of the sun. 

Pat remembers the sun, it’s warmth and the way it would halo around his Achilles golden hair whether it was on a simple walk or on the battlefield. He aches with the thought of him, but does not turn away from it. Before finding his cage, Pat once had wings, he thinks. He too flew too close to the sun it would seem.

The low din of pages turning stops.

“Sir, are you alright?” 

“Of course, little prince,” Pat idly says. As naturally as it comes out, it feels strange once it tumbles from his lips. “I was just remembering something bittersweet. Now here, I think I will have that story.”

Zagreus laughs but not in a way Patroclus remembers. No, the Zagreus of memories rarely laughs when he visits Patroclus and when he does it is with a bittersweet softness. This laugh is hearty and full. Pat feels a dull ache he cannot place.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Pat.”

Patroclus raises an eyebrow, startled at the sound of that name falling so effortlessly from Zagreus’s lips. 

“What’s not to understand, stranger?” There. That’s familiar. “A moment ago I wished for silence, but now I wish to be told a story. It truly is simple as that.”

Zagreus laughs and pulls out his book once more. “If you say so, Pat.”

Patroclus leans back, closing his eyes, the sound of Zagreus’s chatter fading into the background. He enjoys the company, but thinks he prefers when there is quiet. It is easier to convince himself it’s not a dream when there is quiet.

-----

Patroclus wakes slowly, his eyes fluttering open to the light Elysium glow. The soft nature of the dream gives way to crisper edges and the ambient noises, hard to ignore while comparing it to the contrasting silence of his dream. He sits up slowly and takes a moment to settle, alone once again in his cage. 

Except he isn’t alone. His gaze settles on a figure standing a short distance away, wearing red robes and donning some sort of red mask like a crown atop his head.

Patroclus knows this is a god. Only gods hovered above the ground instead of standing or in this case sitting. And judging by the wooly silver hair and the aforementioned hover, Patroclus can only make one guess as to who this god is.

“My, my, my. What a simple little dream you had there,” the god of sleep whistles. He sits in a small seat made from the contours of his quilted red cloak. “Normally you shades here in Elysium like to dream of battles and glory. It makes sense with the whole memory thing. But then again, I guess you don’t really belong here, do you?”

Patroclus sighs. Even in death there really is no escape from them. “Don’t you gods have anything better to do than mess with the dreams of sad old men? You do have jobs, don’t you?”

“Oh, you are very silly,” Hypnos laughs. ”You might not know this, but I live here. Yup! I have a house and everything! A gift from mom!”

Patroclus pauses, unsure of what to do with that information. Perhaps Hypnos's presence in the realm is why Patroclus sleeps with ease when it finds him.

“I wouldn’t dare dream of why she would want you out of the house sometimes.” He knows he should have said this quietly and under his breath, but instead he stares at Hypnos offering his stoney glare as challenge. 

Hypnos takes a offense to this, but unlike other gods Patroclus is familiar with, only does so vocally. “Woah, come on there. Was that really necessary? I thought I’d give you a little visit, give you some good dreams since you seem to not have, well, any!”

Patroclus rolls his eyes. “You have never seen fit to visit me before. Why now?”

Hypnos shifts, his seat bouncing lightly in the air as he moves. “Oh, you know. My brother told me what you did for my best friend, Zagreus, and I thought, boy, do I have to meet this guy to say a loud and hearty thank you to him!”

Patroclus isn’t flattered. He doesn't hanging on the praise of a god. He’d been through an entire war started by the flattery of a god and he had no wish to see it repeated. He tilts his head down, as if peering over a pair of spectacles at the Hypnos.

“Awful thing losing his memories though! All that hard work for nothing and now he has to start all over again? You gotta feel a little bad for the guy!”

“He truly has forgotten?” Patroclus tries to say this without affectation and while Hypnos continues on without pause, Patroclus wonders if he truly succeeded. "It wasn't just an injury sustained in battle?"

"Nope. He came back to the house all confused, wobbling out of the Styx like a shade. Thanatos sure was mad. And Meg. And Lord Hades. And I guess Lady Nyx and Achilles too, although I think they were more mad at Lord Hades than Zagreus. But that's probably because Lord Hades forbade us from talking about it to protect Zagreus or something like that."

"You don't seemed to be affected by this."

"Oh. You know what? You're right! It must be that we just can't talk about it to Zagreus."

Hypnos shrugs and in the silence, bounces more in his seat. Patroclus stares, hoping the god will get the point and leave Patroclus to his own thoughts.

“You know,” Hypnos says with a thoughtful air. “If you wanted to sit with Zagreus in silence, I’m sure all you would have to do is ask. He’s a nice guy and absolutely loves getting requests from his friends. And that would probably be the simplest request he’s ever gotten! Even without his memories, I'm sure he'd be happy to-”

Patroclus reclines and rests his head back into the grass, knocking his head into the dirt. It is too short, Patroclus decides, for it cannot hide him from this rather nosy god of sleep. “If I dream of silence, it is only because it seems to be in short supply around here these days.”

Hypnos laughs. “Jeesh, ok, I get it. I’ll get out of your hair!”

Regret falls over Patroclus for a short moment. Being alone with his thoughts seemed alright in the moment, but now that the idea of Hypnos leaving settles over him hje finds the previously despised thought of keeping company with a god a better alternative.

“But if you find yourself needing another easy dream,” Hypnos says with a wink. “You know where to find me!” 

He does not leave with a loud bell to sound his exit like his brother, but Patroclus supposes that it is apt for sleep always sneaks up on its bearer and leaves just as quietly. 

Silence falls over the glade once more-

“Oh! And before I forget!” 

Patroclus winces. Now that he thinks of it, sleep sometimes falls upon its victims entirely too quickly as well. 

“You should probably practice that request. I hear he’s making another run for it which means he might be here very soon. It could be your only chance to say goodbye since everyone seems to be helping him this time!”

Pat does not respond and only blinks at the god with a blank expression to communicate his lack of care in the subject. What the prince does is not his concern. 

No, that’s not true. What he does does not concern the prince, or it would not be if Patroclus could help it. He would offer no more distractions to the prince on his quest, whatever it is. He hates that he is perhaps agreeing with Lord Hades, but has the unfortunate feeling that perhaps the prince's father is partially right.

It is as if Hypnos can read his mind for he disappears again just as quickly as he appeared. 

Patroclus closes his eyes to will away the thought, sleep weighing heavy upon them and opens them swiftly when he thinks better of it. He would not take kindly to any more visitors that day, especially those of godly persuasion. 

Patroclus takes a moment to steady himself, his gaze turning towards the Elysium sky. He thinks of the sun, he thinks of golden hair haloed by it, and he thinks of his little prince. No, his stranger. 

That isn’t right either. Zagreus is not his stranger anymore. He is only a stranger now.

Chapter Text

Chase.

It was a game Zagreus and Meg used to play when he was a child and she was just a little older. He would run and she would follow, bowling him over in the courtyard or meticulously pacing in front of Achilles, knowing full well Zagreus hid beneath his cloak.

Where is he? Her words were sharp then, but not like knives yet. Nor like the crack of a whip.

Have you checked the lounge or the courtyard behind his chambers, Mistress? There are many places to hide in the house, Achilles would say knowing full well Megaera could see the Prince’ little toes, flickering and bright, popping out from the hem of his cloak.

Hm. You must be right, Shade. But if you see him, let him know the game’s not over.

Being chased by her was exhilarating and almost as exhilarating as being found by her. And when they grew older, the nature of their chase changed. She’d knock him to the ground with a grin and hold onto his wrists just a little too tight. That was exhilarating too.

This is different. They’d never had rivers of magma to cross, denizens of asphodel with claws and explosives to avoid. And she never before told him that if she caught him she was going to kill him.

He believes her, of course, because Meg does not lie.

So he runs over rock, over bone, feet skipping across the Phlegathon and she gives chase, just like their old game. He wills himself to believe it is just like their old game.

“Getting a little tired there, Meg? It’s the heat, isn’t it? Or is it just me that has you sweating?” Zagreus says, darting forward across the stonework with a grin.

Meg does not respond with sharpened words. Instead, she replies with her whip.

It cracks against air and makes a rather sickening sound as it meets skin. Zagreus cannot help but yell out in pain as he stumbles to the ground, hands skidding across ash covered stone. He wants to take a moment to breathe, to dust the gravel from his palms, but Meg continues to gain on him, so he picks himself up and runs.

Meg scoffs from the other side of the chamber, watching him, walking along the river’s edge, cleaning the gore off her whip by dragging it through the river behind her. His blood burns but her whip does not.

“Thought you liked a bit of pain, little man.”

Zagreus jumps onto the small barge, his escape to the next chamber. “Thought that was something we saved for the privacy of my chambers.”

She laughs that laugh where her eyes roll in tandem with the scoff, no smile gracing her lips.

“Privacy, Zag? Your room doesn’t have a door.”

Her whip cracks on the ground beside him as if she’s testing it. She stops at the edge of the room, watching as the barge floats away.

“And, Zagreus?”

He looks back to catch her smirk.

“You like to shout.”

-----

The next time he hears the whip, it cracks beside him instead of across him. He jumps at the sound, turning his head to see it wrap around the neck of a burn flinger he had missed, so close it might have reached out and grabbed him had Meg not taken care of it.

Meg pulls on the whip and the creature flies backwards into the molten lava, a small explosion following as its vial breaks in a cloud of smoke.

“He’s mine,” she says through gritted teeth with those words sharp as knives. Zagreus has no choice but to believe her.

Meg never lies.

-----

Zagreus rushes into a chamber from the barge with no breath left in his lungs. Meg goes and goes and goes with the flap of her single wing and Zagreus, who thought it fun at first, now realizes that he might be in over his head.

He steps into the chamber, different from the oppressive silence of Asphodel’s rooms. Most chambers were incredibly sullen after a fight, the silence only broken by the hiss of the molten Phlegethon. In this chamber, music plays softly in the distance, accompanied by one of the most beautiful voices he’s heard.

He runs up steps, careful not to crash into any urns, and finds at the top a stone wall. If he can dash through it, he might be safe for a moment, if only to catch his breath. Fortunately for Zagreus, while Meg has the power of flight, she lacks the ability to forgo walls. He looks behind him and sees Meg still chasing him, crossing the river carefully, dodging magma bubbles, and small jets of flame. She looks directly at him and her face hardens. That can’t be good.

Zagreus takes a deep breath, dashing as fast as he can, moving in and through the wall. There always is a moment after he dashes when he wonders if he’s made it through or if he’s bounced off and will have to try again. In this case, the latter would be so much worse.

Still, he opens his eyes.

A charming room is laid out before him, cooking pots bubbling to his right and a woman with curling branches for hair sweeping up to his left. The singing stops when she takes notice of him.

With a deep and solid breath he leans his head against the wall, the smell of fruit and sweets filling his nose.

“Sorry to bother you,” he wheezes. “I won’t be long. Just needed to catch my breath.”

She smiles warmly at him and offers him a roll of her eyes. “Hon, you always know you’re welcome here. And you look like you could use… well. I’m not really sure what it looks like you could use, but why don’t we start by getting you something to eat. Now take a seat. Looks like your feet could use the rest.”

He looks to his feet, noting that the red around his ankles fade now a smokey gray as if the heat were draining from them as he tires. He sighs and slides down the wall and sits with his knees tucked against his chest.

She chuckles. It dawns on him she probably meant he should sit in a chair, or even on that plush bed of hers.

“You want some refreshing nectar or maybe some ambrosia-”

He wonders what else she might offer if she wasn’t interrupted by a banging at the wall at Zagreus’s back. He shuts his eyes again with a groan.

“Zagreus,” Meg says sternly from the other side. “Come out. We’re not done yet.”

Meg doesn’t raise her voice, but the pounding on the wall betrays her urgency.

The woman turns and makes a face at him before looking at the wall.

“Yikes. Hon, who’s that?”

Zagreus opens his eyes and sighs. “Oh, that’s Meg.”

The dryad raises an eyebrow.

Zag offers her a weak smile. “She’s a friend.”

Meg’s whip strikes the stone wall on the other side of the chamber door with a slap and Zagreus sighs. So much for a rest.

The woman, hands firmly resting on her hips, frowns. “Sounds like you need better friends, Hades’ Kid.”

He has half a mind to ask her how she knows who he is, but is interrupted by another crack of Meg’s whip.

“We don’t have time for this, Zagreus.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “You want me to take care of this for you?”

“Oh, no, it’s alright, she’s just-”

But it’s too late. The dryad drifts through the wall and the sound of terse but quiet conversation filters in from the other side. Surprisingly, the pounding quickly stops. Zagreus chuckles softly, closing his eyes.

He takes a few deep breaths, assuming it will be all he will get before Meg barges in, but it takes some time for the voices to stop. The terse conversation fades, replaced by a rumbling of the stone door beside him opening.

“Well, Megaera, first of the furies. It’s nice to meet you,” the woman says, floating in before the door is completely open. “And on the off-chance your friend is right, Prince, I suppose I’ll introduce myself to you too.”

Zagreus gives her an apologetic smile. “I would appreciate that a lot, Miss…”

“Eurydice. You can call me Eurydice, kid.”

She gives him a pat on the head before ushering Meg in towards the opposite side of the room. Meg sits on the fairly comfortable looking bed, one leg crossed over the other, sitting stiffly as if she were at attention. She clutches to her whip with both hands.

“Now come on, how are you gonna eat with both your hands gripping that weapon of yours? You can put it down, no use in your knuckles turning white. I certainly don’t have use for a whip and it looks like he’s got his weapon of choice all figured out.”

Meg’s hands tense for a moment, but she nods and places the whip on the bed next to her as Eurydice begins to ladle purple porridge into clay bowls. “Now, don’t you worry, Hades’ kid. I made her promise not to try to kill you until after you both left my little haven. Isn’t that right, Megaera the Fury?”

Meg’s eyes flick away from her whip to Eurydice. “Yes.”

There is quiet as Eurydice places their bowls in their hands and they get to eating. Zagreus hums. It’s good. It’s really good.

Eurydice breaks the silence. “So you got hit on the head a few too many times?”

Zagreus is busy with a mouthful of porridge, so Meg replies for him, though it takes her a moment to find the right words.

“He had an unfortunate run in Elysium.”

It takes Eurydice a moment before it dawns on her. “The Lethe?”

Meg nods. But Eurydice seems to be considering something else. Zagreus tenses, knowing that she might turn as others had when learning he may have had a few sips from the Lethe.

“Well, hon,” she says after pausing to mull it over, taking the empty bowl from his hands. “Whether you remember my name or not, you’ve always got a place to rest with me.”

She turns to Meg, giving her a stern look. Meg raises her eyebrows just a fraction. She’s impressed. “You too as long as you don’t go waving that whip around.”

Meg continues to eat and Zagreus closes his eyes. Maybe a rest would do him good. Meg eats in silence. Eurydice begins to hum a beautiful tune.

Yes, a rest would do him good.

-----

When he wakes, the singing has stopped and is replaced by the sounds of soft but terse conversation.

“He really did forget... Is that why dear old dad sent you to get him?”

Meg bristles. “Hades didn’t send me to do anything.”

Eurydice doesn’t pull her punches. “Then why are you here?”

“To eat porridge,” Meg responds flatly. Their banter is quick, like short jabs and pulled punches.

“You must not be great with a shield because that was a terrible deflection.”

Zagreus wants to laugh, but holds his breath. No one had talked so freely in front of him for what must have been days. He didn’t want to ruin their candor.

Meg doesn't respond. A solitary clank of a spoon meeting Meg’s bowl breaks the silence.

“Alright, Megara the Fury. I’m gonna ask you again. Why are you here?”

Meg pauses to mull over the answer. Zagreus wonders if she even knows the answer.

“I made an oath to the house. Who would I be if I were to break it?”

“Chasing the poor kid around Asphodel helps keep your ‘oath’ to Hades’s place how?” Eurydice counters.

Meg stands. The music plays. It sounds hollow without Eurydice’s voice with it. “It’s time for us to go. Wake him up.”

“Look. I didn’t mean to presume or pry into your business. Despite everything, you seem like a good person. And he seems to like you, so I’ll give you a pass for barging into my space.”

“I don’t need your pity, shade.”

“It’s not pity,” Eurydice says sharply. “It's a courtesy. As is letting you know there’s no need to wake him. He’s been awake for at least a little while now, isn’t that right, kid?”

-----

Zagreus watches Meg step onto the barge from above in Eurydice’s room.

“You’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a mess, haven’t you, Hades’ Kid?” Eurydice places a cup in his hands and bumps his shoulder lightly with hers. “Drink this before you go.”

He goes to push the offering away, but she insists.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that gash the size of her whip on your back. You’ll need that.”

He laughs, casting his eyes to the golden nectar in his hands. When he drinks it, it cools him, making the heat of Asphodel just a little less oppressive.

Meg doesn’t say a word when he steps on the barge. He doesn’t hear the crackles and pops of the Phelgathon either, for Eurydice begins again to sing.

It starts as a hum, but even as the barge floats away, he can hear her song about loss and final farewells.

—--

The barge floats along the Phlegethon, searching for its next destination.

“Why are you helping me, Meg?”

Meg stands beside him with her whip sheathed at her hip. He watches her, trying to find any inkling of an answer in her expression.

She looks as though she might say something, but turns away. It’s familiar. Like Achilles.

“Just a few hours ago, you were angry, but wouldn't say why. Now you’re ‘helping’ me.” He watches her stand so still, barely moving with the sway of the river. “Why?”

She tsk’s. “I was angry. Now I’m not.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, why?”

She takes a deep breath and grimances. “I can’t-”

“-You can’t what? Tell me why you were angry?” He steps beside her. “Tell me what changed your mind. What happened to me or why no one will talk to me about it?”

She snaps her head down towards him, looming. “Just give me a moment to think, Zagreus!”

He stops. Takes a step away from her. “Right. Sorry, Meg.”

She breathes again, still ragged, like she’d been chasing him for hours then against all odds, takes a seat, knees tucking up to her chest, arms resting behind her. “You don’t need to be sorry, Zagreus. This isn’t your fault.”

Zageus frowns, still keeping his distance. “But isn’t it? I was the one who tried to leave.”

She watches the river, searching for something. He turns away from her, knowing she probably wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Could she be giving up? Is he?

He sits beside her. She doesn’t respond. “i was the one who forgot.”

He can hear her sigh. “You wouldn’t do that. Not willingly.”

“I was leaving though.” He felt as if he were admitting to a crime he didn’t know he had committed. "Wasn't I?"

“Zagreus…” Her voice is so soft, it is a struggle for Zagreus to hear her. “You weren’t... leaving. You were…”

He didn’t think Furies could sweat but sweat begins to fall from Meg’s brow.

He lets her catch her breath again before asking another question, mimicking her soft tone. “What was I doing, then?”

When she doesn’t say anything, he finally looks at her again. She still stares out, but her jaw is set, eyes in narrow focus, as if she were in a silent battle.

“Ask me again why I’m helping you,” she says resolute.

He does.

She closes her eyes and her expression finally softens into relief. “I felt guilty.”

“For what?”

“I called you a brat.”

He looks at her, dumbstruck.

“I was wrong. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body, do you?”

The boat shudders against a dock before Zagreus can ask more questions.

“Looks like we’re here. Zagreus, it’s time to run.”

Meg doesn’t lie, but boy, could she be cryptic sometimes.

—---

The chase resumes with nothing of its previous pretense that it held. She always gives him a head start.

When they reach Charon’s shop, she leads instead of chasing. He makes his purchases, and Charon watches Meg carefully as she stands at the entrance to the next barge silently.

Zagreus sidles up to her, and smirks. “Hey, Meg. Which terrible denizen of Asphodel will we be facing next?”

She scoffs. “I’d say we’re going to meet another friend, but I don’t think they’ve warmed up to you quite yet.”

“They?”

“Get on the boat, Zagreus.”

-----

He lies on the ground, trying not to shake. Meg cradles his head, saying something to him, but all he can think about is his new friend, all of the bones and the heads. So, that was what they meant by Bone Hydra. A hydra made entirely of bones.

So many heads, so many necks, it was hard to keep track of all of them all the time. He’d been struck more than a few times, and then perhaps taken to the ground where a few of the heads had a bit of a snack on his insides. They certainly were messy eaters. But, Meg didn’t seem to be too worried, though Meg holds him in a way she’s never really held him before.

This feels much worse than the first time, what he assumes now is dying, though he might note that he is again being held by a very attractive person. Mortals would be so lucky. Zagreus coughs and sputters at his own joke, regretting the red blood that falls from his mouth. Blood shouldn’t be doing that.

“Don’t let the Styx take you,” she says. One hand reaches out and he might have flinched if he could move without feeling a lot of pain. But she does not move to strike him or to wield her whip. She instead gingerly wipes blood from his lips. “Not yet.”

“Zag, stay with me, ok?” Her voice is soft and distant and he can’t find the urgency in it. She pushes something into his hands; her hands shake in his.

Oh.

“You need to call for Than.”

She slips a small plush thing into his grasp. He clutches it with all the strength he can muster which is not much.

“Just do it, Zagreus. Say 'Than, I need you.'” Her voice fades in and out. So soft. “You can do this, you have to do this.”

Zagreus coughs, trying to clear his throat of whatever is caught there. Probably blood.

“Than, I need you.” It is so soft and wet, a gurgle, but he manages to get the words out. His vision fades out for a moment and he closes his eyes.

Zagreus doesn’t hear the bell over the ringing in his ears.

“Zagreus.”

Than. Zagreus’s eyes snap open. He’s in Asphodel. He fought a Hydra with Meg. Than is here to help except he sounds... upset? Put out? He’s probably still angry at whatever Zagreus has forgotten.

“Than.” Meg's voice is sharp like the snap of her whip. The warmth at his side disappears as she stands. “I’ve been ordered to send him home.”

“What are you talking about, Meg?”

Everything fades for a moment, but he focus's on listening. He tries.

“We agreed to keep him out of this, Meg. Maybe sending him home…”

Meg’s voice is loud and confident. Zagreus can hear her so clearly. “You of all people don’t believe that. I don’t have a choice. You do. So stop asking questions and fight me or I will kill him.”

For a moment the room spins and everything goes dark, but he feels the heat against his skin and breathes slow and shallow breaths.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Meg.”

Zagreus hears a loud flap of her wing, a furious growl, a rush of wind. “Then you leave me no choice.”

Meg never lies. Thanatos knows this too.

Guh-dong.

He struggles to open his eyes but when he does, he sees Meg fall. In a flash, she raises from the ground as the Styx opens up beneath her and swallows her whole.

“Take. Care. Of him. Than.”

He hurts and he cannot find words. Meg recedes into the Styx as if she had been going through the motions. Zagreus wonders if he’d ever done that to her, watched her sink into the Styx after killing her with his own blade. He closes his eyes and tries not to imagine it.

“Can you get up, Zag?” Mmm. Than.

Zagreus can’t shake his head. He can’t even open his eyes. It’s definitely a no, if only he could communicate it.

“You have to get up. There’s a fountain in the next chamber. It’s not perfect, but I’ll stay with you as long as I can… we just have to get to the fountain.”

Zagreus thinks of cool waters, and recalls the soft trickle of the lethe. Maybe he just needs a little rest first.

“No, no. Zag.” Than sounds desperate. And somehow, Zagreus is sitting up. “Stay awake.”

He feels something press up to his lips.

“Eat this.”

It doesn’t taste great, but what would mixed with all the blood on his lips.

“Eat it, Zag. Please.”

He does. He takes weak and shallow bites. He doesn’t feel instantly better, but as he swallows, enough strength fills him now to stand. He wobbles, hand clutching Thanatos’s arm. Than places a steadying hand on Zagreus’s. “Come on. Let's get you somewhere safe.”

Zagreus nods, his eyes falling on the half eaten heart in his hands. His stomach turns just a little bit. “What is this, Than.”

“It’s a centaur heart. You’re welcome. Make sure you finish it.”

Zagreus, stares at the half eaten heart in his hand, and not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, well… puts the gift horse (heart) in his mouth.

“Thank you, Than,” he says through a mouthful.

Than practically drags Zagreus along, and lifts him onto the final barge. They stand in silence for a moment and for the first time Zagreus can remember, Thanatos is the one to break it.

“Is that my butterfly?”

Zag looks down at the broach Achilles had pinned to his chiton. “This is yours?”

“It’s a purple butterfly, Zag.” As if that explained it all.

“Right, purple. A butterfly.”

Than doesn’t clarify, doesn’t speak, he barely does anything during the journey out of Asphodel except to take quick glances at Zagreus; most likely to check if he was still alive.

Though bruised and bleeding, Zagreus is certain he still is.