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Chapter Text

He noticed first the flutter of feathered wings. It was an odd thing to hear in the underworld, and even odder still to hear it come from the outer gardens–the place poor, pitiful Zagreus was barred from.

Father won't tell me anything of this. And that was true--Hades was anything but straightforward and honest with his son. So, to the real parent of the house was where the prince went.

“Erm, Nyx?” Zagreus asked, shooting glances back at the iron gates as he met his mother-figure. “I've got a question for you, if you don't mind.”

“I do not mind. I will do my best to answer, my child.” She watched him with eased attention, then followed his gaze to the forbidden outdoors. “Is something the matter?”

“No–well, maybe? Not sure, but. Well.” Zagreus rubbed the back of his neck. “Just–are there birds out in the garden?”

Nyx blinked. “Birds?”

“Yes. I keep hearing something fluttering around every now and then, and I swear I've seen something moving around in the garden. You know, the one I'm not allowed to enter?”

“Ah.” The goddess nodded. “Of course. There is a new servant of the house, one who was chosen to tend to the gardens.”

“Really.” Zagreus planted his hands on his hips and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, gaze returning to the forbidden area. “Well, that's the first I've heard of it.”

“He does not linger long; he arrives with the sun, and leaves only when the work is done,” Nyx explained. “He is a diligent helper of the House. Your father is quite pleased, I've noticed.”

“Well, I've never thought that Father could be pleased in any regards.” Zagreus’ mismatched gaze flickered back to Nyx. “But why now? The garden's never needed a tender before.”

“A flower wilted,” Nyx sighed, looking aside. “And your father has grown concerned.”

“Hah. Concerned for the plants? Good to know he can still give a damn about something,” Zagreus bit, sending a scalding glare to the throne. “Guess that's why he locked it up, kept it from me.”

Night smiled, sympathetic. “You do have a reputation.”

“One that I must uphold,” he agreed, heart light and spirit lifted higher. “Thank you, Nyx. I should get back to ransacking my father's domain.”

Nyx nodded sagely and reached a hand up, fixing the tilt of Zagreus’ burning laurel. “I would hope for nothing less, my child.”

“You play music?”

Your voice startled Zagreus, sending a Zeus-like jolt through him and holding him in place with a numbing fit of static. Thankfully, however, twas not the true bite of the sky king, and Zagreus had the luxury to back out of his room a few paces.

“You heard?” He asked, face somehow both paling and burning in tandem.

You, whilst leaning against the iron gate, nodded. “‘N if I did?”

“Oh.” Zagreus rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “That's unfortunate. Sorry for the bother.”

“Don't misunderstand me, god.” Your spectral eyes bore into him with easy confidence. Zagreus quite liked that look. “You played much like a dying pigeon at first, I'll admit, but you've improved.”

Zagreus laughed and approached you. Your dry informality pricked him with intrigue. “Well, now I know you're lying.”

“Lies are useless for those who need the truth.” Your words came so bold, the prince had no choice but to believe you. “I can hear it. The notes–they come easier to you. Sweeter, even. Like figs ripe on the tree.”

“Figs?” Zagreus tilted his head much like Cerberus might. “Huh. Can't say I've had one of those.”

“Really? Well, then I shall see to it that you wonder no longer, god.” You leaned away, nearly out of sight of the iron-barred gateway, and jostled through the leaves of a bush or tree of sorts, before the sharp snap of something announced your return.

You stuck your arm through a gap in the fence, one where your glowing skin was threatened by a cascade of decorative thorns, but you didn't much care. That care, instead, found itself funneled into the deliverance of a ripe fig to the prince of the underworld, it seemed.

Zagreus stared for a moment. He wasn't used to receiving gifts unless he bestowed one upon another, first. To him, this almost felt like–-could it be--?

“If you don't take it now, I'll eat it myself and not hand you another,” you groused.

“Hah.” He snatched the fruit from your hand. “You wouldn't dare.”

“I've dared much worse, god, believe me.” You withdrew and drummed your palms against the iron softly. “Well, enjoy. And be sure to clean your hands before touching that lyre again.” You looked him over, face placid as it'd been for his entire short history knowing you–but your eyes, the strange things, they hinted at hidden curiosities. “I'll be listening.”

“Say, Meg, do you know much about the new House attendant?” Zagreus asked, flourishing his Stygian blade as he walked towards the Fury, prepared to fight after a quick chat.

Megaera's eyes narrowed. “You're talking about the flirt.”

“The flirt?” Zagreus rested his sword down, digging its diamond tip into the cracked ground. “Is that really what he's known for? Flirting? He doesn't seem like the type.”

A heavy sigh left Meg. “Ask Than. He might be more willing to endure your rambling and answer questions. I am not.”

“You know, I think we really need to work on your patience.” Still, he flicked up his blade, and lunged first.

As the Fates would have it, Thanatos was already at the House. Even more fateful, still, was where he stood–not by the river Styx, no, but by the garden’s gate for a change. Death's presence on that side of the house seemed…odd, despite his infrequent visits to the lounge. Never before did he show interest in a coworker, neither, not unless it was his twin who needed some firm and stringent guidance.

“Admiring the flowers?” Zagreus asked, and Death flinched.

“No, I–” He sighed, and spared a look over his shoulder. “What do you want, Zagreus?”

The shorter shrugged, and stood beside his age-old friend. “Came to find you. Is that so odd?”

“If you're going to shove more nectar in my hands, then you can forget it.” Thanatos looked away again and scowled beyond iron bars. “You've made your bed.”

Zagreus stifled a sigh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I–well–in all honesty, I had a question, one that I'd hoped you could answer.”

“Then ask.”

“Right to the point then.” Zagreus cleared his throat and shuffled closer to Death. “Who exactly is the new gardener? Meg said you might know.”

Thanatos graced him with a wide-eyed look. “I thought you'd know by now.”

Zagreus shrugged. “I wouldn't be asking if I knew.”

“He is–” Death paused, his jaw tightening, tendons threatening to snap. “Why do you want to know?”

Zagreus convinced himself not to pry. “We haven't had a new servant of the House in, well, eternities. Father wouldn't allow just anyone in here.”

“Sure, but don't you think you should ask him yourself?”

“It's hard to catch him. He's quite flighty, as Fate would have it. Must be the wings.”

“Must be.” Zagreus swore he heard the lilt of a smile on those words. “Well, I don't think it's fair for me to spoil the introduction. But I will say this–he was a servant of the House in life, and now continues on as such in death.”

“Really?” Zagreus couldn't quite wrap his head around it. How could someone be devoted to the house before even arriving?

“Yes. He made my job easier, in some regards. Assisted, at the very least,” Death said.

“Huh.” Zagreus crossed his arms and scuffed his sole against time-worn stone. “Guess that explains that. I don't suppose you'd be willing to go into elaborate detail regarding what exactly our avian gardener did in life to earn yours and Father's favour? Or, even just give his name?”

“No.” A luminous wash of turquoise licked off Death's shoulders, his scythe. “Ask him yourself. I've work to do.”

And with the toll of a bell, he was gone.

It took a while to catch you again. Apparently, you kept to a strict, self-imposed schedule that Zagreus couldn't even begin to understand despite its simplicity. Nyx told him you arrived come morning, at the very least. That may have been helpful, if Zagreus could tell the damn time in the underworld.

So, he resorted to guessing; if he could not find you through the convenience of your daily routine, he'd swing by whenever he died. He was bound to run into you at some point. And he did. It was when he wandered to the lounge, eager to deliver a wealth of fish to the head chef, that he caught the ghostly sound of feathers against leaves.

Zagreus backed out of the lounge in time to see your curious glance. A rush pulsed through him–finally, finally, he'd get his chance to interrogate you.

“Hey!” He called.

“Hey,” You called back.

“Just--don’t go anywhere. I need to hand over some river denizens and then I need to speak with you,” Zagreus rambled off as quickly as he could.

Your brows furrowed, but you offered a shallow nod. “I'll wait.”

With that, Zagreus sped by the gossiping Meg and Dusa and a gaggle of other patrons to all but throw his catch to the head chef. It was a good haul today. Hopefully that meant–ah ha.

Zagreus rolled the bottle of nectar over in his hands. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he sang, and ran off, tucking the gift away before approaching the gate.

You were toiling away, a little farther in the garden than before, but not too far to escape the prince's presence. It gave him a chance to take a good look at you: simple black chiton on a well-muscled frame, wings full of bronze feathers, wild hair tied back into the smallest of ponytails. You looked quite ordinary, save for the wings.

But your eyes had been strange: they glowed. Not with the morose cold of Ixion, but with the exact opposite. Warm. Bronze. Sunlit, maybe. He'd never known sunlight, but you must have kept a drop of it in your very soul.

“So?” You said as you meandered back to him. You walked with unbothered confidence, much different to Zagreus’ sprightly impatience. “What important matters must we discuss?”

“Your name, first of all,” the prince requested. “I am Zagreus, son of Hades and--"

“Prince of the underworld,” you added. “Well, I figured you were him. Good to have a proper introduction, I suppose.” You took a breath. “As for me, you'll call me (Name).”

Zagreus repeated the name. It held a fullness in his mouth, something sweet and foreign, too much like the fig you'd offered him not too long ago. Maybe you were the minor god of figs (wouldn't that be something?).

“Pleased to meet you, then. I trust the garden will be well-kept in your capable hands. And wings,” Zag said. “Oh! And, ah, here--a token of thanks for your hard work.”

Your brows raised and Zagreus’ chest filled with hope; for once, your blank mask changed, and you looked less like a gorgon-born statue and more like a human. Somehow, it gave him relief.

But your expression crumpled into furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. “Nectar?” You wondered aloud.

Zagreus nodded and slipped the bottle best he could through the gap. “Yes, I…I hope you will take it, if it pleases you.”

You examined the bottle as it slipped into your hand and leaned a shoulder up against the gate. “Odd. Why is it in the underworld?”

The tension left Zagreus’ muscles as you accepted the gift. “Not a clue. Maybe Olympus ferries some down here from time to time to try and liven things up.”

“Hah.” The mock laughter almost sounded genuine. “Dionysus would, from what I've heard of him.” You held the bottle up, watching the light reflect shards of gold and ghostly greens. “He's not so bad, that god of wine.”

“You've met him?” Zagreus wondered.

“No,” you admitted. Your light-filled eyes found him again. “But I've met gods, when I once lived. No man should have to meet them in life. They bring misfortune, even the supposed good ones.”

The prince took a sure step forward, and your eyes steeled. “Well, you're right about Dionysus,” he assured instead of scorned. “He's good. I'm sure he's had his moments, still. But I get on with him well.” I'm sure you would, too, he decided against saying; the more he took in your features, the more he realized the god's work carved into you, painting you unnatural colours and robbing you of something only humans could have. He didn't think you'd much enjoy being forced into a hypothetical with them.

“Then I shall take your word for it,” you said. “And I will pretend this bottle comes from Dionysus, to make it more palatable.”

“Well, whatever pleases you.” Zagreus smiled and leaned against the wall by the gate. “But, if I may ask, which gods have you–”

“Boy,” Hades’ voice thundered, echoing down the hall. “Do not disturb the rest of the House and distract them from their duties. Unlike you, they do not wish to disappoint.”

Zagreus clicked his tongue and looked over his shoulder. “Yes, of course, Father. I'll get right to ignoring every blasted person in this damn House. Perhaps I'll consider a life of solitude while I'm at it!”

“Do not test me further, boy.”

Zagreus rolled his eyes, but gave in, finding your (gentler?) eyes once again. “Well. I'd more than happily argue with my father all day–or night–about this, but I wouldn't want you to bear the punishment.”

You nodded a little and glanced from the prince back down to the bottle. “I appreciate this, really.”

“It's nothing, really.” Though Zagreus did indeed beam with delight. “Well, then I'll leave you to your work.”

“Be sure to come back. I need to return the favour,” you said as you turned. “Until then, Prince.”

Chapter Text

You'd bore witness to Death a thousand times–a shepherd maimed by wolves, a hunter who'd become the hunted, a child who'd tested herds’ patience–and still it poisoned your core. You did not fear Death, no, but you feared the agony it left on those left alive: mothers, fathers. Friends, acquaintances. A loved one’s soul ferried away on the river Styx hurt them, tormented them.

So you did not focus on them. You let your mind care for those who had no chance, for those who chose to let go and be done with war, for those who laid broken in this temple of Hades.

“Sir,” a small voice croaked, summoning you to its owner’s bedside: a young girl, just barely old enough to tend to farms, yet not big enough to tend to herself.

“What might I do for you, little one?” You rested your hand upon hers and squeezed. She would not last the week, you knew.

“I’m tired, sir.” Her dimming gaze wavered, but stayed true to their mark. “Is–will Lord Death find me soon?” Her voice wavered. Her hand clutched at yours tightly.

You hummed, low and warm. “He'll come whenever you so decide, little warrior.”

“With the–the drink?” She asked, struggling to keep her eyes open. “The one you gave to the nice old man?”

“The tonic, yes,” you said. “It brings you to the land of dreams where the pain cannot reach you, and the day cannot wake you,” you murmured, brushing stray strands of dark hair from her clammy face. “Sleep holds you ‘til his brother, Death, comes to collect you.”

“Is he frightening?” She whimpered. “Lord Death. Is he–is he a monster?”

You shook your head. “He's beautiful,” you whispered.

The girl almost looked well again with how bright her eyes grew. “He is?”

“Yes,” you said. “He comes with the toll of a bell, firstly. Then, time stops, freezes right in place so you might see him.

“His hair is as white as stars, his eyes the colour of honeyed moonlight. He speaks softly, and does not smile, but he is so, so gentle with the lives he spirits away.” Your knuckles brushed against the curve of her cheek, hoping to comfort. “There is nothing to fear, my girl.”

You stayed with her, holding her hand and whispering candied truths to her until the pull of Sleep lulled her somewhere kinder for the night. Part of you hoped she wouldn't wake back into a world ripped apart by fear, famine and frost. Part of you silently whispered prayers for Death to come swiftly, unexpectedly. That would be kinder. For her. For you.

You sighed and rubbed your face, uncaring of the stains of components burning your skin. Normally, you'd not let morose frustration breach the outside. But there, in the furthest reaches of the temple, surrounded by plucked flora and dried fauna, you could be alone. There, you could be tired. Tired of the wars, the cold, the death, the everything; what was a life that revolved around waiting for the innocent to die in your arms?

Enough, you scolded. Enough of this.

There was a chill, then, and the chime of a bell.

“You're generous with your praise,” Thanatos murmured, voice cold and stilted, yet so tender and yearning. “Though I suppose you only offer such words for the sake of her comfort.”

You looked at Thanatos, eyes hard as bronze and sharp as an arrowhead. “Lies are worthless to those who seek comfort.”

His wolven eyes met yours, not shying away from the threat of the hunt. “I understand. And I am grateful for your efforts.” Thick bronzed armour shifted and scraped with the deep breath he took, and with the step he risked towards you. “You've made my job much more tolerable.”

The cold wisped off of him the way a rushing creek might have back when the sun still showed itself. His presence was a relief, a calm blessing and a sure promise of the existence of peaceful ends. It eased your roiling mind, even if just slightly.

“I've not done this for you,” you said. “I do it for–”

“Them?” He asked. “I thought you said lies were worthless.” The prick of his gauntlet's touch found your side, somewhere between your waist and hip. “Be more honest.”

“I do it to give them respite–that which I've never had.” You twisted a fist into the fabric of his chiton, as though you meant to threaten him. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“I only want to hear of the truths you seek.” Death's other hand, the one not donning armour, found its way up to you. His ghostly touch swept across the mark left by Ares, by the god of war himself, in the wake of chaotic, divine intervention–the very one that stopped your sacrifice to a hungry morning star. Ares had been the one to reach you first, pinning your howling soul back where it belonged, all while forcing you into a pact. Thanatos had never seen the Sun's anger until that moment, when his grandson was drawn away by a god enamoured with death and warfare, and forced into a life of newborn Fate.

And the reminder of that pact stained itself into your face. A sun-bleached gold, a worn waterfall of godly ichor, that fell from the top of your brow, across your eye, ending at the sharp cut of your jaw. Thanatos could almost make out the sear of fingerprints burned into your skin. Almost.

But he'd never tell you. You'd only Just stopped hiding your curse from the world. You'd only just started showing your eyes again, the ones turned hollow, carved out and filled again by the light of Apollo in his attempt to overwrite what Ares had done.

“I’ll not have you pity me, Death,” You said.

Your tone sent chilling thrills scattering across his skin.

“I'm not. I won't,” he breathed.

You must have believed him, you reasoned. It’d be the only justification for why you let him stay so close to you. Or maybe you found yourself, too, entranced by the embodiment of Death before you.

You looped long, soft bands of silvered moonlight around your finger once, twice, thrice, like you meant to forge a ring of solid silver to keep forever. Thanatos, too, let his touch wander, leaving butterfly-light touches across the strong curve of your neck, testing your patience and willingness to let him do as he pleased as fingertips coasted with the ebb of your collarbone.

You flashed him a look of warning, but he was too busy judging your mortal form. You were a man, yes, and you were strong and built in the visage of demigods, but still paled in comparison to the full-blooded divine. It was an insult, to be falsely admired by a creature so high above you, and Thanatos knew that. But you intrigued him. You haunted him. You saw the living and the dead as clearly as he did. Maybe that’s why he felt so inexorably drawn to you, and you to him; you, the half-living that could not pass, sought Death just as instinctively as Death sought to wrest the dead from wandering amongst the living.

With a flick of the wrist, a rough flourish, you wound his long hair around your hand as a sailor would hoist hempen rope, and yanked him through the gap of purgatory held between you both.

Teeth clashed, lips bruised, fangs bit, but you only pulled him closer. Thanatos didn’t struggle away from you, instead letting you wind a second hand into his robes to keep him trapped. A greedy pleasure filled the god; you’d never welcomed War to yourself with such appetence. You resented Ares, cursed him every chance you remembered to, yet you were kinder to Thanatos. Nearly welcoming of him and his services, of his body against yours. It did not mean you would love him or worship him, but Death was still young–he was still naive enough to think there existed a chance.

“You’d have me erase what War has done with you?” Thanatos whispered, feigning piety though he knew he would not let you go. Not this time.

You pressed back against the wall, pulling the other with you. “There's no erasing,” you muttered, wincing when the god dug into you and rid you of your clothes. “Only muddying.” Your blood-stained face and sun-seeing eyes spoke as much.

Thanatos hummed beneath the sigh of his breath as he shifted his garments and forced into your core, urged on by the legs wrapping around his waist and the heels digging into his back. You choked on a whimper, or maybe a cry, and wrapped another handful of hair around your fist, then another, and another until your hand dug into his roots and your nails scratched at his scalp. Death wondered if cutting his hair would ruin this.

“Muddying,” he repeated, half-amused, unable to see how sick it was. His hips lurched back, and your wings ruffled with another stifled cry. “I suppose I'm capable of that.”

Your spectral eyes, wide and blown out like the virgin moon, caught his, and there was no stopping.

Death was too young to know better, after all.

The soft whisper of grass underfoot reached you before a gentler voice rang: “I don't see why you choose to sleep when nightmares plague you so.”

You opened your eyes a crack and found the usual bearded suspect looming over you, looking as dispassionate as ever. You liked that about Patroclus, his grounded, albeit careless, outlook on the afterlife. He didn't boast and tell tall tales of what he did, even if those stories were as grand as Elysium was big. But he wasn’t a god, not at all. He was never tortured with praise and promises of grandeur.

You hummed and stretched your wings. “And I don't understand how you don't sleep, Patroclus.”

“I'd rather not remember the past.” He sat beside you and regarded the river. “Sleep won't change anything, besides.”

“It's respite.” You stared up, watching the endless reach of faux blue skies above you. “A momentary escape from Sleep's brother.”

“Oh, but you know his brother well, don't you?” The warrior hummed and dipped his fingertips into the pale, churning blue of the river. “You seem to have bad luck with gods. Worse luck than me, almost.”

“I did not need to suffer the scorn of Thetis,” you reasoned. “Nor was I compelled to meet my end by Love's influence.”

“Yet you were loved by War and Death.” Patroclus drawled. “So much so, you killed yourself to escape them both, isn't that right?”

You huffed and spared your fellow shade a look. “It's not a competition, you know.”

“If the brave souls in this place can argue over who is most honourable, then I say we're allowed to argue who is most miserable between the two of us.” Patroclus picked up a rock and tossed it into the water, watching it disappear with a satisfying plop. “Wouldn't you say?”

You sat up and rustled your feathers, ruffling them into place before folding them neatly at your back. “I figure you win, in that case. The gods were never kind to you.”

“Nor to you.”

“But they loved me.” His gaze met yours and you held it for a moment. “Did they ever love you?”

Your friend stared, silent. His gaze fell to the ground, to the array of smooth skipping stones that'd managed to appear out of nowhere. He'd told you about his simple pleasure of skipping rocks across the ocean's surface, once. His mother would watch, feet buried in the sand, aloof smile somehow more grounded and lonely. Elysium must have thought it comforted him.

Did they ever love you?

“Well,” Patroclus said, thumbing one of the stones in his palm. “It's not a competition, now is it?”

You laughed, and Patroclus skipped his stones.

Zagreus didn't quite remember reaching Elysium. He could recall the bright sky and the cool breeze, but not much else. It'd been a nice change from Asphodel for the few moments he was able to appreciate it that run.

That wakeful subconscious of his waited for the river Styx to take him again, to take him back to his father's House so he might be laughed at once again; instead, cool hands tamed his scalding skin with firm prods and gentle grazes, both remedying the ache of his wounds.

His eyes fluttered, straining to open to find the one who helped him, but blinding Elysian skies sent lances forged out of pure light straight through his skull and pinned him to the earth. Typical.

“Augh, Gods,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “What–” A hand cupped the side of his face, and the runaway god leaned into it with a soft lament.

“You're awake,” you said, and the prince's eyes shot open.

“Wh–” He choked and recoiled from the false sun peeking over your shoulder. “Why–”

“Ah.” Feathers rustled above him, and, when he hazarded a third look, he found the both of you domed under the protection of your wings. “Yes, it's me.”

“It's you,” he repeated, breath struggling to catch up with him. “I've never run into you before. Not out here, at least. So why…?”

“You've never needed my help before.” Your brows furrowed softly. “What happened to you?”

“Ah,” Zagreus started as he tried to sit up, “I fought a hydra in Asphodel. Usually it's no problem, but. Well. I've been off my game lately, I suppose.”

You helped him sit up, your wings still shielding him. “Any thoughts why?”

Zagreus laughed, then wilted with an exasperated, breathless sob. He tried to stop it, but another barreled through the decaying walls standing between his head and his heart.

He curled in on himself, holding his head. “I don't know,” Zagreus admitted. “I just–I don't know, damn it.”

You didn't speak. The low rumble in your chest comforted him more than words could, anyway. As did the firm hand pressed against his back, keeping him steady while waves crashed behind his eyes.

“It feels like madness, doing this again, and again and again.” The prince rubbed his face with harsh hands. “And never succeeding. Never escaping this blasted place.”

Another hum, one singing of sympathy. “Will you stop trying?” You wondered.

“No.” The prince startled himself with conviction. His gaze rose from blue-tinged grass to find the shimmering warmth of your being. “I have to go, I–-I have to keep trying. I need to know the truth. Father can't blind me with all these lies, not any longer; I won't allow it.”

Your broad chest swelled with phantom breath, and you nodded. “Gods always get their way, one way or another.”

Zagreus smiled, another spark flashing, distracting him from his misery. “If that's true, then I hope I've at least inherited that from my father.”

Your hand moved from his back to his shoulder and squeezed. Then, you reached to your wing, and snatched a feather, one so perfectly shaped and glimmering with memories of vitality.

“I vowed never to serve a god again,” you said with a childish scoff. “But here I am. And here you are.” You twirled the feather by its stem a few times, then tucked it in line with the fluttering leaves crowning the prince’s head. “A god I can stand. The son of a god I tolerate.”

Bewildered, Zagreus reached up. Your gift felt soft and rigid against his fingers. “This--you didn't–”

You stood. “It's so you may find me in Elysium.” You offered a hand down to Zagreus. “If you feel the need, for whatever reason.”

A grin split across the prince's features as he reached up and clasped your forearm. “You might come to regret that, mate.”

You hoisted him up with ease. “With you, I can't imagine it.” You handed him Varatha from where she leaned against the tree. “Lies are worthless for those who seek the truth, prince.”

Zagreus grasped the spear, his hand brushing your knuckles as you let her go. “‘Lies are worthless for those who seek the truth,’” he repeated, speaking the words like a hymn under his breath. “You know, I kind of like that. Were you a poet?”

You swallowed.

“No.”

“I think you answered that just a little too quickly there, mate.”

“Shut up,” you scoffed, earning another cheeky grin from the royal.

The prince twirled his spear with the finesse of Achilles, and nodded. Did you care about Achilles? Did you care much for fighting? Why were you in Elysium anyway if you weren’t a warrior? But, then, where was your weapon, or your–

“Go,” you ordered.

Zagreus cleared his throat. “I, uh–right. Yes, I’ll be–I’ll go. Thank you again, your help is–”

“Go.”

“Going!”

You liked watching him fight in Elysium, in the great colosseum. It was a joy, honestly, watching him arrive time after time, brandishing Varatha, or perhaps those strange twin fists, or a shield that reminded you too much of the god of the sky, king of the gods. You weren't much a fan of the shield, if you were honest, but you'd watch anyway, choosing to focus more on the way his body flexed and twisted to wield Aegis as a god should.

“He's remarkable, isn't he?” A young shade, sporting shades of red rather than Elysian blue, cooed beside you, so hopelessly entranced by the entire show. “The prince is just–wow! King Theseus calls him sloppy, but he's got a sort of…explosiveness to him, don't you think, sir?”

You couldn't help the quirk of a smile when you regarded her. Her hands were balled up, eyes gleaming and dancing with the throw of shields and spears–she reminded you of yourself. You, who didn't know how to appreciate mundane peace.

“Agreed.” You leaned forward resting your forearms against the railing. “He had Achilles teach him, you know.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“Remarkable. Remarkable!” She bounced beside you, buoyant with delight. “Do you think Achilles himself fought like this, sir?”

He fought gracefully. That's what Patroclus had said. He fought fiercer than Heracles and quicker than Hermes. He was, after all, a god. Such words were meant to be spoken around the revelry of a campfire, you knew, somewhere where wide-eyed warriors-to-be leaned in and whispered amongst each other with the blustering energy of myrmidons. Yet your friend uttered them whimsically, letting the breeze lift them away and hide them in the river Lethe. No fires. No wonder. Only indifference, and a drop of sorrow.

“Achilles fought differently,” you said, finally, when the sound of Theseus complaining snapped you out of days passed. “I heard he was graceful and elegant. He never needed a teacher, nor did he ever have an equal.”

“But Achilles still taught him,” the shade reinforced, and you smiled a bit wider. “That means he's a good fighter.”

“He's good. Definitely good.”

The crowd roared as Theseus staggered, then raised his spear to the sky and called upon–

“Lord Ares!”

You dug your nails into your palms, embedding deep crescents to remind yourself of better gods: Selene, Hecate–

“Artemis!”

The roil in your chest eased when you heard her name, saw the flicker of her visage in the stadium. But, then, a new ache was born, one that you'd become acquainted with quite well in life and death.

You turned and left, muting the confused calls of the scarlet shade with the exuberant roar of the crowd.

“Are you quite done fighting me?” Ares asked, holding your wrists above your head and pinning you with ease.

You heaved in breaths, each one carrying the god's scent more potent than the last: blood, metal, fire. You hated his scent, yet it followed you everywhere, festered in your mind's darkest corners–places you refused to acknowledge.

“Enough of this,” you gasped, too full and inebriated under him to find your pride. “Please.”

War sucked at his teeth before sighing, commiserating with your plight, even though that plight was he, himself.

“Sad little thing, aren't you?” His hands upon your wrists loosened before one resealed against your throat. “Your heart beats so quickly, like the flutter of a sparrow's wings.” He tilted his head, watching the weak jump of his fingers against your pulse. “I'll never tire of it.”

You gasped out a bewildered laugh and struggled again against the single hand keeping your wrists pinned. “Please consider tiring of it. I won't take offense.” You coughed as his hand tightened around your throat. “P-promise.”

“Ah, but you're my favourite mortal of the moment!” Ares declared, brandishing a perfect, handsome, horrible smile. “I'm afraid I'm quite fixated on you, little bird.”

His eyes didn't lie. Not as they wandered down your bare body, drinking in marks and wounds left by him in his brutal reign over you and your war-destined Fate.

It lit a spark of sanity in you for just a moment. “What must I do? To be free of you, free of War?”

“Mortals are never free of me,” he gently reminded. “And you, in particular--you'll never escape me, nor your Fate.” His last hand released your wrists in favour of tracing the mark of boiling blood he'd left on your skin. “I'll see you fulfill your prophecy, and it shall be glorious.”

His dilated eyes churned your stomach. “You wish me to die?” You scoffed, straining to wrench away from his touch while clawing at his wrist. “Just to see me fight?”

“To see you fight,” he agreed, “And become a god.”

Chapter Text

“Say, Zagreus?” Artemis’ voice came not with the sprightly, nymph-inspired lightness the godling was used to, but the cold, sweeping chill of the surface breeze. 

“Yes?” He asked, despite knowing she could not hear his words, only see the warbled image of his face. It still felt wrong to let her wallow in silence, however. 

“I–have you–?” She paused and took a breath. “My brother, Apollo, he had a grandson. Or, has, I suppose. He was winged, though they rested too low on his back, so…he could never fly or make use of them. He once asked me if he should cut them off! Can you believe that? Uh–anyway, if you see him, just…make sure he’s okay. Please?”

How could he deny the goddess her wish?

“Gardener, sir, you wouldn't happen to conveniently be in when I need you?” 

“I might be,” you droned, sounding far too much like Patroclus in that moment. 

“Oh! Good.” Zagreus perked up and held onto the bars. “Then you wouldn't mind a quick check-in, would you, mate?”

You sauntered into view, wearing the usual impassive mask Zagreus had grown accustomed to. Well, that is until he'd seen you with his number one fan, watching him fight that blasted king to re-death. You smiled then. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. 

“If you've another bottle on you,” you said, bracing your arms against the gate and leaning against it, “I might be able to find some time.”

Zagreus laughed. “You know, I think you're one of the only recipients of said gift who actually asks for the stuff.” And he obliged, pulling another bottle out of nowhere and carefully handing it through the fence. “Usually I have to force it into unwilling hands.”

“Well, I'm more than willing to demand it from you, Prince, if you've no one else to give it to.” You plucked the gift from him with a melodic hum, and turned it in your palm, again watching the ethereal colours shift and change. 

Zagreus watched, too. “I'll keep it in mind. Oh, but, before I forget,” he started, eyes boring into your face until you looked back at him. “I, uh–Lady Artemis contacted me after I defeated Theseus in Elysium.”

Your brows rose and your eyes grew the slightest bit wider as you listened, rapt with attention. “She did?” 

The prince nodded. “She did. She wanted to ask if you were okay.” 

Your wings shifted against your back. It must've been a sign of unease. Zagreus would do well to remember that.

“Right,” you breathed. “I'm fine, she can rest assured. You can, too.” You pulled your weight from the bars and took a step back, still remaining close enough for conversation. “Most of my grudges are gone with the Styx. Or maybe the Lethe.”

“Grudges?” Zagreus repeated, voice gentle. “What sort of grudges, might I ask?”

“Ones to do with Gods,” you said. “I had qualms with several, unfortunately. But I had good relationships, too, like with Artemis. She taught me many things alongside my brother.”

“A brother?” The prince's hands grasped the bars lightly. “I had no idea.”

“It's for the best. Artemis’ wrath got him killed, anyway,” you said through a yawn.

“Oh.” 

You looked at him again, eyes bleary and squinted. Then, you must have realized his unease the same moment Zagreus accepted the truth of the matter; the gods would not ferry honest, whole truths alongside their plentiful blessings. They'd boast their best, hint at fabulous tales of their great deeds, but they'd not tell of mortals they'd killed. What good would that do them in their quest to win over their newly discovered relative, the prince of the underworld? 

“I guess that's not what you expected to hear,” you mumbled. 

“Not quite,” Zag admitted.

“It was my brother's fault. I don't put much blame on the goddess.”

“Even though it was your brother?” 

“Blood doesn't always bind. I'm sure you've had your fill of that yourself, Prince Zagreus.”

“But if he was your brother, then he was Artemis' nephew too, wasn't he?”

Your eyes softened before you looked away, your hand fidgeting with the bottle of nectar all the while. 

“The divine care so much for family, but not even that will save the demi-divine from their wrath.” You paused for a moment, and Zagreus could nearly see the haunt of memories playing out before your spectral eyes. “If Actaeon did not seek death, he shouldn't have watched Artemis bathe.”

“ Oh.” Zagreus understood, then; the maiden goddess, she who'd only threatened her maidenhood for he who she'd lost, was gazed upon by a mere demigod–a related one, at that. “I–well, I can't say it's justified, but–”

“If you try too hard to make sense of the gods and all their decisions, Zagreus, you'll soon go mad,” you warned. “Sometimes, it's best to leave the past be.

“Is that your true advice, or your current preference?” Zagreus asked.

You twitched a smile and shook your head. “Both, I suppose.”

The prince nodded, relaxing with the tension in the air. “Alright. I'll honour your preference, then–for now, at the very least. Be prepared to answer more questions when next I tear through Elysium.”

You chuckled. “I'll be on my guard, then.”

“You seem tired.” 

You recoiled at his voice. His words were always so bleak and blunt, and tapped away at your nerves like a chisel–but the faint relief of familiarity dampened the blows, like a cloth thrown between tool and bone. 

“You'd know that look well.” You paid him no real heed, instead choosing to toil and trim the yard as your father had taught you. 

“I suppose I would,” Thanatos conceded. “I've searched for you. In Elysium.” 

“I'd have turned you away,” you said, tugging a lone weed from its hiding spot amidst hyacinths and purple roses. “There's no reason to speak.”

“You took your own life,” Death said. “You gave your soul to Hermes to take away.” The real question was there, hidden between the lines, but Death was older now. He knew better than to ask pointless questions. 

“You understand why,” you said. 

“I do,” Thanatos murmured. 

You granted him your gaze, then, and took in his older look. His hair had been cropped short, and more lines had appeared on his face in the way artists might exaggerate the divine's beauty. His chest spanned broader, his arms grown stronger with the wielding of that scythe and the weight of mortality burdening him. 

But his eyes had grown tired. Dull. Lonely, even. You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel pity for him. 

“I was trapped,” you said. The young, bitter past screamed and cracked his fists against your skull, rage boiling him alive–but you were older now, too. You knew better. 

Thanatos shifted, his eyes falling to the floor, brows pinching as he thought. “I hope you know I didn’t mean for this all to–I didn’t mean for you to think that I–I wanted to help you, I just–”

“Stop.” And he did. You came to the gate, the only barrier defending you from the ghost of your lived days. It was difficult, raising your eyes to meet him, but you tried–Heliod warmth meeting Obol chill. 

“We were young,” you said.

Than's eyes softened. “ You were.”

You grasped the bars weakly. “Gods need more time to get their heads out of their asses than mortals–we were on the same playing field.” 

“I suppose.” He grazed his bare touch against your knuckles, tempting himself with something he should've learned to not want by then.

You tensed, too familiar with his delicate fingertips, too suffocated by memories of darker times, more complicated ones–ones where Death had decided you were his first play thing, his first indentured mortal.

“Do you still hate the gods?” Thanatos murmured–a secret shared in life and death both. 

A long, familiar silence passed before you found an answer: “Gods are inevitable,” you decided, voice low. “Like the rain. Or the cold.”

“Or Death?” 

“Or Death.” Your sunlit gaze met his midnight lights. “I'm dead, besides. What use do I have to loathe the gods now? I'm no longer the Olympians’ plaything.”

His visage faltered, but recovered with blitzing resolve. “You won't be treated the same as you were when you lived, (Name). I can personally assure you of that–I promise you that.”

“You, of all the gods, promise that?” You wondered, tone even and heavy. “You promise to tame every Chthonic deity down here?”

“I--there’s no need for taming. The Chthonic gods, we're not–”

“Was there a split aspect of you, then?” You bit. “Were you playing the part of Olympian up there, on the surface? Like Mors for the Romans?”

“ No, I–”

“Then it was your piety.” Your skin blanched as you gripped the iron bars tighter. “To come to me only when the stench of lost lives hung in the air and the pyres burned bright.” You grabbed his chiton as fast as a snake might strike its prey, and you pulled him towards you. “Your kindly touch and honeyed words were a mere riposte to tragedy and the loss of life. Can you imagine, O’ Death , how it was to be embraced in such a state, only? Can you–”

A strong hand grabbed your arm and wrenched it free from Thanatos’ robes. Piercing amber eyes warned you with poignant practice: Don’t touch him. 

“Problem here?” Megaera asked. 

Thanatos didn't speak. You didn't know what to say. And still Meg waited. 

“Forgive me,” is what you said much to your surprise. Your gaze found the grass beneath you, its violet hues smearing and blending together while your brain struggled to make sense of it all. “Forgive me, I didn't–”

“Shut up.” Meg dug her nails into your spectral flesh and twisted, spearing your arm on a blunt spike jutting upwards in decoration. Your voice caught in your throat as you stumbled, rattling the gate, and no doubt causing a scene. 

Thanatos snapped from his stunned stupor. “ Megaera, what are–”

“See that?” She asked, eyes flicking to beading crimson before catching the weak nod of your head. “Good. Remember it, and know your place.”

“Meg. Enough .” His soul-reaping hand held hers, gentle, but with warning enough. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“It wasn't.” She let go of you, though, and brushed her long ponytail off her shoulder. “Next time, it'll be your wings.”

The Fury left, heading straight into the lounge where the casual revelry of tired and exasperated workers gathered to gossip and drink the afterlife away. You almost wished you could indulge in wine again. It was a bad habit you'd developed back in your living days–a bad habit you sorely missed, having experienced pain and blood for the first time in an eternity.

“Let me–” Than started, hands hovering around your sacrificed arm with uncertainty. He was Death, not Apollo.

You shook your head and collected yourself. She'd only lodged the tips of iron fangs into your arm and hadn't been so cruel as to force them till they breached the otherside. You'd dealt with arrows before–once the jagged heads were out of sight, swallowed into unwilling flesh, there was no hope in simple excavation; physicians would need to jam the arrowhead through, then break the shaft away to slip both halves free. You were lucky the metal could slip out the way it tore in. 

With a swift upwards jerk of your limb, you tore your arm free. More red trickled from you, as strange as it was to see your spectral self bleed. Then again, Theseus bled, too, didn’t he? 

Thanatos said something as you held your wound, but his words were nothing more than mumbled things said beneath one’s breath to your reeling mind. 

“Enough,” you choked. “My apologies.”

“Wh–? No–”

“Megaera was not wrong. I’d have done the same.” You took an unsure step back, hoping you didn’t look so much like a wounded pup as you felt. “Let us make amends and speak freely in Elysium, come the time.” 

You reached for a feather, but your wounded, dominant hand trembled, unable to persuade tendons to obey and puppeteer your fingers into doing anything meaningful. Patroclus would have much to say on the matter, you dreaded. Maybe you should just die and have your spirit born anew, refreshed, much like the champions you’d seen Zagreus mow down endless times.

Clumsily, you tore a few soft tufts free with your other hand, and offered what you hoped was the nicest one to Death. The sight of blood dirtying ancient bronze brought acidic heat rising in your throat. If it weren’t for the ache pulsing in your arm, you might’ve lost yourself in the echoes of bloodthirsty revelry.

“You’ll find me easily with this,” you said, twirling the sullied thing between your fingers. “Please.”

Thanatos hesitated, granting you a look you could not bear to behold, and then took it. 

“Thank you,” he said. I’m sorry, he meant.

You shook your head and braced against the gate for a moment, collecting yourself. “I thank you, too.”

“Seems the Chthonic gods are not quite as we thought,” Patroclus had said. He seemed anything but amused, anything but impressed by the mess the House of Hades had left you in. 

You didn’t have much to say on the matter, either. Nothing besides, “I overstepped. The fault is mine.” 

“The gods should know better restraint.” He took a breath, scrutinizing the wound further. “You're lucky. If those bars had come out the other side–”

“It was one of the Furies, not the gods,” you interrupted. You didn't want to envision that what if again. 

Patroclus tutted. “ Oh, then of course this is wholly justified.”

You flinched as he cleaned the wound of blood. You wouldn’t catch disease nor infection in the afterlife, but a strange look of peace overwhelmed Patroclus’ being when he tended to wounds, so you let him work as though you still drew breath. Scrapes and bruises, gougings and stabwounds–he tended to them all with the same thoughtful care. Apollo might’ve loved him, if he hadn’t hated him so.

“I taunted Thanatos,” you admitted. “Grabbed his robes through the gate.”

“Foolish thing to do.”

“I know.” You watched your mate douse linen bandages with golden nectar before he wrung them, and wrapped your wound. “I plan to speak with him. Properly. As men should.”

“ Ah .” Patroclus tied the bandages tightly, earning a choked grunt out of you. “What a grand idea.”

You watched him rise, turning from you to wash his hands of your blood in the river Lethe. “You think that foolish, too?”

“I think you’re too willing to please the divine, friend,” Patroclus said, and you seethed. “What duty do you have to them? They are the reason you’re here early, much like myself.” 

“Maybe it’s my priesthood persuading me, then, as forced onto me as it was.” You glowered at the bandages sparkling against your skin. “I cannot hate Death. I cannot even begin to. There’s no reason to let this go on, Patroclus.”

The Myrmidon sighed, and looked back at you over his shoulder. “I know.” He sat himself by your side again and dried his hands. “I can’t say I approve of your being more rational than I.” 

“Tch. I hold my tongue too often, then.” 

Chapter Text

“You've been praying to Ares,” Artemis said, voice cool and intense as the full moon. 

You, he who'd just turned thirteen, found himself full of hubris and ideas of grandeur–all because you shared the blood of the gods. Artemis had seen this play a thousand times. She'd seen it end miserably a thousand times, too.

“I have been,” you confirmed, flippant. You tightened the string on your newly-carved bow while you sat before a glassy, calm pool, crisply reflecting the starry night sky and Orion's belt. 

“Why?” She demanded. 

You scoffed. “Is it so wrong to hope for glory?”

“There’s no glory in war.”

“Not for you, maybe.” You pulled back the string of your bow, and you both listened to the satisfying thrum it sang with as the line slipped loose. “You'll live forever, you're already a god.”

Artemis took a moment to find her patience. “You'll pray to Ares no more,” she warned, “Or I'll teach you no more. I mean this with all my heart, nephew.”

You looked at her, eyes wide with shock. “You can't really mean that.”

“I do.”

“But–”

“No. I won't argue this further.” She inhaled deeply and turned away, looking towards the skies as though to ask for help. “Now, come on, if you're done with all your nonsense about War. The hunt's afoot.”

She clutched her bow tighter, wondering, waiting–either you'd come with her, or you wouldn't. Her heart hoped not for the latter. She didn't want to lose another, not under the gaze of Orion.

But the rustle of wings joining her side calmed her, even just for the moment. 

“You could be nicer about it,” you groused. 

Artemis smiled. “I could be nicer about a lot of things. Now, come on.”

And you both took off, hunting game for the entirety of the night with a win over Ares tucked into Artemis’ belt. Yet only the Fates could have known her intervention would make matters worse. 

You stood before Hades. Fierce carmine eyes watched you, regarding you with interest and a dash of disappointment; you'd been welcomed in, chosen to tend to his very heart, then caused trouble instead. You wouldn't be very fond of yourself, either. 

“You understand why you are here, yes?” The Lord of the House asked, his voice lacking the hissing venom he saved for those who truly tried his patience. 

“Yes, my Lord.” You tried to tune out the bustle of other shades around you. You clutched your arm, still festering with remarkable pain, and grounded yourself. “And I offer my apologies.”

The king tutted. “There is no fighting in the House. It is prohibited. Not with blades and blood, at the very least.” He paused, then leaned back, his thick fingers rapping against that heavy, lacquered desk in thought. “As I understand, you are the sole wounded.”

Oh. “Physically, yes. But I cannot say I'd be wounded if I'd minded my manners, my Lord.” You clutched tighter to your arm, now in a weak attempt to hide bloodied bandages. “I could not blame Megaera.” 

Hades hummed. Then, a blunt scoff left him. “You'd have me sweep this under the rug.”

You bowed your head. “If my Lord would be willing.” 

Silence met you for a long moment. You wished he'd be blasé with you, the way he was when other common shades stood before him, pleading their cases. It was a secret well-kept, your amusement in listening to exchanged words between ghost and god; now, however, you understood their stilted words and laughable audacity.

“Fine,” Hades conceded. He snatched up his quill with another earthy grumble and penned something with his trademark, agitated vigor. “Then do not let this happen again. You will keep your petulant squabbling out of this House, or your job here is forfeit. Are we understood?”

“We are understood, Lord Hades.” Your grip lessened, but felt wet with new pricks of blood. It could have been worse, you figured.

But Hades’ eyes were perceptive, the breadth of his wisdom built over time like the fabled Library of Alexandria. Something curious lit his eyes ablaze, and you allowed your sight to sink to the mosaics underfoot. 

“Go,” the king said. “And keep my warning at the frontmost of your mind, Aristaeides.” 

Aristaeides. Son of Aristaeus. 

You felt a sickness siphon the last of your wits, so you nodded, and turned to find your way back to your post–but the worried voice of the flame-footed prince held you in place.

“What is this about, Father?” You heard Zagreus demand of the king. He sounded so oddly serious suddenly, like he really, truly expected that his father had doomed you. But that was an untruth you were willing to speak up for. 

“Prince,” you interjected, looking to the flaming presence bristling beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “Let us not disrupt Lord Hades’ court. I will explain elsewhere, if it'd please you.”

Worry flashed in mismatched eyes. “If it's something involving my father–”

“It is not,” you bit.

Hades scoffed a beat of mocking laughter and the prince’s gaze snapped to him, all etiquette forgotten. 

“Perhaps you should listen to the shade, boy, seeing as he's learned manners better than the blasted heir of this realm,” the king chided. You closed your eyes, aware of the argument about to break out. 

“Perhaps you should treat me with the same dignity and respect that you so expect from everyone else in this place, Father. Then I might've been a more dutiful son.” The godling turned to you and ushered you along with him, his hand guiding you from the spot between your shoulder blades.

Hades said something offhandedly, but you tuned it out, instead too intent on staring holes in the prince's head. 

“What the fuck was that about, god?” You muttered. “You can't interrupt court so frivolously and not expect repercussions.”

Zagreus smiled as he guided you into the east wing. “I'm already his son–it's the worst punishment I can imagine. He can't do much else to me, not unless he wants to break the rules himself.”

“You're a menace,” you decided.

“I've been called worse.”

He led you to his room, and the quiet it brought stunned you. The prince's quarters existed in organized chaos, with piles of books and scrolls dotting the outskirts while other oddities littered the rest of it: a lyre, a scrying pool, a mirror forged from darkness. The setting felt oddly intimate.

Intimate. Your wings puffed up in abashed defense of the unknown while your skin heated. It's nothing of the sort, fool. 

“This is your room,” you said, astute.

Zagreus, either catching wind of a bird's panic or the exact opposite, smiled brightly. “Keen observation.”

“Why?” You croaked, then cleared your throat. “Why here?”

The prince's smile shrunk into a thoughtful purse of the lips. “Oh. Well. I don't know, I guess no one's ever in here?” 

“And you've brought me here, wounded and tired, for what reason, exactly?” You said dryly. 

Zagreus stared for a moment, then he laughed. “Oh. It's nothing like that, mate! I figured the lounge would be a bad idea if Meg was there, and I'm not allowed in the gardens, so–?” He smiled at you still, his boyish charm igniting warmth in your chest. 

“Ah.” His easy kindness soothed your nerves. Normally, you'd expect the opposite. Normally, you'd expect someone to befriend you just to tear what they wanted from you. Not this one, you realized. Not this prince. 

“And I wanted to ask what happened, if that's alright.” Zagreus pushed off from the wall he leaned against and approached you. “You with your–your arm?”

You eyed his fidgety hands, doubtful, but lifted your arm in answer. “If you wish.” 

And he did wish, very much so. Zagreus, careful to mind his heavy-handed touch, held your hand in his and unwound sullied bandages with the gentility of a farmer tending to a chick. It was almost nostalgic. Maybe Artemis had given him pointers on caring for wild beasts. 

“Gods,” Zagreus breathed with a grimace. “That's–you're sure you're alright?”

You quirked a brow but nodded. “It's quite fine, Zagreus.”

“Oh, officially first-name basis now?” He teased. 

“Well, we are in your room. No one can hear me disrespect you,” you offered back, a smile threatening your cool, collected disposition. 

Gemstones flicked from your wound to meet your eyes, a churlish smile setting them alight with mischievous delight. He really was a problematic god, wasn't he? That'd be fine. You knew how to deal with his sort. 

“I suppose we are, aren't we,” he murmured. “I wouldn't mind if you disrespected me outside these walls, too, you know.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

“Good.” He brushed his thumb alongside the crescent wound. 

You almost gave in to the selfish desire to stay around, to talk with the prince and ask about the odds and ends of his room. It’d be an easy way to understand him and to get to know him better, on a more serious level; forging a bond, despite it being with a god, might make your tenure a little more bearable–no, not bearable, considering your job was anything but un bearable, but maybe enjoyable? A person to talk to, to share secrets with, to feel something around. 

But it could also end in flames. It could end with your heart stolen and thrown away after bravely breaking open your ribcage to bear it to him , to the prince of the underworld. 

But it could also not end that way, too. And maybe that alone was worth it. 

“Well, I won’t keep you hostage any longer,” Zagreus said, letting go of you, yet allowing fingers to linger just a second longer before re-bandaging your arm. “You’ve got your work to do. Gardening, and all that.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing. “Thanks.” You cleared your throat and fixed the prince’s sloppy work at dressing your wound. “I hope I’ll see you. In Elysium. Soon.”

Zagreus grinned.

Ares plucked you from Doom the way one might pick a flower from a field; there were so, so many flowers to pick from, but you were by far the prettiest. Or, you would be, at the very least, and the god of war was keen on spiriting your beauty away from moonlit eyes forever.

War remembered Apollo's anger well. That frivolous half-brother of his, the one who was the god of anything and everything, had actually thrown down his lyre in objection to what his latest, favoured son had done to a son of his own: human sacrifice.

Sacrifice, in the face of a rising, dark star. It made the public sick when it rose in the morning, and Aristaeus, the savior he was, the demigod freshly turned immortal, slit your throat with the morning light, and saved the townsfolk. 

But that cursed star was made by Apollo’s hand–a taste of irony Ares had grown an appetite for.

“It was a blasted test, not a reason for filicide!” Apollo lamented, anger betraying his sunny disposition as he reached for you from Olympus, hands alight with the promise of saving your life–-his current favourite grandson's life–until another grasped you first. 

“Ah, so this is the demigod who prayed for me for so long,” Ares crooned, hand staunching your bleeding. “The Fates have had much to say about you, little thing.” 

But you, lost in the purgatory of life and death, could say nothing as you beheld the visage of the gods in flickering forms of light and divinity. You could only stare and wonder. 

“Ares,” Apollo bit out. “Release him so I might–”

“The Fates said,” Ares started, almost singing his words, “Two would reach for a dying soul, but only one would find the legend's heart.”

Ares looked over his shoulder, bright teeth stark against dark skin in a wicked grin. “What will you give me for this one, my kin?”

But it didn't matter. Apollo's threats and ill-contempt, the way his eyes blazed as godhood threatened his mortal facade, the summoning of his bow--the Sun's quaint show meant little to War, but it did amuse him. 

And so, your thread was not cut by the Fates, and you awoke in a place between life and death, staring up at he who would be your greatest desire, and your eternal tormentor.

“The little thing rises,” Ares crooned. You must have been strewn across his legs, in his lap, with how he looked down on you. It might’ve been a holy thing, a life-changing moment to be held in the arms of a god, but that smile on his face–it looked so wrong. 

“Now,” he said, “What shall I do with you?”

The coliseum was so different when you were in its depths, in its stomach where it might swallow one whole should a warrior lose himself in the midst of battle–Zagreus was a victim of it, same as Asterius and Theseus. 

You had to wonder what it'd be like to die here, drenched in blood and sweat, with a bow in your hand and the thrill of the hunt thundering through your veins like hooves blazing down forest paths because, as much as you loathed to admit it, fighting breathed life into you like nothing else. How sad it was that you could only indulge in life after dying.

Theseus’ spear gouged a piece out of your shoulder and you stumbled, but recovered, and slipped out of the way of Asterius as he charged by. 

“I must say, you're quite the opponent, Aristaeides!” The king bellowed, an awful laugh following his words. “Still no match for us, but a worthy opponent nonetheless!”

You fought a smile. “Not a match, but worthy? Seems a bit contradictory, Theseus.” You licked your lips and wiped away the blood. “Then again, you never were a poet, being the son of seawater.” 

Theseus balked. “ How dare you! I–”

“I dare very much.” 

“I wasn't done talking!”

“Shame.”

You avoided Asterius’ next lunge for you, his axe just skimming the tips of your wings before the hefty weapon lodged itself into the ground. Cracks bloomed underfoot and threatened to throw you off balance as you sped away, weaving between pillars and taking cover until Theseus’ spear whizzed by. You heard the damn thing return to its owner, and an idea, something bright and dastardly, swept through your mind with prickling ripples of exhilaration. It probably wouldn’t work, it’d probably bear consequences if it did work, but you were already dead and full of bad ideas; if now wasn’t the time to get creative, when was? 

Odysseus, guide me. You heaved in iron-tinged breaths and waited for the thundering of Asterius’ hooves to get closer before you sprung into motion, glancing Theseus’ way every time he posed to impale you with his accursed spear. Several times you’d feel jolts of near-hits, but the thrill of the chase kept you going–until you threw your back into the wall, waiting with lightning-laced muscles for the moment the bull came your way as Theseus, a ways away behind the bull, shifted his weight to throw. 

That spear left his fingers in a moment of carelessness, for it was the very same moment Asterius crashed into the wall, gouging you and pinning you against biting stone–only, you were not there as the bull expected, and Asterius did not move from the line of fire as Theseus expected. 

“Bull!” The king cried as he recalled his spear before it struck. Then, you dropped from what little flight you could manage, and landed on that very weapon as it flew back to its owner.

You crashed into Theseus, tumbling to the ground with him. He spat insults and scrambled, trying to bash you with his shield while struggling to get you off of him as his dear bull struggled, too, with freeing his horns from the coliseum walls. The plan was a success, more or less.

You let yourself enjoy it a little, grappling with his shield and forcing it aside every time he tried to shove and push at you with what little space he freed up between you both. It was like watching a beetle flail on its back, helpless and unable to save itself, and you were a petulant child, poking at it over and over and over again–but your patience cracked before his shell did. 

“Champion ,” you mocked, wrenching the shield away from him before bringing it down on his statue-worthy face once, twice, thrice, before you paused to look at his broken nose, his red-stained face, his dizzied eyes. “How weak.”

“W-Weak?!” Your prey sputtered. 

“Yes. Weak.” You grasped his spear next. “The Athenian king, run through by his own weapon. What a hymn this would make.” 

“How dare you,” Theseus coughed. “You’d not slay a man with his own weapon, you–you fiend! You–”

Theseus gasped, and the crowd howled as that glittering, divine spear plunged into the soft flesh of his stomach. You leaned into the weapon, urging it deeper. “It’d surely inspire your next battle,” you muttered. “Wouldn’t it?” 

The king’s hands clawed at the weapon’s shaft, jerking it back and threatening your hold on it. You’d not lose in a game of tug of war, however; you were a demigod, one trained to kill and survive by the goddess of the hunt herself, and you were a farm boy, one used to grappling and trying your might against horses and bulls alike.

“Enough.”

The flat edge of an axe sent you skipping across the gravel pit like you were one of Patroclus’ tossed stones. The spear and shield, your bow and arrows–all scattered around you as you hit the ground again, and again, and again, until one of those trusty pillars caught you, and threw you to the ground.

You gasped and struggled for air. The tang of blood drowned out your senses, as did the pounding of your heart in your head. And your lungs–they weren’t working right, hardly filling with the wet gasps you swallowed into your body. You were in trouble. You’d been here before.

“Stand, King,” you heard Asterius say as you tried to collect yourself. “This is not yet over.” 

“You’re right, my friend.” Theseus’ spear hummed with life before zipping into his outstretched hand, his shield soon joining in the opposite. “But I am eager to finish it!” 

He, the man who’d found the will to shrug off a mere gouging to the stomach, raised his weapon and called out for a god’s aid. And you scrambled, fighting to stand before the divine caught a glimpse of you. You had a hunch, an awful one, one that you couldn’t let come to fruition; He was the one who’d saved you from trouble before. He was the one who encouraged you to incite more, too.

“Olympus!” Theseus roared. The crowd joined him.

You stood, but your knees buckled and your wings laid broken and limp at your back.

“Lend me your aid in ending this fight!” 

Your hand trembled as you reached for your quiver, grasping one of the two arrows that managed to stay put in your grand tumble. But your bow was too far away, there was no time before He–

“Lady Artemis!” 

Ah.

You fell to your knees. Relief washed over you as silvery green puddles graced the coliseum floor like moonlight peeking through the forest canopy; if any god was to kill you, if any was to behold your pitiful state, you'd choose none other than Her. Odds were, she'd make it quick, the same way she made it quick for wounded game.

“Artemis,” you whispered, feeling the blood and vigor drain from your spirit. When did you become so tired? No, better yet, what made you enter the coliseum in the first place? Was it that terrible dream? That nightmare full of blood and promised purpose? Or was it the fear, and the ache of wanting to be free of it, to be free of the weakness it brought you? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to think about it. “I’m afraid–I think I made a mistake, coming here.”

You almost thought you saw her in the shimmering viridian light that next moment. Her voice almost sounded so present, too, but it spoke over and under itself, leaving nothing tangible but the comfort of her sound for your mind to bask in as you waited for–

The moonlight vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a storm. Asterius and Theseus gave pause, too, bewildered by the apparent betrayal of the goddess, until a voracious, chorused cry of bloodlust ripped through the fight pit, and rose up, beckoning the murmuring crowd to scream their voices hoarse with savage war cries. 

You knew that sound well. You heard it in your dreams. You felt it in the hollow of your chest, clawing up your throat and suffocating behind clenched teeth. 

You looked to your bow, senses igniting again and demanding you live , demanding you fight against what descended upon you, and you dragged yourself to it, yanking it close by the taut string. You would fight. You would fight.

But would you win?

“I, er–Lord Ares! Of course, that’s what I meant…!” Theseus bellowed, his loud sort of charisma bolstering his words despite his confusion. 

Yet it was so clear to you that Ares wasn’t listening, not with the stadium roaring with the might of the Titans, and not when He nearly speared the king with that explosive show of blackened magic bursting from the ground. His power took shape in the memory of swords and polearms–sorts you recognized so clearly, having been torn apart by the mortal men who once wielded them. 

And they sought you again. Because they always would. 

They exploded from the ground like erupting geysers and rained down on you with the chaos of Grecian archers loosing their arrows all at once, hoping to maim, kill, and defeat the enemy in one lethal maelstrom while the rest of the army howled at their back. 

Fight, that hungry part of you beckoned, even in the face of your nightmares. 

You tried to stand, but fell to your knees. 

Fight, it scolded.

Your teeth buzzed with the crowd’s revelry, with the pounding in your head.

Fight, it begged.

But the stadium had bled out your ears and mind. 

A spear ripped free a wing, another took your hand clean off, a third punched straight through your chest and then another did, and another, and another, and another and–it didn’t stop, not as you screamed, not as your mind clawed itself apart, desperate to find the words to beg for mercy, to make it end . You never did find such words.

You collapsed, numb and wide-eyed. But there was something warm that broke through the emptiness claiming you–a touch. The one that held your throat so long ago, the one that somehow always stopped your bleeding, the one that claimed to adore you as it destroyed you–it’d found you again where it never should have been able to reach.

Shall I save you, little thing?

His voice warbled oddly in your mind, eating away your psyche. His saving would render you dead in a different way, or worse–make you a god. You didn’t know what he was capable of, but you knew it was too much: Athena had turned Medusa into a gorgon, Artemis had turned Actaeon into a buck, Demeter had turned Aristaeus into a god. The possibilities were endless and grim, like the swirling void of Erebus.

Shall I decide for you? He asked. Your nerves recoiled. But your throat no longer existed, and your mind no longer held sound thoughts. You were empty, carved out again, his for the taking if you failed to answer. 

But the world flashed with an odd hue of blue–no, green?--as a church bell tolled, silencing the god-born battle revelry, leaving just the crowd to its cheering and celebrating. Your mind couldn’t catch up to the way your body relaxed, finally giving in to the escape of death as that touch was ripped away, and replaced by something colder.

“I’ve got you,” someone said. You liked that voice. Cold, like winter water, but calming to your fever. “You can let go.” 

And you did.

Chapter Text

You didn’t recall waking. You didn’t recall the mad scramble off your bed, the flailing of your wings, nor throwing yourself into the wall—you simply woke, chest heaving, eyes wide, body aching.

Your fingers dug into the stone at your back, then at the worn skin shielding the hollow of your chest from phantom spears. How long had it been since your re-death? You didn’t know; there was nothing between the coliseum and that waking moment, besides nightmares and memories.

Nightmares. Memories. Those had become one and the same to you.

Slowly, you sunk to the ground. Even slower, you convinced your stampeding heart to ease in tandem with your panicked breaths, until you tricked yourself into a state of near-calm. Your tenure in Elysium had taught you to control yourself, as had Patroclus.

If only he’d stopped me from fighting, you lamented. It wasn’t his fault; you’d kept your decision to yourself. He wouldn’t have approved, and he very much had the sway to convince you away from fighting under the gaze of the Olympians.

But you wanted to see Him again. You wanted to catch a glimpse of blood-coloured eyes, to hear the deep trill of a dangerous voice you used to be so well-acquainted with. You had to know if he still remembered you, or if he’d left you in the past like his other champions.

Shall I save you, little thing? Shall I decide for you?

Part of you wished he had. Part of you was glad he hadn’t.

Zagreus happened upon you in Elysium. The trinket you offered him was the real deal; he could feel it guide him with the precision of Aegis locking onto the essence of his foes. He had to wonder, if he ever lost the feather, could the shield guide him instead?

He probably wouldn't appreciate a shield coming at him out of nowhere, he thought. Most injuries involving vaguely discus-shaped objects flying through the air are normally fatal, from what I've heard.

He swore he caught distant sight of you and your magnificent wings disappearing into a building, one surrounded by tall, sequential pillars with a squat triangle of a roof balanced up top. There were numerous cracks and blemishes Zagreus could find as he got close; what seemed to be an average, marble temple, pristine and shining from a distance, revealed itself to be a discarded relic, one covered in moss and cracks from a time the prince didn't know.

But it was your relic. You proved as much when you walked through the open doors to find the prince of the underworld standing at your steps.

“Zagreus,” you breathed.

He stalked up the stairs, not stopping as you recoiled and backed up. You collided with the closed door behind you and stared at the prince. Your eyes shimmered and flickered like dancing flames as they flitted across his face.

“I don’t really know how to ask what I want to ask,” he admitted.

Your shoulders relaxed. His did, too.

“Unhelpful.”

“Wh—so are you.”

“Am I supposed to read your mind, prince?”

He huffed. “Okay, fine. I’ll just say it, then. I’ll be blunt and honest.”

“Then get on with it.”

“I will!”

“I’m waiting.”

“The coliseum,” he blurted, the courage to speak his mind finally pushing those words into the world. “What happened?”

Your expression changed, and your eyes grew cold. “Understand me well, Zagreus; that’s not something you want to explore.”

You slipped away from him. Zagreus followed, keeping pace with you easily as you walked around the ruinous temple for whatever reason. He really didn’t have a clue what you were getting up to, but you weren’t getting away from him.

“You said I could be blunt.”

“You decided you’d be blunt. I never told you to do anything.” Your tone held a certain strained tightness the prince had never heard from you before.

Zagreus grabbed your wrist and you whirled on him, eyes blazing, but did little else.

“I can’t get it out of my head, you know?” He gripped your arm tighter. “What Ares did.”

Your mouth twitched in a snarl before you tore yourself away from him. “Quiet, lest you say something foolish.”

Zagreus frowned. “Oh, now you’re ordering me to be quiet? Unfortunately that’s never worked for my father and it’s certainly not going to work for you.” You flinched. “Is it so impossible to think I’m worried for you?”

Finally, that stony, grim expression of yours softened ever so slightly. Your brows furrowed when you looked aside, avoiding the persistent stare of the godling before you. Zagreus found himself endeared to it; perhaps finding the look of guilt on you to be lovely was strange, but he’d never seen a softer version of yourself. He wanted to pull more expressions from you, ones that were not so sad.

“I have difficulties trusting in others. Gods, especially.” You glanced his way, and Zagreus stepped towards you again. “Forgive me, Zagreus.”

“Consider yourself forgiven.” He spared a smile. “And—well, maybe it’s too brazen to ask you to explain what happened. You’ve already said you have a complicated relationship with the gods, yet…”

You shook your head. “It’s fine. Understandable, even. I’d ask questions, too.” You sat yourself down in the grass and leaned against the building. Zagreus followed suit, shyly letting his shoulder press against yours. His chest tightened when you leaned into him.

“Ares wanted me to die in battle,” you explained. “Thanatos wanted me to die peacefully. I was vexed with them both, and so asked Hermes to escort me to the underworld in exchange for a favour.”

“Wait—upset with Than?” He echoed, and you nodded. It did nothing to quell his disbelief. “Ares I can believe, but—well, I guess Than can be…Than.”

You hummed. “I was young. I was bitter and angry, and far too willing to pin blame on anyone but myself.” Your eyes fell closed as you rested your head back against the cool stone. “I wanted to ruin everything, and everyone. I didn’t care to think about who deserved it and who didn’t.”

The prince watched you, waiting for you to crack a smile, but you didn’t.

“I can’t imagine you as that person,” he said.

“I was, Zagreus. I was. I still fear I am, sometimes.” You inhaled deeply and sighed, brows shifting before your eyes opened, and focused on a distant past. “I was overwhelmed by prophecies, by purpose, by—” you choked, “by misguided longing, perhaps?”

The prince’s teeth clenched. His muscles tensed as a seed of something dark and broken embedded in his chest. You were the only one who could remove it from him, just as you were the only one who could make it flourish and grow into something that ought not exist. Zagreus hoped you’d leave it be, yet, at the same time, he needed to know just as much as that seed wanted to grow.

And you answered him after a long, empty silence: “I adored Ares.”

The muscles in your jaw tensed after your hushed truth darkened the air. Grief filled your eyes, but never did it fall, never did you allow that, too, to become real.

“But I was a fool. Mortals don’t get to pick gods—it’s gods who get to pick mortals.” You laughed. “I thought I was chosen when he brought me back to life, but I was wrong. His affections only led me further astray until I learned to hate him instead.” You plucked at the dull feathers of your wing, the one not pinned between yourself and Zagreus. “Still, I’ll never know if he wanted me in truth. Maybe that’s why I thought to provoke him with courage and bloodshed where he could see me—here,” you sighed, “in Elysium.”

“Do you still love him?” The question came out as a whisper, yet earned your attention as though Zagreus roared in your ear.

“I try to not dwell on it, Zagreus.” He liked when you said his name. “His willingness to show himself to me in such a way gives me much to think about, but think about it further I will not; there’s nothing left but history and tragedy, and I don’t foresee anything changing that.”

“Why would he do that to you, to someone he—” No, he wouldn’t say it, he wouldn’t grant such damnable words any more presence in your Elysium. They were wrong. They were inconceivable; no one should claim to love you then tear you to pieces. Zagreus knew that special sort of hurt too well. “I could never imagine doing that to y—uh—” His heart cowered and reeled back words. “To—to someone I care for.”

When his eyes met yours again, his face warmed. You had on a look, another that he’d never seen on you before; you looked younger, like a green romantic being charmed for the very first time. Zagreus regretted pulling those words back from his mouth. He should have just spoken his mind.

“I know well that you’d never do such a thing to a loved one, Zagreus.” You looked away from him, mellowing as you watched the effervescent leaves of Elysium sway and bristle with the breeze. “Life would have been worth living if I’d been fated to love you instead.”

“Oh.” Zagreus quietly exploded into restless fidgetiness—shifting his legs, looking at you and everywhere but you, reaching to touch you but retracting it at the last second—while you looked on, unbothered by the roiling god beside you. Most others would throw him judgemental looks for his twitchiness, but you were not like most others. Such a thought made his heart drift out of reach. “Really?”

“Really,” you said. “It’s a miracle, given your upbringing, but you’ve grown into something great.”

“Like a fig tree?” He wondered.

You snorted. “Sure. Like a fig tree.”

“That must mean I’m sweet, too.”

“Trees aren’t sweet. It’s the fruit that’s sweet.”

“Ah, there you go correcting my metaphors,” he teased. “Are you secretly supposed to be my tutor? Is that why Father hired you? To try and work some class into me?”

“I just can’t stand bad prose, I think.”

“Ouch.”

You chuckled and let a moment of quiet pass before adding, “You are sweet, however. It’s a pleasant surprise.”

“Really? A surprise?” He leaned over, trying to catch your attention. You had a horrible habit of not looking at him when complimenting him. “Have I surprised you in other ways?”

You did a quick double take before your attention stayed with him. “Yes,” you said, “but that’s something for a different day. I’ve spoiled you enough, I think.”

“Hardly. I’ve barely ever been spoiled, you know? I could use some—”

“Don’t push your luck.” You stood and offered him a hand. He took it, clasping his palm with yours rather than grabbing your forearm, and you pulled him up. “You’re teetering between ‘sweet’ and ‘brat,’ little god.”

“Little? I’m not—” You were, indeed, taller than him. Just by a bit, but that bit counted. “---I’m not little. Why does everyone think I’m little?”

“You’re tall by human standards, don’t fret.” You patted his shoulder reassuringly, then reached up to brush your hand against the peaks of his spiky hair. “This gives you more height, besides.”

Zagreus huffed. “I’ll make sure to add my hair to my final height.”

“Tsch. Brat.” You peered behind him, spying Aegis leaning against the wall. “I won’t keep you, if we’ve cleared things up.”

The prince thought he heard your voice dip. Maybe he just imagined it, maybe he just wanted to think you wanted him to stay a while longer. Yes, that must have been it.

“I can stay,” he said, and your wings rustled. “I wanted to spend some time with you, anyway. I hope that’s not strange.”

“It’s a bit strange,” you said, nonchalant, “but your company is always welcomed, little god. Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two about herbs and plants, for Persephone’s sake.”

Zagreus beamed. “Please. I want to learn what I can.”

You nodded. “Come, then. There’s much to do.”

For once, the song of a bell didn't precede Thanatos’ arrival. It seemed a bit bothersome to put on such a show in the house of Hades, especially in the sealed garden that you overlooked. As the god of peaceful deaths, he loathed the idea of disturbing the peace.

Your own peace resided in the wilderness, amongst trees and greenery, flowers and herbs alike. It seemed right to Death, even if he didn't much care for the surface's forests himself. Hades chose the right person to tend to Persephone's paradise, Thanatos thought.

He found you in the far-off corner, kneeling by one of the many flower beds, doing…something, probably. Thanatos had not a clue about what your tasks actually entailed.

“(Name),” he called as he wandered to you. You looked over your shoulder and blinked owlishly at him. “Could you spare a moment to talk?”

“Here?” You looked around as you stood. “Does Lord Hades permit this?”

Thanatos nodded. “I would not do something like this without his knowing. Besides, helping Zagreus fend off his father's forces is the extent of my rebellious capability.”

You showed a bit of a smile, and Thanatos gripped his scythe a little tighter. “Lord Death is helping the rebel prince, is he? What a twist.”

Thanatos sighed. “I don't—it's not as though I wanted to, I just—”

“You couldn't let him do it alone. I know.”

You looked back at the garden, and the god stared at your profile for far too long. The silence felt comfortable. He almost didn't want to disturb the moment.

“I'm assuming you're willing to talk about the past,” he said, immediately regretting the words. “Considering you're bringing it up first.” He regretted that, too.

You threw him an unimpressed look, and Thanatos fought the urge to poof away. “You've always been hellishly awkward, too. Like an anti-social rabbit.”

“What—”

“I'm willing to talk. I agreed to it,” you said. “I'll follow through.”

Thanatos nodded. “Good.” He adjusted his hold on his weapon again as he thought; the god wasn't sure he'd get that far with you, truth be told. You were flighty and unpredictable in good and bad ways, and Thanatos wasn't so sure you'd grown out of your raucous explosiveness—the little stunt through the gate hinted at a no, but the fact you were willing to talk at all afterwards Meant something.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” you said when Thanatos fell mute. “I don't know what would have happened if you and Zagreus hadn't shown up at the coliseum.”

Thanatos blinked, unease suddenly swept away. “You're welcome. I didn't want to let you down again.” He cringed a little. “Since it…seems I let you down when you were living.”

You sat on the stone wall bordering the garden. “You didn't let me down.”

Carefully, Thanatos tried his luck and came to sit by your side. You didn't seem to mind. “That's somewhat difficult to believe.” He watched you brush a hand through your hair with a deep sigh. It wasn't tied back for once. It hung loosely, just barely brushing the tops of your shoulders. You never really wore your hair down, he remembered, not unless you were in bed.

“I know. But I hope you'll believe it, hearing it from me,” you said. “You were easy to blame for my misfortunes. I'm sorry for burdening you so.”

Thanatos, again, took in the side of your face, golden eyes tracing the lines and creases left there by time. “There's no need. I never begrudged you; I was only…confused.”

“Confused as to why I pulled you into bed just as quickly as I kicked you out and cursed your name?” You wondered.

Thanatos huffed, unable to stop the slight smile threatening his stern demeanor. “More or less.”

“Well, I'm at a loss too, I'm afraid. But I suppose I was a bit wary of harbouring feelings for another god. It didn't bode well for me.”

“You harboured feelings for Ares?” Thanatos blurted. His throat ached with acid and ice, suddenly.

“I did.” You met his eyes, guarded, yet tragically honest. “I, ah…I thought you'd stop coming if I didn't appeal to your ego.”

“My ego?”

You nodded. He saw the muscles in your jaw flex with your clenching teeth before you relaxed enough to speak again. “Gods don't share. I am far too acquainted with the repercussions of doing so.”

“I told you,” Thanatos said, heated, “Chthonic gods are not the Olympians. Why can't you grasp that?”

“Shut up,” you scoffed. “I understand it well enough now, god; back then, I'd not a damn clue there was such a difference between your kind.”

“I must have told you before you died. There's no reason I wouldn't have if you were always this misguided.”

“Hah. Seems I’m not the only one that was young and stupid, O’ Death.”

Thanatos leaned towards you. “You test my patience, (Name).”

You leaned toward him in turn. “You've never stopped testing mine, Thanatos.”

The space between you was easy to close, yet Death didn’t trust the voyage would go smoothly; the emptiness was dense and unyielding, threatening to drown him if he tried his luck.

“Do you still want Ares?” Thanatos instead murmured.

“Part of me does,” you said, “but I'm not so young and stupid now. He's not here, besides.”

“I'm here.”

Your expression did something strange as you leaned into him, braving the rift without hesitation to rest your forehead against his un-armoured shoulder. You sighed against him, the warmth of your breath sending prickles across his skin. “I know.”

Thanatos stayed as still as he could, half out of not knowing what to do, half out of fear of scaring you away somehow. “Then, I—is it enough? Is it possible to do this right?”

“I believe so.” You picked your head off his shoulder, and the god held his breath. “But I'll be honest with you; I'm growing fond of Zagreus, too, I think.”

Thanatos’ brows shot up. “Of Zagreus? Really?”

You nodded. “That surprises you?”

“It does,” he admitted. “Considering the temperaments of the gods you've accompanied.”

“Ah. That’s fair enough. He's different from you and Ares.” You paused for a moment. “Are you and the prince still at odds?”

Thanatos huffed and shifted, turning to look at the other side of the garden with a grouchy frown. “He's stupid and selfish, leaving like this, trying to find someone who abandoned him when his family is here. What more does he possibly need?”

“The truth,” you said. Simple. Easy. Like a godly creature should have known that already. “You’re not so burdened, being golden-blooded. That human curiosity doesn't plague you the same way it eats us alive, pushing us to do the unthinkable, the regrettable. But know we cannot help it.”

Like in the past, Thanatos felt out of his depth with you. You were mortal, only a demigod, yet you spoke with such primordial authority. Your glowing gaze would grow distant, like you were listening to whispers Thanatos could not hear, and your voice would turn sonorous, beautiful like a siren of the cosmos. Maybe the accursed dark star left a mark on your very soul.

“No one escapes from Hades,” Than said. “But you believe he'll keep trying, even though he's doomed to fail?”

“Gods are stubborn in their ideals, but humans are stubborn towards their desires—both fuel him as of now.” You smiled. “He'll keep trying till he succeeds.”

“You approve of this,” Thanatos accused.

You sighed. “Yes, now leave it be. I didn't mention him to argue about his doings.” You stretched, and Thanatos’ mood almost got better watching the flex of your hard-earned muscles.

“If you want both Zagreus and I, you can have both. Just don't expect him and I to get along with how things currently are.”

“I’ll still hope you come to an agreement soon,” you sighed, rolling your shoulders post-stretch. “For my own enjoyment, naturally.”

Thanatos didn’t dwell on those words for too long. “Tsch. Prepare to be disappointed.”

“I’ve told you before,” you said, smiling in a way that made Thanatos’ heart spin, “you’ve never disappointed me.”