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“Well, that’s it!” says Hypnos.
Thanatos drops the last shade off into Charon’s boat and stares at him incredulously. “That’s it?”
“Yep, done for the day,” Hypnos replies, waving goodbye to Charon who responds with a low groan that echoes down Tartarus’ narrow corridors. “Wow, it really is a lot easier when we’re all working together!”
“For the day?” Thanatos repeats. That can’t be right – he’d expected a lighter workload, sure, now that Demeter’s eternal winter has ended, but the mortals are still fighting a war, after all. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh,” Hypnos says, yawning as he flips through his notebook. “See? We’ve finished today’s list, and it’s the last list in the list of lists too.” He’s drifting slightly; floating slowly up and down in a rocking rhythm, a sure sign that Hypnos’ short span of wakefulness is coming to an end soon.
Thanatos feels himself frown in disbelief. It’s true: when he focuses, there’s none of the nagging at the back of his mind that normally indicates the presence of souls in the mortal world waiting to be collected. He can hear the low rush of the ever-running River Styx and the giggling of some nearby shades, but in his mind it’s incredibly quiet.
How disconcerting.
“I…guess we are done,” he says. “You did well today.” Hypnos beams at him, eyelids already drooping. Thanatos nods at him and takes his leave, heading towards –
Towards where? He rematerialises, caught off guard suddenly by the thought that he doesn’t really have anywhere to be. He looks around – he’s ended up in Zagreus’ room of all places, subconsciously, and he feels himself flush slightly in embarrassment. Well, no one’s around to see it, at least.
For a moment he stands there aimlessly. When was the last time he had spare time like this, with no duties waiting for him, no lingering presence of mortal souls calling him? Probably before the war, maybe even before the eternal winter, back when his job was only to collect certain souls – ones that held the particular interest of an Olympian – instead of having to pick up half of Hermes’ tasks just so they could deal with the sheer number of incoming mortals. He takes breaks, sure, but even then there’s normally the simmering rush of work that needed to be done.
There’s none of that now. The room is shockingly still and silent without Zagreus: Thanatos finds himself pacing. He stares into the looming darkness of Mother Nyx’s mirror and then turns to curiously examine a table of board games that’s recently been set up near the bed. All two-player games. He spends some time trying to decipher the nonsensical rules before giving up.
Ugh, enough pacing in Zagreus’ room like Cerberus. He shifts into the lounge, ignoring the way his sudden appearance makes the shades around him jump and Megaera choke on a mouthful of nectar.
Gods, what do the Olympians do with all their time?
“Don’t ask me,” Megaera says. “My job is torture. Eternal torture.” She refills her nectar cup with a distasteful glance and goes back to her conversation with the Gorgon maid.
Thanatos sighs, feeling restless, and looks for Zagreus. Zag is always easy to spot among the shades of the Underworld – fiery, inhuman, and shimmering with violence, and – he’s wearing the pierced butterfly Thanatos gave him. The realisation makes warmth bloom unbidden in his chest. If he had a heart, maybe it would skip a beat.
Lord Hades’ shouting echoes through the House: the Lernaean bone hydra is sulking in the Great Hall again. Thanatos hides his smile under his hand and checks Zagreus’ location again.
Elysium. Not the worst place to spend his break, he supposes.
***
He announces his presence with the chime of bells. It’s not something he does when collecting mortals, really, but he’s the God of Death: he’s allowed to be dramatic sometimes. Besides, Zagreus seems to like it for some reason – he perks up and smiles whenever he hears it, no matter how injured he is. “Than,” he greets, bloodstones notched into his bow.
“I was in the area,” Thanatos says, brandishing his scythe as the Exalted begin to approach. Zagreus looks amused at that for some reason – he doesn’t comment, though, instead taking aim at the nearest Brightsword.
Thanatos doesn’t particularly enjoy dealing with the Exalted. The Bloodless are mindless and the Wretched are violent, but the Exalted move with a certain vicious savagery: reminiscent of the mortal lives they once led, he supposes. Thanatos is the god of Death, but unlike Lord Ares, death and destruction hold no real appeal to him. There is no glory in death: it’s simply part of the mortal cycle. Nor is there glory in killing, which is simply part of mortal life. The Exalted, on the other hand, thirst for the kill, and even derive some masochistic enjoyment in their own deaths. It all reminds Thanatos of how cruel mortals can be – not that he’s likely to forget that anytime soon, though.
Sometimes he still feels the phantom touch of cold chains weighing him down. He brushes the thoughts away before they can rise.
Zagreus is, as always, fast and reckless, though the bow at least lets him attack from a distance. Once the Exalted are gone, Thanatos summons a Centaur heart and blinks in surprise when Zagreus doesn’t reach out for it, instead tilting his head.
“How about a kiss for good luck instead?” Zagreus says with a cheerful smile.
Thanatos smiles, exasperatedly fond. “Just take the Centaur heart already.”
Zagreus pretends to pout as he takes the heart. The expression makes Thanatos’ chest twist with – with feelings, and before he can overthink it, he leans down and kisses Zagreus’ cheek. When he pulls back, Zagreus is grinning up at him, and Thanatos’ face heats up. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t even have blood. “Good luck,” he says as Zagreus heads towards one of Elysium’s golden doors.
“I’ll see you at home,” Zagreus says softly. He summons his bow to hand just before the door slides closed.
Thanatos makes several short jumps across Elysium’s glowing fields as he tries to force his smile away. Compared to eternity, he and Zagreus haven’t been – together – for that long, but the novelty certainly should have worn off by now.
Should have. It feels like his chest is full of soul butterflies.
***
In the end, he settles on a hill overlooking a shady glade at the heart of Elysium. It’s relatively empty with only a few shades drifting about on the Lethe’s riverbanks, and the river itself is calm. Thanatos watches schools of charp in their eternal swim against the current and idly tracks Zagreus’ progress through the Underworld.
In Elysium night reigns eternal, yet the fields themselves seem to glow softly, perhaps reflecting the pillars of green flame adorning each glimmering chamber. The softly glowing river Lethe flows as if alive – it moves aimlessly like drifting clouds, as inviting as it is perilous. Thanatos watches as a lone shade approaches the riverbank. This one is built like a warrior, dressed like the Forgotten Hero who taught Zagreus to fight. A myrmidon as well, then? He seems familiar somehow, but his hood obscures his face.
Thanatos is snapped out of his thoughts when the shade steps into the river.
He drifts closer, interest piqued. Is the shade after a drink, perhaps? Many fall for the lure of forgetfulness and rebirth. It’s not a choice Thanatos would ever understand – mortal lives are so short and fragile. But the shade simply stands there, shin-deep in the airy waters, before reaching down and picking something out of the water. It’s a large, flat container, sturdy-looking but clearly mortal-made, with river chelp hanging off the sides. The shade carries the container onto the riverbank. Thanatos summons his scythe and floats down to investigate: the shade looks up at his approach, hood falling from his face, and Thanatos blinks at the jolt of recognition.
“Master Death,” the fallen warrior Patroclus greets.
Thanatos inclines his head slightly. “You remember me.”
Patroclus lets out a low, humorless laugh as he sets his container down. This close, it’s clear the container is more of a tray, and inside sits…rows of iridescent purple chlams, Thanatos realises. “If you’ll forgive my saying, you…are not an easy sight to forget.”
“I suppose.” It’s true that his scythe is a foreboding sight to most mortals, and often the first thing they see after the shock of death. Despite that, most shades are happy to leave him once he’s delivered them to their eternal rest. “What is it you have there?” he says, waving a hand at the chlams. As far as he knows, shades no longer hunger – although some seem to cling to the memory of eating, if the Head Chef is anything to go by.
“Oh.” Patroclus picks up a chlam, shaking some of the water off its shell. With his other hand, he reaches for his belt and brings out a short, blunt knife. Thanatos watches curiously as Patroclus pries the chlam’s shell open. “Nowadays I find that if I am not with my love, enjoying his company, I am sitting and waiting for him to return to me. It is quite the dull existence, I find,” he says. He reaches into the clam and pulls something out – something small. He holds the object towards Thanatos, who takes it hesitantly. It’s small and round, like a smooth pebble, with a white lustre: less opaque than gemstones, but shiny like the surface of a Centaur heart.
He rolls it between his fingers. “What is it?” He hands the object back to Patroclus.
“A chlam pearl,” Patroclus replies. “The shades here enjoy them, and few dare to venture into the Lethe, so they maintain their value. Fewer still know how to cultivate them, but…well, my Achilles knows much of the sea.”
So this man is Achilles’ shade; the one he leaves his post to visit, reunited by Zagreus in another one of his projects. “You’re…selling them?”
Patroclus smiles wryly and shakes his head. “What use have I for material keepsakes? And how arrogant it would be for me to put a price on goods in paradise. No, they are gifts, to whichever shade may want one.”
Thanatos raises his eyebrows. From what he has observed, this is atypical behaviour for a mortal. He looks over the rolling white waves of the Lethe. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous, for you?”
“The forgetfulness, you mean?” Patroclus too turns his gaze towards the water, almost wistfully. “The river is just a river. This is paradise, hm? Nothing here is malicious. I do not feed it, and it leaves me be.”
How cryptic, Thanatos thinks to himself. But he lets it go – he’s long accepted that there are things, particularly about mortals, that he’ll never understand. Besides, his time is running out, and in the mortal world, so is someone else’s. Already he can feel the stirring of souls in the mortal world, like a building hum at the back of his skull. “I see,” he says neutrally, even though he really doesn’t. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Goodbye, Master Death,” Patroclus says and picks up his container of chlams. Thanatos doesn’t let himself linger: lets himself dissolve and feels the pull of death bring him into the mortal world.
An odd shade, he muses as he leaves. He’d seemed – not sad, but subdued. Alone but too content to be lonely.
Shades farming chlam pearls in the River Lethe. Mortals would never cease to surprise him.
***
Hypnos has been growing lately. Not physically – that has all passed long ago for them – but more focused. He dozes off less, which is not to say he never naps anymore, but, well. All gods have domain: many mortals mistakenly assume that all gods rule over their respective domains. That Ares creates war, that Aphrodite plants the seedlings of love, that Athena grants knowledge to those she favours. But while the Olympians can influence their mortals through their blessings, it’s less about dominating your domain and more a perfect coexistence. Thanatos is as much a part of Death as Death is part of him; Ares and War spur each other on; all Love is, in itself, Aphrodite manifested; Athena begets Wisdom which in turn illuminates her own sight.
Hypnos had seemed to struggle – Sleep would control him, taking him at its own whims, and Thanatos had run out of ideas and had been on the verge giving up. He had given up, he thinks, a little shamefully: he’d thought himself so busy that he couldn’t afford any time for Hypnos, and after Sisyphus he’d withdrawn out of humiliation, isolating himself from everyone except Megaera. And then he’d never bothered to bridge the chasm until – Zagreus and the Queen and all the Olympians, and at the middle of it all, Hypnos’ easy forgiveness. It isn’t okay, because he hardly deserves it, but it also is, because he vows to himself that he’ll never let himself run from his brother like that again. Hypnos is more in tune with Sleep with every passing day and it shows in his easy confidence as he ticks shades off one of his many lists.
“I can’t remember the last time the three of us were working together,” he’s saying, happily chatting as another whimpering shade boards Charon’s boat, nervously eyeing their oldest brother. “Oh, do you think we should get a portrait done? Like the Erinyes? We can hang it in the West Hall!”
Charon groans approvingly.
“Or we could get a whole family portrait done!” One of the shades lingers, cowering fearfully: Thanatos pushes them onto the boat. “Actually, maybe without Eris. And Atropos. And…maybe not, actually. Just us three, and we can put it up next to Mother Nyx! Or you know, the painting with Cerberus –“
Thanatos barely holds back a wince. “Ugh, I don’t know where Zag dug that one out of. Forget you ever saw it.”
“Aw, I don’t think it’s that bad! Charon thinks so too, right? He does!” Hypnos flips the page of his notebook. “Wow, you’re the last one,” he tells the shade at the back of the line. “Lucky last! But not really, because you’re dead.”
Purple smoke leaks from under Charon’s hat. Really, his brothers don’t have a single shred of professionalism sometimes. But – grudgingly, Thanatos has to agree with Hypnos. Not about the portrait. Spending time with his brothers, even if it’s just for work…is nice. Occasionally.
Thanatos grows used to his new routine. He brings death to mortals as his sisters decree, he helps Hypnos, Charon, and sometimes Hermes manage the constant inflow of shades, and stops by to share a drink with Meg when they’re both in the House.
Then in his spare time he helps Zagreus inflict property damage on Lord Hades’ domain.
This must be what the mortals call ‘dates’, Thanatos thinks, as he brings death swiftly onto a bone raker. He’s beginning to understand the appeal.
Zagreus summons him, too – bringing a Death Sentence down on King Theseus as always as satisfying as the first time. Sometimes he materialises to find himself staring down Lord Hades of all people (really, Zagreus?) and he almost hesitates, but – it’s different than from before. The air at the Underworld’s entrance is cold and the ground is frozen, but Zagreus has a fierce, excited grin, and Lord Hades is less distant every time. He looks his son in the eye, calls him by his name. Sometimes they even have a civil conversation, just…while trying to kill each other.
All this time, and they’ve finally found something they both enjoy. The God of the Dead and the Prince of the Underworld: the concept of dying isn’t the same to them as it is for everyone else.
Thanatos sighs and raises his scythe against the Lord Hades.
He also visits Achilles’ shade again. He doesn’t mean to, the first few times – not really. He wanders the Underworld’s domain aimlessly, but somehow, he finds himself drifting towards Elysium, and that shade-covered grove on the Lethe’s riverbanks. Part of it is inevitable; there are few isolated places in Elysium, with most of its shades gravitating towards watching the Champion’s fights or occupying the residential districts – Thanatos prefers solitude, and shades rarely give it when they realise the god of Death is among them.
Patroclus, on the other hand –
“Hello again, Master Death.” He’s sitting on the riverbank, with his knife slotted into the shell of a chlam: not opening it, just prying it apart, very slightly. With his other hand, he holds – something small enough that Thanatos can’t quite make out what it is, in his fingers, and he inserts it into the chlam before letting the shell snap closed.
Thanatos blinks. “Ah, hello.”
Well, the point is, there are few places within the Underworld that Thanatos can go without being recognised. Fewer still on the mortal plane. But his identity seems to be of little importance to Patroclus. There is none of the hasty avoidance of the other Underworld servants, or the stuttered glances from shades. He is a fellow man of solitude, content with little conversation and Thanatos’ company.
On the third visit, after a lengthy silence where Thanatos watches the Lethe while Patroclus works, he asks, “This – my presence here, it doesn’t…bother you?”
Patroclus smiles at him, in that barely-there way that looks more amused than genuinely joyful. “No, it doesn’t bother me. You are – compared to some shades here, you are a considerate guest. If you’d like to watch, you’re free to do so.”
All Chthonic gods enjoy routine. It keeps them sane; though those with less discipline – the Olympians – instead choose to play with the lives and loves of mortals to keep themselves entertained. But here, in the ever-running House of Hades, Thanatos doesn’t have that luxury – too many things need to be done, and too many mortals need to be looked after. But this – spending time relaxing – is new to him.
“You’re making a friend,” Zagreus says one day, delighted. They’re on the recliner in his room: Thanatos has his head in Zagreus’ lap, because Zagreus likes to run his fingers through the short cropped undercut of Thanatos’ hair. Every brush of Zagreus’ fingers at his scalp sends small shivers down his spine. “Should I be proud, or jealous?”
“I have plenty of friends,” Thanatos says, aiming for indignant, but too comfortable to really mean it. “I – I spend time in the House. And with you. I talk to Hypnos –“
“Name one person you talk to who’s not related to you. Other than Meg and me.”
Thanatos opens his mouth to reply, but his words are swept away when Zagreus begins to lightly trace circles down the side of Thanatos’ neck. Whatever expression must show on his face makes Zagreus laugh: disgruntled, Thanatos pushes himself up onto his elbows and shuts him up with a kiss. When they part, Zagreus is smiling, still, green eye lighting up with mischief, and Thanatos can’t manage to hold on to any irritation when he’s looking at that expression. He feels like he’s drunk on lazy happiness – the feeling which must spur Dionysus and his Bacchae in their eternal cheer. It’s running through his veins, carving a smile onto his face, bringing him ever-circling into Zagreus’ arms: Thanatos kisses the corner of Zagreus’ mouth and feels the softening of his smile.
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” Thanatos warns, sitting up a little more so he can mouth at Zagreus’ throat. He feels more than hears Zagreus’ hum of acknowledgement: feels the hand that cups the back of his head.
Feels the warmth of it, the rushing of blood in Zagreus’ neck; he lets himself go and loses himself into the heat.
***
“I hear you’ve often been in Elysium as of late.”
Thanatos looks up from where he’s been enjoying a cup of nectar (from Zagreus, again, though who knows where he keeps getting the stuff): the Exalted Hero himself has approached. Thanatos did expect that this conversation would eventually happen, so he waves his hand at one of the chairs that Zagreus has recently decided to install. Achilles takes a seat.
“Don’t worry,” Thanatos says. “He’s already dead. There’s nothing I can do to him.”
They both know that it’s not exactly true – Thanatos’ competitions with Zagreus are an open secret in the House –nonetheless, Achilles smiles gracefully and dips his head in deference.
“Master Thanatos, I didn’t mean to imply that you had any untoward intentions, or the sort,” Achilles says. Thanatos doubts that, but he appreciates the gesture. Achilles’ demeanor has always been surprisingly gentle – the product of years in the House and Zagreus’ influence, probably. Many mortals lose their sharp edges once they grow accustomed to the Underworld. “I was simply –“ Achilles hesitates. “Lord Hades bid me tutelage of Zagreus, but I like to think that extends to the rest of the House, sometimes. So –if there is anything on your mind, know that I am here – I know the advice of a mortal may not always be prudent, but even the act of sharing the burden over nectar tends to lighten the load, I find.”
“Achilles,” Thanatos says, perplexed, “are you…checking up on me?” The idea is absurd. Thanatos is not Zagreus, and he certainly doesn’t want for company the way some mortals do. Did Zagreus put his mentor up to this, maybe?
“I have known you as long as I’ve known Zagreus,” Achilles says, looking fondly amused. “We mortals can be quite sentimental.”
“I…see.” Thanatos carefully keeps his hands still. He is the god of Death – he will not fidget in front of a shade.
Achilles laughs softly. “I don’t think you do, no,” he says, and Thanatos looks down, embarrassed – is he truly so transparent? – “but that’s okay. Would you mind if I sat here with you, for a time?”
Nothing about this visit has gone the way Thanatos expected. “Go ahead. I…can’t promise I’ll be a particularly good conversationalist, though.”
“That’s alright, lad,” Achilles says, and seems content to sit and gaze at the rushing River Styx.
The Forgotten Hero and his shade are incredibly confusing. Sometimes Thanatos misses not knowing: back when shades were just shades and not mortals who cling onto the hopes and dreams and idle habits they had when they were living. Sometimes he also misses not feeling – but. Mostly he doesn’t.
***
“You and the Forgotten Hero are close, aren’t you?” Thanatos asks Megaera. They’re in the Queen’s garden: Megaera has a leg propped up on one of the railings, leaning forward and stretching in her newly revived body.
“Not at all,” she replies, even though Thanatos had seen them sharing a drink together not an hour ago.
“Well, we’ve been, ah…talking, recently.” Talking perhaps isn’t really the word for it, because they don’t really talk at all – mostly they just sit in silence and watch the blood-covered river together until one of them takes their leave. At least Zagreus will be happy all the furniture he’s placed at the end of the hall are finally getting their use.
Meg scoffs and changes legs. “You mean he’s been trying to sneakily show concern about your wellbeing? I know the feeling. You’ll get used to it.”
Thanatos eyes Megaera quietly. She’s unusually curt today: there’s a furrow in her brow and she seems tense – frustrated, almost. A loss to Zagreus hasn’t affected her this much for a long time. Thanatos turns to look over the pomegranate trees in the garden, watching as they sway to some invisible wind. “You seem irritated,” he says, taking care to keep his tone neutral.
Megaera sighs, seeming to sag a little when she does so. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, Than. Just Zag, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong again.” Her piercing gaze turns to him. “You’re handling this rather well, though.”
Despite their discussion about Orpheus and Eurydice, it doesn’t surprise Thanatos that Zagreus is still meddling with contracts. So far the results have been mostly productive, though. He raises an eyebrow. “Handling what?”
“Zagreus lifting the knave-king’s sentence,” Megaera says, and Thanatos almost drops his scythe in shock.
“He did what?” That…doesn’t make sense. Zagreus shouldn’t even know Sisyphus exists, unless –
“Oh,” Megaera says, realisation dawning on her expression. “Oh, Zag is an idiot.”
***
Thanatos meets thousands of shades every day: likely millions of souls have passed under his gaze. Most of them are forgotten to him as time erodes his memories.
King Sisyphus is not one of those souls.
Even now, so many years later, Thanatos still feels humiliation wash over him every time he thinks back. He’d been naïve and thoughtless, and had paid for it. He’d learned a great many things that day – the sensation of being trapped, the feeling of being separated from Death, and above all: the Underworld is not the darkest place there is. There are far, far darker, and mortals are cruel.
He never makes the same mistake twice.
Meg hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving. She’d waved off his distracted apologies and excuses with an understanding look, and Thanatos will always be grateful to her for that and more. The knave-king has remained in Tartarus, and the audacity of such a display doesn’t escape Thanatos’ notice. Does he think himself untouchable, now that he has tricked the Prince with his lies? The arrogance – Thanatos will make sure to remind the wretched shade of his place.
He arrives with little fanfare, though inside he is burning with tight rage. The shades let out frightened gasps at his appearance: he ignores them all as he makes his way to the bottom of the hill.
“Knave-king,” he says coldly. Some lingering shades flinch at his tone, but Sisyphus doesn’t, which sends another bolt of white-hot anger running through him; Thanatos grits his teeth and tries to calm himself down.
“Master Thanatos,” Sisyphus greets. In all manners, he seems polite, but Thanatos has fallen for that before.
“I’ll give you one warning,” Thanatos says. “I don’t know what you’ve said to Zagreus, but that’s enough. You will stop lending him your assistance. You will stop talking to him. Am I being clear?”
“Of course,” the knave-king replies, and Thanatos does not need Athena’s wisdom to know he’s lying. That, at least, is expected: Sisyphus no doubt thinks himself above the wrath of gods, now.
Thanatos switches tactics.
Zagreus is in Asphodel; Thanatos watches from a distance, letting his anger simmer like the Phlegethon’s lava until he feels calm enough for a conversation. Seeing Zagreus’ smile goes a long way in lifting his mood, besides: he waits until Zagreus has taken the Centaur heart before clearing his throat slightly.
“You need to stop consorting with the knave-king,” Thanatos says. It’s best to be direct, he thinks.
Zagreus’ brow furrows, confused. “Sisyphus? Is this about his contract?”
“Yes,” Thanatos says, which is at least partly true, absentmindedly tracing up and down the handle of his scythe. “You can’t trust him, Zag.”
Zagreus taps Stygius on the ground twice, lightly, then dematerialises his sword and crosses his arms. “Look, I know he must have been – difficult, before,” he starts, looking vaguely irritated. “But c’mon, Than – he’s changed.”
Difficult? Frustration bubbles back up in Thanatos’ chest alarmingly fast, and he finds himself almost resenting Zagreus’ good, kind heart. He shouldn’t, he knows this – it is all the damned knave-king and his schemes. “Don’t be naïve,” Thanatos snaps, which is the wrong thing to say and he knows it: Zagreus’ expression darkens immediately and a scowl sets itself upon his face.
“You think this is me being naïve?” His tone is clipped. There’s a low undercurrent of danger in his voice, the one Thanatos hears when they’re fighting together, directed towards the mindless Wretched that plague him.
Thanatos exhales. The air here is so hot it’s searing. “You know that’s not what I meant. Look, I don’t know what Sisyphus has told you –“
“No, I think that’s exactly what it is,” Zagreus interrupts. He’s pacing a little now. “You don’t trust my – do you think I’m that easy to trick?” Hurt is winding its way into Zagreus’ expression, and the sight of it shocks the anger out of Thanatos’ veins.
“It’s not a matter of trust,” Thanatos says, a little desperately. It’s all coming out wrong; this is all spiraling out of his hands, and distantly he thinks he should have foreseen this – when was the last time anything happened like he expected? His emotions are a thick tangle in his throat as his mind tries to decipher Zagreus’ hurt accusation.
He trusts Zagreus, but the Prince wears his heart on his sleeve too much and too clearly. He greets the House’s staff even while he’s still shaking the blood of the Styx out of his hair. He smiles at Thanatos even when he bleeds all over the Underworld. He – he is –
“But it is! You don’t think I can make decisions for myself.” Zagreus’ mouth twists, pained. Thanatos has seen that expression before; it’s an echo of the sad, angry desperation his gaze always used to hold in front of his father.
Gods, I never wanted to be the one to make you look like that.
There are flowers of ice blooming in Thanatos’ chest: in the distance, the hissing of Gorgon heads pierces his ears.
Thanatos can’t think.
“Look, I – thank you for the heart,” Zagreus says.
“Zagreus,” Thanatos tries, uselessly.
Zagreus shakes his head. “I’ll see you at home. I,” he pauses at the boat: the bones of the raft rattle under his feet. For a moment, it’s like he wants to say something and Thanatos holds his breath – but he turns away.
Thanatos can’t bear to watch the boat drift. He shifts instead, with no destination in mind, letting his thoughts idle. He needs – he needs away from the oppressive heat of the lava, the shrieks of the Boneless – somewhere quiet.
He ends up in Elysium, because of course he does.
***
“I know that expression,” Patroclus says with a sardonic smile, prying open a chlam. Patroclus is not exactly – overtly friendly, or anything, but right now his aloofness feels like disapproval; it sends prickles of shame sparking down Thanatos’ spine. “Troubles with the Prince, I take it?”
Thanatos clenches his jaw. Of course Patroclus knows about him and Zagreus. Exalted hero Achilles and his star-crossed lover gossip like naiads, apparently.
Unthinkingly, he says, “does love always feel like this?” The question leaves a bitter aftertaste.
There is a small clay bowl of pearls on the ledge, beside where Patroclus sits. He drops another into the bowl; in his other hand, the chlam’s jaws snap shut with a click. “Like what, Master Death?”
Thanatos almost scoffs. Feelings are – he’s never been good at acknowledging his own emotions. “I feel so – out of control,” he replies vaguely.
Patroclus lets out one of his soft, low laughs. “Then, the answer is yes.” He picks up another chlam. This one is reluctant to give up its quarry: Patroclus coaxes it open with a twist of his knife. “Love makes fools of mortals. All great tales are built on it, are they not? The pursuit and the loss; lives are wasted and wars are fought over love.” Another pearl is added to the bowl. “I hear your own court musician gave himself to the Underworld, chasing after his muse.”
Thanatos thinks of the court musician: he seems so…passive, like a withered plant; nothing like the tales of a mortal who once stood in front of Lord Hades and the Queen and demanded his love back. “You mortals seem to chase after death a great deal for the sake of your ‘love’,” he says. “Your lives are so short, and yet…you’re so reckless with them.”
Patroclus raises his brow, amused. “Perhaps.” He wipes his knife on the glowing grass and picks up the bowl, holding each pearl up to examine them carefully. “But to have faith, to risk it all – it makes us feel alive. A useless notion to a god, perhaps.” He stops to look at Thanatos with an assessing gaze; Thanatos fights the urge to scowl. “Or maybe not.”
This is foolish. Mortals are foolish, all of them, them and their love stories, and yet, Thanatos cannot stop thinking about the way Zagreus had sounded so disappointed. But that is nothing when compared to everything else, the worst of which: Zagreus’ laugh. The way his smile slants to the left whenever he wins one of their competitions. The weight of his head on Thanatos’ shoulder. The warmth of his skin, the taste of nectar on his tongue; Zagreus pushing into him for the first time, forehead pressed into the curve of Thanatos’ neck.
Scattered, too: Hypnos cheering after a day of work. Megaera’s affectionate scoff. Mother Nyx, holding his hand.
How incredibly foolish love is; all this time, and Thanatos still doesn’t understand.
“I must return to my work,” Thanatos says finally, rising from his thoughts. This is not even a fabrication – he’s been quietly ignoring the hum of Death for a little while now. Patroclus hums in acknowledgement as Thanatos’ scythe manifests into his gauntleted hand, and he lingers, hovering. “I…appreciate your advice.”
“A moment,” Patroclus says, still holding the pearl-bowl. He carefully picks one up and holds it out. “A token, for keeping a lonely shade company.”
Thanatos’ first instinct is to refuse, but he catches himself before the words escape. He reaches out so Patroclus can drop it in his hand: the pearl is almost weightless in his palm. He closes his fist around it.
“Thank you,” Thanatos says.
“Gods and mortals alike; we are all cursed with love, it seems,” Patroclus says. There’s a smile on his face, though – a soft one, just a curl etched into the edge of his lip. It’s genuine.
***
Death and his duties take him to the surface. Thanatos pulls his hood up irritably and shades his eyes against the glare of Helios’ chariot which is blindingly high in the sky. He opens his hand: the pearl glints in the light when he lifts it up towards the sky. It’s imperfect; not quite round, and it doesn’t quite sparkle like the diamonds the House Contractor loves so much. On one side, there’s a small pit, like a scratch on its smooth face.
If he looks closely, hidden on its surface, there is the faint reflection of the mountain behind him and the ocean beneath him. Thanatos stores the pearl carefully in the folds of his himation.
Death is, more often than not, merciful: at times it brings peace. His work is mostly uneventful. By the time Helios and his chariot are sinking below the edge of the sea, Thanatos has reached his last destination – a small village nested in the valley of Mount Oeta.
Here he reaps the soul of a sleeping woman, easing the pain that carves deep lines onto her wrinkled face. The soul is old – weary, but kind, and it clings for a moment, reaching towards – there is another woman on the bed, Thanatos realises. The soul’s lover is breathing deep, spidery strands of white hair framing her face, and blissfully unaware to the presence of Death above her.
“You will see her again, soon, on the plains of Asphodel,” Thanatos tells the soul. He does it softly, as though the mortals here can hear him. The soul pulses in his hand and quiets. Thanatos shakes himself out of his reverie – he’s gotten distracted, wasting time talking to mortal souls instead of quickly sending them on their way. How unnecessarily sentimental he is now. Perhaps it is because he can afford to, now, with the ease in his workload. Or perhaps it is Zagreus’ influence: because everything comes back to Zagreus.
***
He shifts into Zagreus’ room.
In hindsight, he probably should’ve checked if it was empty first. As it is, Zagreus jumps a fair distance into the air when he arrives.
“Uh, guh-dong?” Zagreus says, nonsensically.
Thanatos brushes away his confusion. “I…think we should talk. Ugh, I mean – would you, are you – right now –“
“I talked to Meg,” Zagreus says abruptly.
“You…did?”
“Well, just a little.” Zagreus kicks at one of the massive weights on the floor. “I hadn’t – I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“I see,” Thanatos says. There’s not much he can say to that, mostly because he hadn’t known that Megaera had thought it was bad. Was it?
“Listen, I – I don’t like it when people try to control me. And I know you weren’t,” Zagreus adds hurriedly as Thanatos makes to interrupt. “You were just being concerned, about me, but I guess it felt – I assumed – blood and darkness.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Thanatos says quietly. He swallows. “And…you were right. I should have trusted you. I do.”
Zagreus smiles at him, just a bit, and takes his hand. Thanatos’ still heart rises at the touch. “I’m sorry too,” he says and leads him to the recliner: Thanatos follows, tethered by their interlocked fingers.
Zagreus takes some time to arrange Thanatos how he likes – they end up lying with Zagreus half on top of Thanatos so they don’t both fall off the narrow length. Zagreus places Thanatos’ arm on top of him; his other arm comes up naturally into an embrace, gauntlet set aside.
All of Thanatos’ exhaustion catches up to him, all at once, but with Zagreus tucked into his side, a tension he hadn’t even realised was there is lifted from his shoulders. The weight of Zagreus next to him keeps him anchored. For a while they lie there, content to breathe: Thanatos closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep. He wants to feel the warmth of Zagreus’ body for as long as he can.
Eventually, Zagreus says, “I want to believe he has changed. Maybe he hasn’t. I don’t know.”
Zagreus doesn’t seem to expect an answer, falling back into the easy silence. But Thanatos knows that the doubt in Zagreus’ tone is one that he put there, and the thought makes him uneasy, staring up at the dark ceiling. He wants to hear Zagreus’ easy confidence again, but he doesn’t know how; Thanatos has never been good at any of this. He presses his lips to Zagreus’ forehead. “Mortals have always found new ways of surprising me,” he murmurs. “Maybe this one will, too.”
Zagreus stills for a moment, then rises in a rush. Thanatos’ hands slip down to his waist as Zagreus pulls himself up so they’re eye to eye. Thanatos blinks in surprise: unexpectedly, Zagreus is smiling. He places his hand on Thanatos’ cheek (who tries not to lean into the touch too obviously), and the look in his eyes is affectionate; Thanatos averts his gaze.
“What is that ridiculous expression on your face,” he grumbles.
If possible, Zagreus’ smile gets even wider. “Well, just – I like you a lot, Than,” he says, bumping their noses together. There’s pink on his cheeks: Thanatos wants to see if he can feel the heat of the flush against his hand.
“Ridiculous,” Thanatos says again, just for good measure, and pulls him into a kiss.