Chapter Text
A rustling of leaves whispered in his ear. Shush, shush, shush. Perhaps the wind had finally found its way to the pomegranate trees in the garden. Perhaps Cerberus was rubbing his back against a trunk. Naughty boy. (Though not that naughty.)
Mel was listening to his story. Shush, shush, shush. Like an accompaniment. But he didn’t understand how the sound of leaves could reach them here; he’d already had the House Contractor install a door for his bedchambers. Not that he minded much himself—well, maybe a little—but Mel certainly needed it for sleeping. “You should consider getting Mel her own chambers,” he had told Father not long ago. “Or I’ll just have the Contractor start the work myself.” But perhaps, back then, everyone thought it was still too early. Mother was still getting her strength back, the court painter was still scouring the fields of Elysium for the perfect pigments, and he had a completely legitimate excuse for an official leave (not that he’d grown to hate his job, really, though Artemis’s last fit of temper did sting a bit.)—to stay with his little sister in his “gloriously cluttered” (not his words) chambers, staring with her at some ancient brown spot on the headboard. Staring? Mel might have seen a secret adventure map in it, but he certainly couldn’t. So, to keep Mel (and himself) from getting bored even without a map to study, he had stumbled through learning three songs he’d always been too lazy to practice, rehearsed two tedious battles on the entertainment table, and then, at a certain moment when the light seemed to be sinking westward (an illusion, or a metaphor), a flash of inspiration hit him. He scooped up his sister and ran to the training grounds, ignoring Skelly’s dramatic shouts, to introduce her to his six fuzzy little friends, one by one. Ah, that was more like it! He’d never considered himself much of a storyteller; providing song material for Orpheus was exhausting enough. But the stories of Battie and the others were recorded by Achilles, weren’t they? He only had to add a few things he’d seen himself—even if they were just fleeting glimpses, as shaky as a loose stone in Tartarus—and it would surely make a fine story for Mel.
But the reality was, he had embellished far more than he’d originally planned. Perhaps it was because Mel kept looking at him so earnestly, as if she wanted him to keep going forever (but shouldn’t babies—including baby deities—sleep more to grow properly?). Or perhaps it was because he realized he wasn’t quite willing to tell Mel the exact words in the fables, to say that Batty never flew to Elysium again, or that Rib no longer had those epic daydreams… It was then that he couldn’t help but turn back and meet Skelly’s gaze, but before he could get a word out, the skeleton beat him to it. “When are you getting back to work, boyo! My ribs are gathering dust!”
“Necessity of circumstance,” he had shrugged, almost apologetic. “Why don’t you take this chance for a little trip, Skelly? I’m sure Charon would understand.”
This time, Skelly didn’t immediately reject the suggestion. Perhaps realizing he truly would be idle for quite some time, the skeleton gave a solemn nod after a moment’s thought. “Well then, farewell for now, boyo… Commander Schelemeus shall set sail once more.” With that, he faded into a shimmer of light.
The dead certainly have their conveniences in the Underworld, he thought. Anyway, wasn’t that a good thing? So, Rib’s story ended with an unverifiable voyage; that little one who’d been once crushed by a boulder could help pull the sails at sea, and even if he accidentally fell into the water, he’d bob right back up with an air of triumph.
…Doesn’t sound like a bad story, does it, Mel? The baby’s eyes, curved into crescents, said everything.
Now, their protagonist was Antos, the brave and humble little ant. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how much self-reflection Achilles had poured into this fable, but those sorrows should… should surely be passing soon. He paused when he reached the part about Mother Night, imagining the way Nyx would slowly shake her head, and for a moment, he dearly wished they could share one more embrace. Shush, shush, shush. The leaves rustled loudly in his silence, like a summons or an omen. Perhaps wind, rain, and thunder—everything had miraculously visited the deepest reaches of the Underworld. Perhaps he should take Mel to the garden, and they might see whether it was dawn or dusk approaching.
But when a real crack of thunder came, it was entirely unexpected. He almost believed it was a hallucination—if not for his lyre vibrating softly, and Mel—Mel gave a distinct shudder in his arms. His little sister curled her tiny hands against her cheek, her eyes wide and bright, unblinking as she looked at him. But she didn’t cry, nor did she seem to show any sign of doing so. How brave you are… but you are afraid, aren’t you? Don’t be afraid.
“Don’t be afraid, now. Don’t be. Where were we? Right, Antos. Back then, Mother Night looked at him and shook her head sadly, and Antos felt terribly sad too, because he loved his mother, but he feared she might never love him the same way again—and if he kept being so afraid, maybe he’d turn and burrow back into the earth. But, see, Antos had learned a truth long ago, and he ran forward and gave Mother Night an apologetic embrace—though he could only reach her ankle, of course. Naturally, Mother Night forgave him; she smiled at him, but she was surprised too. ‘But why would you do that?’ she asked. And Antos, a bit proud but still very humble, said, ‘Because…’”
Fear is for the weak, he was about to say, when a massive shadow suddenly loomed over them, enveloping him, Mel, the lyre that had sounded a bit off-key, and the ancient bookshelf packed with odd bits and pieces.
It was Father.
“Zagreus.” Father said his name in that low, heavy tone. Whether it was a good sign or an ill one, he could not say.
“Father? How did you…” get in. He hadn’t heard a single footstep. But the God of the Dead certainly wasn’t limited to the clumsy plodding of feet. Then again, except for himself, he couldn’t think of anyone else in the House who was.
Father ignored his question. But perhaps not for the usual reasons… for when the Lord of the Underworld spoke again, he simply said, “Zagreus, take Melinoë and go. Now.”
Go. He wasn’t sure if he had foolishly repeated the word. Regardless, Father did explain in the next three sentences, his voice so deep and urgent it felt as though a single step beyond the door would plunge them into an abyss—perhaps it truly would.
For a moment, he had so much he wanted to say. That the family portrait wasn’t finished yet… that Dusa said she had a surprise for Mel and asked him to meet her in the Lounge when he had the time. He just wanted to talk, to keep talking, to chatter on and on until, perhaps, Father would glare at him, scolding him with the usual frustration. Then he could believe that this incident was merely another mishap, maybe a bit trickier than usual.
But he said nothing. And so, Father did not glare, did not scold. The crimson eyes of the God of the Dead, capable of intimidating any shade, held an unreadable emotion as they looked down at him from on high. Too high, and it felt distant, farther away even than the moon (though he had never seen her with his own eyes). Yet, his vision could only focus on those pools of intense red. Father’s eyes locked with his.
“You shall protect her,” his—their father said at last. It was not a question.
Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak.
“…Yes,” he said. “I shall.”
Shush, shush, shush. The rustling was so loud now. The thunder had long since faded into the unknown depths beyond the wall. Only the stubborn, annoying, eternal, shush, shush, shush.
Then go! Father’s palm shot forward with a desperate force—the power of the dead, the power of the dark. In the name of Hades, Lord of the Underworld, I grant you safe passage upward! Go!
He woke with a sharp, ragged intake of breath. His senses rushed back in. In the dim, murky light, he could just make out the uneven tassels hanging from the tent’s canopy, their muted green silhouette swaying like ghosts. The wool blanket prickled faintly against his throat, but that discomfort brought with it a sensation almost like warmth. From outside came the relentless rustle of leaves—shush, shush, shush—mingled with the heavy scent of damp earth. So, it was raining again at the Crossroads, he thought.
Then, a child’s voice spoke softly, “Are you awake? Zag.”
And that was the final pull he needed to fully escape the dream’s grasp. Zagreus rolled over to find his little sister leaning over the edge of the bed,, watching him intently. Her expression was a mix of hesitation and eagerness—she couldn’t quite hide either, though the eagerness was winning out. Times like this always meant she had something to say. And times like this, he was never quite sure if it was a dream that woke him, or if Mel had quietly, thinking herself stealthy and subtle, awakened him with a gentle poke or some soft, persistent noise. Either way, he would answer breezily, “I’m awake.”
She nodded, then just watched him in silence again. Ah, this seemed more serious than usual. He sat up briskly, clearing his throat. “Weren’t you busy with your alchemy? I thought you said you had some very interesting ‘moonlight cultivation’ experiment going on.”
“I have. Odysseus says the results are quite promising,” his sister answered shortly, clearly distracted. Her ghostly, pale-green left hand had begun plucking at the little pills on his blanket. Faint traces of aura swirled around her arm, drifting into hazy, shifting wisps—the brightest light in the dark tent.
“…What’s wrong, Mel?”
She continued fiddling with the blanket idly. “Earlier—before the rain started—Headmistress had me and Nemesis training together with swords.”
“Oh… Not practicing spells today?” A string inside him seemed to twang sharply. It wasn’t that the arrangement was unexpected—what was strange about it? The Witch of the Crossroads was a thorough mentor, after all. But Zagreus couldn’t help thinking how light a spell was, while blades were so cold and hard.
“Not practicing spells today.” Her hand gripped a small bunch of the blanket. “Headmistress said my swordplay wasn’t half bad.”
“Then—” Why the long face?
“—Your hair is getting so long, Zag.” She stopped her plucking and, with sudden, deadpan gravity, offered this new observation—or just a tactical diversion from the old topic. “It’s nearly longer than mine now.”
She was right. As his hair fell past his ears, he could feel it covering most of the nape of his neck. (It would do nothing but add to the chaos of his hairstyle.) But what did this have to do with Headmistress Hecate’s sword training? You haven’t told me what’s really on your mind, Mel. But that was Mel for you: she might not be able to hide her hesitation, but unlike her brother, she was perfectly capable of guarding the thoughts behind it until she was ready. He would have to wait. Even her excuses were always grounded in some undeniable truth; since what was right could not be wrong, he couldn’t really argue.
“Suppose it is,” he said, going along with it. “Time for a trim.”
“I thought so too!” She grinned, as if his answer was exactly what she’d been aiming for—which, in truth, it was. “Could you do mine too, then? Please, Zag?”
Once she had his word (as if he could say no), before he could even somewhat flusteredly get himself up and find the bronze shears among his messy shelves—the nimble little witch was already running ahead, making her way toward the glade by the pool where Frinos usually lingered.
Why do you prefer short hair, Mel? He’d asked her once, long ago. He had just finished trimming her hair. The little girl sat beside him on the edge of the dock, her feet unable to reach the water blooming with lotuses, so she swung them with an air seeming almost defiant. He only had to tilt his head and look down to see the crown of her head, growing downwards like a small, golden mushroom. The little mushroom looked up at him then and said, quite seriously, Because I prefer. There were times when her hair grew a bit longer. When Lady Circe first visited to their encampment, she had been quite keen on braiding it for her. Though in the end, she’d still granted the young Princess’s request, using a pair of huge shears—likely meant for sheep—to trim the hair back into its mushroom shape. Perhaps Lady Circe’s technique was truly that good, or perhaps her piggies were just too charming; whatever the reason, Mel often visited her island afterwards. From then on, her hair was always kept crisp and neat, never out of place again.
It must have been so long. Otherwise, there was no explaining why, as he used the pool water to dampen the golden strands to be trimmed, he felt as though he were still dreaming. But the green, downy plants by the water were dotted with bright, white flowers; the rain pattered steadily on the thick canopy of leaves; Frinos was croaking softly nearby; and the soft ends of his sister’s hair were indeed resting in his palm. This was no dream. In the most secluded corner of the Crossroads, they sat upon the largest, flattest stone. He sat cross-legged, while Mel sat in front of him, her legs stretched out comfortably ahead, resting by the pool’s edge where she could occasionally kick up a few splashes to pass the time.
Pale golden hair drifted down like feathers. Zagreus cut slowly. If he needed an excuse, he’d blame it on having just woken up. (It wasn’t because he wanted to do a better job than Lady Circe. He knew his limits, really.) Thankfully, Mel didn’t seem to mind. She sat, her shoulders relaxed in a comfortable slump. Shush, shush, shush went the rain and the leaves, but the rain never pierced this lush canopy, so it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if he took his time.
Why shouldn’t he? His sister had only just finished her training. Though she’d always had a boundless passion for practicing magic, that, after all, usually involved things like coaxing a crocus to bloom or letting Frinos drift into the air while he napped—that was a long way from practicing with a blade. A long way indeed... The sole purpose of the Crossroads, the unwavering vow of the Unseen, we, we, we must. Melinoë, Princess, secret, hope, we. Mel.
The Princess is exceptionally gifted, Hecate had told him plainly, a long time ago. In the simplest sense, it meant shades adored Mel. Ever since she had learned to walk, they’d trail after her in strings, drifting like strange green candles. Mingled with the little sparks her footsteps left behind, they became one of the most impressive sights in the Crossroads. In the grandest sense, it meant her potential to wield the power of the Underworld was limitless—limitless enough to perhaps defeat the Titan of Time below and restoring everything—everything—to the way it was before.
No, he had said then. He hadn’t thought of a reason, simply looked up and met the Witch of the Crossroads’ gaze. He didn’t know what he must have looked like. Angry? He ought to save that for Chronos. Resentful? He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he should be the hero. Or perhaps, afraid. (No, no, no.) Fear.
But fear is for the weak. He couldn’t let it show, yet Hecate must have seen right through him. “It is indeed a heavy mission,” she said, her voice low as she cast her gaze downward. “But it is her mission. Her fate.”
“—Don’t talk to me about bloody fate.” Damn it, what was he doing? Your voice is shaking, lad. Never show them you’re afraid. “…My apologies, Lady Hecate. But in my experience, those prophecies of the Fates seem more like them using mind-reading to see what’s in my head, or the heads of those around me—what we want, what we intend to do—then inferring it for a bit. Hardly qualifies as ‘fate’ existing before anything happens, does it?”
The witch nodded calmly, forgiving his rude interruption, his hasty apology, and his even hastier conclusion. “Then, by your own experience—you must also know what it is that Melinoë wants, Prince.”
He couldn’t answer the eagle-eyed Chthonic goddess. He knew. How could he not? Everyone in the Crossroads knew. Night after night, the statue of Father before the shrine watched over this hidden place. Those marble eyes had appeared in his dreams from the very first day, a distant, crimson gaze. Mel would always snuggle close to him on the bench, staring at the statue, asking him, What is Father like? So he would tell her about Father and Mother, about his love and his clumsiness, about his authority and his endless paperwork, about how he’d gently brushed aside his little daughter’s hair. And Mother. Speaking of Mother—you have the same golden hair as her, Mel. Really? Really. Then Mel would snuggle even closer and say, Zag… I wish I could meet them too. His little sister leaned against him like that, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, feeling as though they were two pieces of honey candy, melted and stuck together forever. The thought somehow made him feel safe. (But it wasn’t enough, was it? It wasn’t enough.) You will, he said. One day, Mel.
“I know the child is quite perceptive. Not long after she began studying under me, she understood what the Unseen are preparing for.” Hecate’s voice carried unmistakable praise, but when she spoke again, it turned sharp. “A deity should act upon their own will. Your own actions proved that well enough—not even parents have the right to interfere.”
Not even a father. Not even a mother.
And you are merely her brother.
I understand. He really did. I’m not trying to… The Witch of the Crossroads looked at him with something akin to regret. He knew their conversation had inevitably reached its end. But what I didn’t say is, my fear is also real. In dreams, in the unending fragments of the past, his sister was a tiny ghost. She had one arm that seemed translucent, a ghostly green, just like the shades that passed them by. In those days, there was always a lingering sense of impending loss. Later, it became hard for him to tell if it was because they had already lost too much, or simply because Mel looked so much like a ghost who might vanish at any moment. —But of course he understood. He understood what was real. Mel could soothe stray shades with her hands, could cast a thousand, ten thousand wondrous spells. He knew she was there. He had turned then, and Mel was standing on the far side of the pool, chatting happily with the shade named Dora. Dora must have noticed him and said something, because Mel suddenly turned around and met his eyes, giggled, and waved at him. The lotuses were in full bloom… such a small child, separated by a sea of flowers and water. But she was there. He really understood. Soft golden hair in his palm. Shush, shush, shush. It was raining at the Crossroads.
“But Zag, the thing is... the thing is, I don’t like practicing with the sword.”
The words came without warning. Zagreus watched as his hand holding the shears jerked, and a thin red line appeared on the tip of his left index finger. Gods, Mel. He felt he had every right to be shaken, and more than a little relieved. But all those fleeting thoughts, along with a stifled hiss of pain, were immediately pushed aside. Because this was it. This was the real reason Mel had come to find him. She was saying:
“I know I shouldn’t feel this way… Headmistress said a proper witch can’t just rely on her spells. And besides, besides, our enemy is the Titan of Time. I haven’t told Headmistress, and I haven’t told Nemesis, so I suppose they think everything is going fine. Probably. But I don’t like it, Zag, I don’t. The sword is so heavy and broad, I need both hands for it, I can’t find a gap to cast my spells… I know I can learn, but it’s just… it’s just… I’m still afraid.”
A voice like thunder rumbled in his mind. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. (Zagreus. You shall. You shall. You shall.) But fear was also real. The Witch of the Crossroads had seen through his own fragile fear, yet here was his sister, saying, I’m afraid. Her fear was real. Ah, to hell with them. Back then, in his bedchambers that felt like another lifetime, he hadn’t had the chance to speak the words he had once truly believed. Now he realized that sometimes, that simply meant he would never say them at all.
“But it’s all right to be afraid, Mel. I mean, fear is a good thing. A very good thing.”
“You’re lying,” she replied firmly, but she didn’t sound angry—patient, even, with a touch of amused laughter. Waiting.
“I’m not lying,” he said, his voice turning light. “Perhaps Lady Hecate is right, a proper witch can’t just know her spells—but a witch who can’t fight with her spells probably isn’t proper either, right? So it’s the sword that’s wrong. It’s wrong, for keeping you from being the most unpredictable little witch in the world. I say fear is a good thing, because when you’re afraid, you step back, you realize what’s wrong. So, next time, leave that clunky sword behind. Try a bow, or daggers, or whatever else feels right. You see—fear is for the wise, Mel.”
“Says who?”
“Me, of course, you clever thing. Now then—” He set the shears down, unable to resist, and ruffled her freshly trimmed golden hair.
But this time, his sister didn’t complain at all about the tousling. She just turned and looked at him very carefully, asking, “But what if I’m always afraid, Zag? What if I’m afraid even when I shouldn’t step back?”
“…You know, Mel, I’ve actually thought about that too. I thought about it for a long, long time, until the moon fell—just a metaphor, of course; we didn’t have days and nights in the Underworld. Anyway, it took me ages to understand there’s no such thing as ‘shouldn’t.’ Fear is the cause, and stepping back is the result. If you feel afraid, it just means you should find a different way to strike—or come back to the Crossroads.”
Really? Mel said softly.
Really.
“…‘Fear is for the wise,’ ‘Fear is for the wise’—” She carefully settled the laurels she’d been holding back onto her head, then suddenly exclaimed as if she’d discovered something, “—Zag, are you trying to say you’re the wise one?”
“Ah, more than that,” he gave a mock-serious cough. “There’s one more thing. The most important one.”
“What is it?” She was already giggling silently.
“Don’t forget I’m right here. Always here, Mel. Just a span away from your hair.” He gestured with his hand, measuring from her laurels to his own. “What I want to tell you is, when you’re truly afraid, count me in on it, all right? Speaking for myself, I’d very much like the world’s most unpredictable witch to count me in on her most remarkable quest.” (At least. At least. At least let me.)
“Oh…” Now, his sister looked indeed like a child of her age. She was seriously considering the proposal, appearing rather proud of the epic weight behind his words, and finally, a generous and solemn nod, “All right.”
Frinos hopped into the water with a soft splash. A stone settled safely in his heart. “It’s a deal, then,” he said slowly, then smiled. “Now, are you planning to go inspect your moonlight garden, or…”
Those mismatched eyes blinked, and a sudden, almost triumphant spark flashed within them. “—I want you to teach me, Zag! Teach me to fight—not with a sword, but daggers, or a staff, or—no, daggers. Headmistress gave me Lim and Oros just two days ago. Lim, and, Oros —I’ve been keeping them tucked away in my trunk all this time.”
Well, this time he was genuinely caught off guard. But I… He wanted to say, But I’ve only ever been the student. And not even a particularly good one. Without Achilles, he’d have gripped the hilt too tight and held the blade too high; he’d have attacked with unstable footing and left his defense full of openings; an opponent would’ve easily used his own momentum to throw the boy and his sword right into the dirt. Then there was Skelly, who had taught him so much as well—but where was that ever-cheerful, lively skeleton drinking now, after they’d said their farewells that day?
(Some time later, when Skelly would claim to have drifted all the way from the Acheron to the Crossroads and, having somehow gained Hecate’s permission to join them, the skeleton would sport a puzzling white beard and say to him, Glad to see you and your sister are all right, kiddo.
And he would feign surprise, replying, Kiddo? I thought we were mates on equal footing.
But Skelly would only shrug, stroking that long beard with an air of mystery—likely a new habit for Commander Schelemeus—and say, Quit your yapping, kiddo. You want to practice or not? And he knew he wouldn’t try to correct the skeleton again, because this feeling… this feeling wasn’t bad at all.)
But for now, Zagreus truly had no excuse. So he just heard himself say, “You really do have far too much energy, you know that, little sister?”
She shrugged, her expression noncommittal, but her eager footsteps as she dashed into the tent spoke for themselves.
A fine, steady rain was still falling over the training grounds. No wind, only scattered moonlight for an audience. Stygius felt familiar in his grip, her tip resting just above the ground. The sensation was second nature; so maybe, he thought, maybe he really could explain a thing or two about wielding a sword: about balance, the strike, and the retreat—but they weren’t here to master the sword. Mel needed to find something that was truly hers. Then perhaps, he should—
“Try and strike me, Mel,” he said, raising the blade. “See if daggers can break a longsword’s guard.” The one who knows a sword best is the one who wields it. “I’ll show you every weakness a sword has.”
Side-step. Retreat. Parry. Every movement was like breathing. Rain-slicked steel reflected silent silver light. They were breathing.
Don’t stop where my tip is going to land. See? That’s dangerous. Don’t watch the blade, watch the hilt. Control your opponent’s wrist, and even the broadest sword can’t hurt you. A sword always has its blind spots, but a dagger is free. It’s always free. Now, try and get behind me.
When Mel’s moment truly came, maybe he was still surprised. It wasn’t the edge of Lim or Oros that pinned him down first, but her glowing binding circle—a cast. But that was how it was meant to be, wasn’t it? He had always known, how light a spell was—as light as her confident smile.
“…A witch who can’t fight with her spells isn’t a proper witch,” Mel’s dagger was pressed bravely against his right wrist, the victorious little witch announcing it with a mix of solemnity and a hint of a blush.
“Hey, that’s the spirit.” Zagreus grinned at his sister. Stygius, along with Lim and Oros, clicked together, deciding it was time for a rest. Mel took his hand, and they walked back towards the tents. Every step was like breathing.
It wasn’t until he had said goodnight to Mel that he realized he’d forgotten to trim his own hair. Tomorrow, then. It didn’t really matter. In the soft darkness, he remembered the secret, joyful look in his sister’s eyes before she disappeared into her tent. She’d probably gone to talk to Frinos or Dora—certainly not to bed. Gods didn’t need much sleep, even the very young ones. What about you, Zag? —Me? I think I’m a bit sleepy. She had nodded very understandingly and said goodnight—but don’t sleep in! He had said, please, I know better than that. Yet part of him knew it shouldn’t be like this; it was different from long, long ago, or even from his dreams. But then, so many things were different now.
As he lay down, the bruise on his wrist where Mel’s dagger had struck, throbbed with a faint ache. Really, he thought dreamily, Mel has grown up. His left hand couldn’t help going to rub the spot, not to soothe the pain—an injury like that would soon fade—but rather, as the dull ache pulsed through him in circles, a strange, almost nostalgic tenderness welled up in him in matching waves. It felt as if he was caressing a gift, an embrace, a soft look back, a forest green puppy who stumbled easily. You’ve grown up.