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Zagreus was gone, and Thanatos worried.
They had begun as children: flesh and thought unified into physical form. When Zagreus and Thanatos were young, they stole time to play in the halls of Tartarus closest to the House of Hades, and even when older did they court the danger of being lost in Daedalus’ ever-shifting labyrinth.
For Thanatos, it was a cinch to transverse back to the House of Hades: to slacken his hold on his physical form, to tug at the strings and fibres keeping reality together, and then to reorient his body at his intended destination. He was the slip of air in mortals’ breaths, having indeed learnt this power from the sensation.
His mother, Nyx, told him that part of it was instinct: a remnant of Chaos’ power. But when Thanatos had first seen a mortal die — small and fragile, the real construction that his own form echoed, too weak to shake with tremors any more — he had understood. And he had scooped that soul into his arms and brought them to the House of Hades to be judged.
That final gasp in that fragile body had echoed in his own. And Thanatos had understood how to recreate its urgency in sharp, instant transversals.
For Zagreus, it was a challenge. He walked and ran and climbed on his two feet. He skirted on the window ledges around the House of Hades whilst Thanatos hovered safely in mid-air. He scrambled for cover underneath the tables in the lounge when Lord Hades walked by, when Thanatos was a thousand walls and floors away, arms full of the bottled vintage from the cellar, hopelessly lost as to where he was and what he was supposed to do, only knowing that his power had brought him somewhere far away.
Zagreus saw the Underworld at ground level. Yet when Thanatos joined him and they played together, it never felt as though Zagreus was dragging him down — rather, that they could combine the dimensions of their worlds together, using the ground and flight to create impossible leaps, to extend the limits of their playground even when it was just the grounds around the House.
Thanatos waited for Zagreus’ feet to leave the ground and stay in the air. He watched Zagreus clamber up Cerberus’ foreleg and romp through the House until he was thrown off and smacked into a wall. He offered his hand to Zagreus to at least try a transversal. He offered his hand too many times.
Then the gods demanded Thanatos’ service in full, and he had work to do.
The last time he and Zagreus played in the halls of Tartarus was at one of Charon’s docks. The River Styx dragged the glittering mineral light of the Underworld in its current whilst Thanatos and Zagreus shared an adventure together: Mort and Skelly, two fine companions who traversed the hard stone floor as though they were endless plateaus filled with monsters. Thanatos reminded Zagreus what a plateau actually looked like every time Mort and Skelly had to find shelter in their adventure. Zagreus blamed his poor memory on Skelly’s empty skull — not that skeletons couldn’t be deviously clever, as seen with their current nemesis whom they were chasing.
(Later, when Zagreus told him about the strange skeleton employed to act as a training dummy in his courtyard, Thanatos had wondered if the story was still unfinished, and he was expected to play along. He had not expected to see a skeleton jump from the earth at Zagreus’ call. He had not expected the skeleton to take such a beating, either.)
A slip of the hand in the midst of their play was all it took for Mort to plunge into the Styx. Thanatos jumped up and jolted forwards, snatching a handful of blood whilst Mort bobbed just out of his reach. His chest clenched painfully as he sucked in a gasp and flew just above the surface, desperately tracking it for a break in the current.
The River Styx glimmered with the colours of greed, betraying a shadow for a split second — for which Thanatos plunged his hand inside and felt the terrible disparity of hot blood and cold, formless souls reaching back. Their hands scrambled for his and he wrenched himself away.
“No! Mort!”
Thanatos whirled back to Zagreus from where he hovered — mouth open and aghast, Skelly clutched to his chest — and then looked to the river. Something peeked out of the blood for an instant. Thanatos started. Then he paused.
Zagreus stared at him when he returned to the jetty, careful not to touch the ground.
“It’s okay,” he said, biting back anger and disappointment to search for the calmness he felt whenever a mortal passed away. “Death comes to all. Death and loss.”
Zagreus cried, “What? No!” He shoved Skelly at Thanatos, and indignation welled up in him — as if Mort could be replaced, as if he needed to be reminded of what he had just lost—
But he took Skelly, and then Zagreus ran full pelt into the Styx.
“Zag!” shouted Thanatos. Fury and horror burned in his veins, branding his cheeks with a heat like shame in the split second before Zagreus leapt off the jetty.
He dove into the river, kicking up a spray of blood, and swam downstream. Thanatos rushed after him, Skelly tight in his grip, hissing a breath of relief every time Zagreus surfaced. The Styx carried Zagreus with a turbulent hunger, and Thanatos’ skin crawled with the memory of what lay within. The chambers of Tartarus flashed past; shades clawed at him from windows and grates, but Thanatos flew through them, too intent on his pursuit.
Weaving in and out, the top of Zagreus’ head kept submerging. Thanatos saw Zagreus’ arms cut through the river, his skin washed red. He bit back another shout, still trembling with rage, because his best friend had leapt into the Styx and they both knew the only souls that belonged in there were dead, and Mort was gone but Zagreus couldn’t be—
Then a beat passed. The Styx kept flowing. Two beats, and then three. Thanatos dove down to find Zagreus’ hand in the stream, and his hand closed around a crystal, jagged at one end where it must have broken off. Thanatos threw it back into the river.
“Zag?” he called. He floated on, counting the chambers he passed until he was into the double digits. “Zagreus! Where are you?”
Lord Hades would flay them both. Thanatos fiddled with Skelly’s stitches, unthreading them with vicious intent, as he glanced up at the House built up on a higher shelf within the Underworld. No red-eyed god glared back at him from its doors. Not yet, anyway.
Then he felt loose wool against his fingers and tore his hand away from Skelly, bloody from where he had reached twice into the Styx. Skelly’s fabric — though already stained from food and pomegranate juice and a few droplets’ evidence of the vintage they’d pilfered and then distributed ages ago — now bore bloody fingerprints.
Thanatos sighed and pinched the seam shut whilst he searched for a different type of thread to pull: the filaments of the Fates, binding the world’s essence in unfathomable patterns that Thanatos was powerless to change. But he could follow and pull on them, so he searched for the design of Charon’s docks in their weave, and then he appeared.
The rush of the river quietened into a gurgle, and Thanatos kept himself aloft as he checked his surroundings first, recognising Tartarus’ green fire in the candles and the stone walls of Daedalus’ construction — but not the design of the courtyard. Old trophies and treasures that had washed ashore gathered cobwebs atop their pedestals; hanging over them was Charon’s signpost, suspended from a pillar. Faceless shades milled about in the open space. Some flinched at his sudden arrival. Thanatos scanned them all for a trace of flesh, for a set of mismatching eyes, for a sign that his best friend was still alive.
He wondered if any of the shades were — had been — demigods themselves. As dread hardened in his stomach, he heard a loud slap of the river’s tide against the jetty, and finally turned to confront the River Styx.
Keeping Skelly close to his chest, Thanatos breathed through his nervousness and approached the jetty. The River Styx was unchanged, but the sound of its splashing current nauseated him. There he floated, looking at the river. It circumvented Tartarus; it would loop back to the docks, because no matter how complex or chaotic Daedalus’ designs, the Styx was a constant, and Charon needed to dock somewhere.
Thus, at some point, Zagreus would find a way out of the river. Then Thanatos would find him, and they could navigate back to the House of Hades.
Thanatos looked upstream to where the River Styx wound itself round a corner and out of sight. Shadows and shapes — seemingly familiar — breached the surface, but Thanatos knew the river well enough by now not to be tempted. He glowered at it, and then at the House of Hades — the only other constant in Tartarus, where all the shades could see Lord Hades’ residence and curse or admire it from their own haunted domain.
The river continued to bat against the jetty, and a shape, this time on top of the blood, rounded the corner. Thanatos stifled his anticipation upon seeing the hooded figure that guided the boat and its occupants to the dock. A wisp of fabric brushed against Thanatos’ arm and he jerked: a shade hovered at the jetty next to him, accompanied by a few others who must have been curious to meet the new arrivals.
Thanatos hugged Skelly tighter, wishing he could trade the bony limbs of the toy for the round softness of Mort.
Charon groaned and grumbled as he docked, the boat echoing his complaints when it halted at the jetty. It remained there under Charon’s command, and Thanatos stood his ground — figuratively — when the new shades disembarked and flooded around him. Then they parted and Charon staggered off the boat with his arms laden with treasure.
“Charon,” said Thanatos stiffly.
Charon uttered a low, noncommittal note towards Thanatos and then stacked his plunder against one of the pillars.
“I need your help. Zagreus is missing in the Styx.”
A gilded shield clattered to the ground with a clash like cymbals. Charon waved his cloak over it as if exasperated.
“I have to go back to work. Now.” Another glance at the House of Hades, and another sweep of relief at the lack of Lord Hades at its doors. “Can you find Zagreus and return him home? The gods are waiting for me.”
Charon brought an urn up to eye level and rubbed a spot of blood from its inscriptions. Thanatos curled his finger through the loose thread in Skelly’s fabric until it snapped.
“Charon,” he said, floating over to him, “I order you to find Zagreus, the son of Hades, and return him to the House immediately.” Charon mumbled something and Thanatos bristled with anger. “I have to go, I can’t be here! I have a job to do, and this is yours!”
He watched Charon rummage through the treasure for a moment longer, and then spun back round to the River Styx, seething with impatience and terror as his thoughts buzzed in his head and he tried to imagine how long it would take to follow the Styx, how he could possibly locate Zagreus in the Underworld — perhaps with the help of the shades, if he promised them something.
Thanatos clutched Skelly. He dipped a toe into the river and shuddered. He had to find Zagreus; Lord Hades would never be merciful enough to send his employees to do so. The River Styx was a long and pitiless monster in its own right. The mortals could wait a moment longer for him.
He leant forwards and an arm, firm and cloaked, barred his way. Charon groaned at him, the shadows of his hood undulating as his mouth moved. Thanatos stared up at him, defiant, afraid, into the shadows and pointedly pressed himself against Charon’s arm, waiting for it to drop.
But Charon shook his head and moved it upwards to point at the House of Hades above the labyrinth. Thanatos followed his finger, holding his breath. The same majesty of the House sparkled in the distance. He turned back to Charon, and his accusation melted in his mouth as he beheld the glowing crimson object in Charon’s other hand.
Charon groaned again, insistent, and Thanatos thought he understood the sentiment of it: wait.
When Charon did not move, Thanatos took the object from him; though it floated in his hand, he stroked a knuckle against its surface, and didn’t recognise the smooth, fragile skin encasing the light. But it was hot and throbbed with life, like a heart, pulsing in his own veins in the split second he made contact.
Still, he scoffed. “What is this?”
Charon bumped his arm against Thanatos and shook his finger towards the House of Hades. Thanatos ground his jaw.
“What about Zagreus?”
The finger stabbed towards the House of Hades.
“And this?” He tried to hand the object — heart — back to Charon, but the arm disappeared and Charon turned to go back to his treasure.
The shades in the dock watched him eyelessly, and he tried to ignore them as he weighed his previous option with Charon’s suggestion. The heart’s beating reverberated in the air, loud and inviting. Thanatos touched it again. Its vigour thrummed against his hand. He cradled it close to Skelly and lifted his chin.
“Farewell, Charon.”
Transversing to the House of Hades was a familiar sensation, and he glided over the Pool of Styx that gurgled next to the formal entrance to the House. At the far end of the corridor — through which shades queued, gossiping and grousing about life and death — the Lord Hades’ throne was empty. Thanatos felt an inch of tension bleed away from him. But he kept his posture as he parted through the shades, one hand holding Skelly, the other guiding the heart.
He stopped at Hypnos’ post and couldn’t decide whether to be angry or grateful when he saw the list of the dead propped up on a stand. Fresh ink flourished across the parchment with each shade that came through the doors or rose from the Pool. He skimmed the writing and relaxed a little more.
The God of Death was dignified enough in his age now not to peek around corners like a misbehaving child — but habit had not left him yet, so he took a subtle look into the west hall. The chamber doors were closed; either Lord Hades was occupied in one of them, or he was in the lounge berating its employees.
Thanatos turned to go to the lounge.
“Hey Than!”
He froze. To his left, at the foot of the desk before the throne, obscured by scrolls and stacks of books and the cloak of a shade tidying them, appeared Hypnos and Zagreus. Their smiles were wide as they clambered out from their hiding spot and ran up to him.
Thanatos was quick enough to take in the dried flecks of blood and smudge-like bruises on Zagreus’ face just before Zagreus’ expression lit up impossibly brighter. He threw his arms out, and for a moment, Thanatos smiled back, warmed with relief and affection.
“Skelly!” said Zagreus happily. “You brought him back!”
Thanatos’ grip slackened, and Skelly returned to Zagreus’ arms. Zagreus pouted at the opened stitches but did not remark on the fingerprints. Hypnos clapped his hands.
“You won’t believe it, Than! Zag here stepped out the Pool like it was a bath! All bruised up and bloody!”
Zagreus laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “The River Styx is a tough ride!”
“I was gonna give him the old welcome speech, you know, hi and welcome to the House of Hades when I thought, hey! That doesn’t look like a shade to me! And what do you know, it’s Zag! Looking like a fish out of water!”
“A fish out of blood, maybe?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“Couldn’t believe where I was at first!”
Hypnos and Zagreus giggled together. Thanatos glanced between them and then towards the unattended list of the dead. His chest ached with the little air passing through the lump stuck in his throat. He took a deep breath, pressing back against the ache, and summoned every last piece of his composure to speak.
“I’m glad everything’s in order.”
Hypnos peered at his other hand, the one not clenched now at his side. “What’s that? Is it alive?”
“It’s nothing. You should go back to your duties.”
“Oh come on, Than, didn’t you hear—”
“I heard it perfectly clearly,” snapped Thanatos. “Your duties, Hypnos.”
Hypnos blew an errant curl of hair out from his eyes and shrugged. Zagreus pulled a face. “All right, I’m on my way! Look: five steps to the right!”
Sure enough, he took five exaggerated steps to the right, and was back at his post with list in hand. Zagreus gave him a thumbs-up, laughter shining in his eyes. A caustic web of hatred — or jealousy, it didn’t matter which — skittered through Thanatos and held firm, snaring him tightly as Hypnos continued to dramatise the act of checking the shades against the names on his list.
Thanatos cleared his throat. “Here. This is also yours.”
Distracted from Hypnos’ act, Zagreus cooed and stepped closer. He studied the heart with equal amounts of curiosity and scepticism, and then let Thanatos pass it into his free hand. It did not float, but rather melted onto his hand, and Thanatos thought for a moment he had misunderstood Charon’s instructions.
But then Zagreus gasped with delight as it sank into his palm; the crimson light softened and his flesh glowed around the shadows of his bones. The light coursed up Zagreus’ arm in the lightning streaks of his blood vessels, illustrating the pulse of his heartbeat. Then the stretch of his arm warmed with a lambent flush, before easing into the healthy hue of his skin, and Zagreus flexed his arm, his fingers, holding his palm close to his face, mouth open, eyes wide and fixated, and Thanatos trembled.
“Blood and darkness!” said Hypnos, and Thanatos quashed his fear enough to glare at him.
But his reprimand was lost in the vigorous shake of his hand, the one that had guided the heart, as Zagreus beamed and shook his hand and demanded his attention — as if the tightness of his grip and the heat of his body so near weren’t demanding enough.
“What was that, Than?” he said breathlessly. “Was that your power?”
Thanatos almost scorned him: his was the power to deal death, not defy it. At least, so far as he knew. “No. A gift from Charon — likely taken from the Styx.”
Zagreus released Thanatos’ hand and rubbed his chest. His gaze went distant. “It felt like…a second heart, beating in my chest. And in my head. Invigorating.” Then he grinned at Thanatos. “See? You don’t need to worry!”
Thanatos looked him over. In his proximity, he saw the dried blood flaking away on Zagreus’ face. Where scabs and bruises should have been, the skin had healed. A frisson of panic jittered down to his fingertips. Apollo and his children could mend mortal bodies in the same way. But Zagreus was not mortal, and Apollo’s reach was far from the Underworld.
“No,” he said, “I don’t.”
He wondered whether to mention Mort. But death and loss were natural. He had always known that. Perhaps one of the hands in the Styx had found him.
Still, Thanatos had not lied to Charon.
“Time to return to work,” he said, and even though he had commanded all of the authority he possessed into his voice, Hypnos and Zagreus still scoffed at him. Thanatos summoned his infernal conduit — scythe-shaped, a symbol for the mortals to recognise — from the void. That quietened them both. “When you’re done fooling around,” he continued, rising a little higher into the air, “you can make your station a little more presentable, Hypnos.”
Hypnos perked up, going from drowsy to relaxed. “A great idea! You can help me pick out some décor! I heard Lord Hades is looking to hire some contractors to manage redecorations around here!”
“Really?” said Zagreus, rolling his shoulder and prodding his skin as if expecting it to turn a different colour.
Thanatos wondered whether to tell Zagreus to stop encouraging Hypnos. But with Skelly in hand and no signs of their adventure in Tartarus, it seemed nothing had changed. He took his scythe and glided towards the lounge, Hypnos’ voice echoing behind him.
“Yeah, I think his first order is to take down all of the paintings in the west hall. Which isn’t that many, to be fair, but at least we’ll finally have contractors…”
The lounge was empty and the noticeboard offered no new demands for the House’s staff. Thanatos still heard Hypnos and Zagreus in discussion, though he was surprised to see Cerberus occupying the seating area. The tables had been pushed aside or toppled over, and Thanatos rounded Cerberus’ side just before two of the heads smelled him and turned.
The third, he saw, had his nose pushed into the grate that separated the Wretched Broker’s shop from the rest of the lounge. The head whined just as the other two growled at Thanatos, one being a warning and the other as a greeting as he bumped against Thanatos’ outstretched hand.
Yet he dared not go closer, as Cerberus’ other heads eyed him with distrust, so he sighed and called out, “Zag! Cerberus needs your help.”
He waited for a moment, where Zagreus sprinted into the lounge and threw himself at the friendly Cerberus head, crooning endearments and scratching the fur behind his ears with both hands, Skelly tucked under his arm.
“Who’s the best boy? It’s you! It’s you! Yes it is! What’s wrong, buddy?”
Cerberus’ tail knocked over the last few tables standing. Zagreus detached himself from the head to peer at the Broker’s shop.
“Aw, did you lose your ball in the shop again? Do you want me to fetch it for you?”
“I’ll be on my way,” said Thanatos shortly.
“Wait, Than! Give me a second.”
Zagreus, with all of the spirit and grace of a young mortal, batted the third head away from the grate and scrambled into the shop. Aware of the call of mortal souls from the surface, waiting for his intervention, Thanatos folded his arms and bristled with each passing second, Cerberus also wagging his tail in anticipation, both waiting, until a very chewed, very deflated ball popped through the grate and Zagreus followed it.
Thanatos thought to remark on Zagreus’ dexterity — the grate was no easy fit — but when Cerberus accosted Zagreus to thank him, he hefted his scythe again and reached for the surface—
“Hang on!”
Thanatos snapped out of his concentration to scowl down at Zagreus, who smoothed away his well-licked hair, smiling sheepishly.
“I didn’t forget,” he said. “About Mort.” His smile dropped, and remorse clouded his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The toll of the gods demanded Thanatos’ service. It would not stop for a whim. “I’m not worried. I have to go. I have work.”
He took the memory of Mort and Zagreus disappearing into the Styx with him to the mortal world, and swore to think no more of the last time they played in the halls of Tartarus.
The Pool of Styx spat out the hulking, fuming form of Lord Hades, and the House fell silent. He kicked through the blood and up the steps, blood draining to the ground and retreating from his footsteps as though loathe to hold him any longer. The queuing shades bowed out of his path. He stormed his way to his throne with a thunder that could have rivalled Zeus’ temper.
Hypnos opened his mouth, but Megaera’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. She met Achilles’ knowing gaze, and then turned to Thanatos — whose eyes were still on the River Styx flowing past the House, his back to Lord Hades. Up in the rafters, not one of Dusa’s snakes moved; she saw Megaera looking at her, and there was a frightened awe in her eyes.
The House waited. Lord Hades removed his Helm of Darkness, set it aside on his desk, and drew a pile of parchment closer.
“Back to work,” he growled, and brandished his hand. The shade at the front of the queue wailed as they disappeared to meet their punishment in Tartarus.
The rustle of whispers through the queue afforded a semblance of normality in the absence of Orpheus’ music. Nyx approached Hades and spoke to him, her gossamer murmur too subtle to even be heard in the quiet ambience. Hades’ expression, already dark, knotted into a murderous scowl. But he nodded to her, and she straightened up, as though satisfied.
Thanatos heard Megaera’s approach and did not know how to react to it. He watched the Styx. In the millennia of his existence, its colours had never changed: specked with gemstone brilliance, black and red and green flashing in its current.
“He’ll be back. He won’t make it far,” said Megaera dryly. “Too eager to come home and boast about his success.”
“Will you be the one to bring him home?”
“He doesn’t need my help to find trouble.” She sighed. “But I’ll be here when he finds it again.”
She went to leave, and Thanatos said, strained, “Megaera.” She turned to him. “What does this mean?”
“Nothing. He can’t escape. Not forever. Come on, Than, have a drink with me. You must have a dozen bottles hoarded from Zag’s offerings.”
Thanatos scoffed, though his heart wasn’t in it. “No use in toasting to his success if what you say is true,” he replied bitterly.
“It is,” she said, “and you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
He heard her speak to Achilles as well, their exchange discreet but punctuated by a short laugh from both of them. He peered over his shoulder and tensed at the sympathetic look sent his way from Achilles. Then Dusa descended from the rafters and made a joke about unusually large spiders trying to nest in the House of Hades, and Achilles and Megaera offered their aid in clearing them out, and Megaera asked about the bats roosting, and Achilles declined their invitation as they went to the lounge to talk it out.
The slap of the Styx against stone caught Thanatos’ attention, and he almost flinched. But when he went to the grand hall, flanking Hypnos who was too occupied by the list of the dead to notice him floating, the Pool of Styx had recovered from its last victim and shimmered in the firelight. Thanatos tamped down his disappointment.
“Redacted again.”
Hypnos’ groan drew his gaze. The list of the dead unfurled in midair and Hypnos squinted at it, chewing thoughtfully at the phoenix plume of his quill. The sound of heavy parchment striking the ground and Lord Hades’ curse made him grin, however, and Thanatos leant closer.
“This has happened before,” he said, half-question, half-statement. Hypnos spoke frequently, and sometimes Thanatos caught threads of interesting affairs.
Hypnos smiled widely. “Than! Well, isn’t this a surprise! A good one! Not like what’s going on with this damn list — I swear, it has a mind of its own...”
“Everything in order?”
“Well, yeah, kinda! Taking into account the redacted note here, and there were those two arrivals just afterwards, must be those two shades at the back, and Zagreus is on here and he’s—”
A rush of panic flooded Thanatos. “What.” He hadn’t sensed Zagreus’ death; he had felt his call moments ago, when he went to fight Lord Hades, but it had been a gentle keen, like a prayer, not the urgency of summoning him through Mort. He reached for the list but Hypnos snatched it from the air.
“Hey! Mind the protocol here! You could ruin the list—”
“Hand it over, Hypnos, I don’t have time—”
“Sure you do! It just says redacted. See? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
He held up the list and angled it to allow Thanatos to inspect it. Zagreus’ name was listed near the top, though it kept shifting as more shades entered the House of Hades. Next to his name, his cause of death was indeed listed as Redacted.
“What does that mean?” he asked Hypnos.
Hypnos shrugged and waved the list back into the air. “Oh, usually when Zag dies at the hands of you-know-who, it comes up like that!”
Thanatos paused to see if Lord Hades would reprimand them, but he remained in an argument with the shade dealing with his parchment.
“But Zag’s not here,” said Thanatos sharply.
“He might! Be invisible, maybe? Have you tried asking around or, y’know, transversing to him?”
“Ever helpful.”
Hypnos beamed. There was a wet snap and Thanatos whirled round just in time to see the shade by Lord Hades’ desk cower beneath one of Cerberus’ heads.
The lounge bustled and rang out the sounds of fine dining and companionship: the head chef braising fish and stewing fruit, the crackle of the new oven, and the shades enjoying the refracted light from the mirrored ball in the corner. Megaera and Dusa had their own table; Thanatos recognised the rich, liquid gold in their glasses, having been subject to an onslaught of such gifts. He tried not to stare from the lounge entryway. Their conversation ended when Dusa excused herself to continue her work.
A restless anxiety tore at itself inside him. He looked towards Zagreus’ room. Then he looked at Hades and Nyx at the head of the hall.
He imagined the coarse fabric of Charon’s sleeve holding him back with the order to wait, he will come back. He remembered the shimmer of blood in the House’s pool whenever Zagreus returned. Every fibre of his being thrummed with restless anticipation, even though he knew he could stand still at the balustrade and hold his vigil like Achilles until a loud splash heralded Zagreus’ arrival. He saw the ease of Hypnos lounging at his post, Orpheus finally plucking at strings, Dusa polishing the candlesticks. Megaera nursed her drink and then stretched, ready for another bout at the entrance to Asphodel.
Like nothing had changed.
Wait for him.
But it had.
What are you waiting for?
And so the interlude between breaths, the infinitesimal space in the cadence of living, Thanatos worried. Then he was gone.
He pulled on the strings of reality, and its threads converged to a space overground: an entrance to the Underworld, where pillars had crumbled to rubble and snow had melted into slush. He took in the battlefield with a painful gnawing in his chest. Stone had been cleft in two. Lines of fire had scored the ground and burnt the soil underneath, and still the snow tried to fill the gaps, though it immediately sizzled.
A fresh battle was not an unfamiliar sight for Thanatos. But he surveyed the area in which he could have fought by Zagreus’ side, had he not feared for the consequences of his interference, had he been braver. Muscle memory brought his scythe to his hands, and he quickly banished its weight with a shock of disgust. He would not need it. Zagreus couldn’t be dead.
Just like the fire marks, a set of footprints — much smaller than Lord Hades’ — had burnt their way through the snow. The anxiety inside him fluttered, but Thanatos took a deep breath, scanned the ruins one final time, before he glided after the footprints and into the forest they entered.
The pace of the footprints widened: breaking into a sprint, darting through the forest in a blind path Thanatos struggled to follow. It looped trees and kicked through piles of snow; he tried to divide his attention between the footprints and peering through the thicket, but it was so hard to concentrate, when the gods tolled for his service and memory told him to wait and everyone’s voices drew him back home.
Like a rivulet of the Styx, a swathe of red branded through the forest’s frosted colours. Thanatos rushed towards it, dodging past trees, his breath caught in his throat, feeling the threads of the Fates slip beyond his grasp as he closed the gap to his target.
Zagreus turned. His hair was dusted by snowflakes, and his nose and cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his arms bore bruises and bled down to his fingertips. The delight in his eyes, though, shone like no other light, vivid like no other colour.
Thanatos took it all in, his anxiety not yet settled. “You made it.” He wasn’t supposed to choke.
“It’s awful up here,” said Zagreus. Yet he smiled, bright with wonder and amusement. “Oh Than, you won’t believe — or maybe you might, you work up here after all!”
Without another word, he opened his arms, and Thanatos pulled him into an embrace. With one hand, he cupped the back of Zagreus’ head, stroking through his hair as he kissed Zagreus long and slow. The jitters inside him relaxed, and he relished Zagreus’ breath in his own lungs. With his other hand, he summoned a centaur heart from his supply and coaxed it into Zagreus’ chest.
The low, pleased moan that rumbled against his lips filled him with a rush of heat, as tantalising as Zagreus’ skin pressed against his. Thanatos indulged himself with one more kiss before he drew back to check Zagreus’ form for any urgent injuries. Zagreus gazed back at him, eyes heavy-lidded. He took Thanatos’ hand — still pressed against his chest — and kissed his knuckles.
“I’m so glad to see you. Thank you for coming out here all this way.” When Thanatos sighed, his expression turned serious. “Is everything all right? Father hasn’t—?”
Thanatos huffed. “No, the only pressure your father has exerted upon his return is on his throne. We’re fine, back at the House.” Some bruises still remained on Zagreus’ skin, but he glowed with renewed health. Thanatos met Zagreus on the ground and took a step back. “The list of the dead has recorded your death, Zag. I — I had—”
“What? Father’s disowned me that quickly?”
Thanatos glared, and Zagreus laughed, ruffling his own hair.
“I’m only joking, Than. Kind of. Anyway, I suppose you’ll want to report this to Hypnos and everyone else.” There was a touch of sadness in his voice and the stoop of his shoulders.
Thanatos studied him. “So you’re not—?”
“No.” Zagreus rubbed Thanatos’ knuckles once more and then dropped his hand. Thanatos’ stomach swooped in a nauseating dive. “Than, I’m — I’m not going back.”
Thanatos waited for a stipulation, a caveat to his declaration. But Zagreus merely watched him, head bowed as if submitted to the weight of the world, and after a moment, Thanatos wondered if he was really waiting for Zagreus at all. Fear — or excitement, it didn’t matter which — coursed through his veins.
“All right,” he said, and took Zagreus’ hand again, “let’s go. At least let me show you where to start.”
Zagreus frowned and held back. “Hold on, what about work?” he blurted.
Thanatos still hovered forwards, saying over his shoulder: “What about you and I?”
Zagreus grumbled, though he relented and flanked Thanatos’ side through the snow-showered forest. “What about us?”
“Everything needs attention. You especially.”
Zagreus laughed. “That’s true. But I’ll be fine, Than. Tell the others at hom— at the House: I’m fine. I’m free.”
“I will.” Thanatos squeezed Zagreus’ hand. “But I’m here right now, and we’re doing this. So: shall we?”
The mortal world could be so quiet — but Zagreus’ heartbeat drummed through his skin, pumping with life and vigour, warming Thanatos’ hand. He met Zagreus’ eyes, and softened at the fondness he saw.
“Okay,” said Zagreus, “okay. Let’s go.”