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Meg arrives to a mostly empty coliseum. A smattering of shades colours the seats blue-white. Some are unfurling banners, Theseus’ blinding smile flashing at her from across the arena. Others collect discarded bottles of nectar, sweeping the seats clean as they pass.
Thanatos is sitting in the front row a third of the way round from the entrance. He has a banner, too, Zagreus’ face trimmed with red, wedged in between two copies of the Bull of Minos’ noble visage. He spots her two empty rows away, and she can tell by the sheepish look on his face that he’s going to apologise before saying hello.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘He’s been getting faster. I thought we should come by early.’
‘It’s fine.’
Meg sits next to him, crosses her legs, and spreads her arms along the cold stone back of the bench. Than stares at her hand, not quite touching his shoulder, like no one has ever put an arm around him before. He offers her a bottle of ambrosia.
‘Drinking on the job, Than?’ she drawls. ‘And contraband, at that.’
‘It’s allowed in Elysium,’ he says defensively. ‘And if you examine the minutes of last week’s inaugural meeting of the Underworld Employees’ Union, I think you’ll find I’m mandated an hour’s break per five hundred souls—’
‘Than,’ Meg says. ‘Relax.’
The ambrosia warms the tips of her fingers. It’s bizarrely cold in Elysium, like the Underworld felt the need to compensate for what was happening down in Asphodel.
‘How many bottles is it he’s given you now?’ she says by way of conversation.
‘Er. Only three. It’s nothing.’
‘Only.’ Meg raises an eyebrow. ‘Remind me, Than, how many bottles of ambrosia had you ever seen before Zagreus’ Elysian excursions?’
‘One?’
‘Mm. I remember that one. It was mostly empty and you still insisted we log it as black market goods. But, yes, only three pristine, unopened bottles of finest Olympian ambrosia.’ She pauses to watch Than squirm, a feat he accomplishes with only his facial muscles. ‘I’m sure you’re right. They don’t mean anything.’
‘Megaera,’ Than says, puffed up and affronted, but he’s interrupted by the groan of the arena gates rolling open.
The number of spectators in the audience doubles between breaths. There’s a moment of growing tension—a beat too long, in Meg’s estimation, and she knows a thing or two about denying someone an anticipated pleasure—and then the Champion of Elysium strides out onto the sands, and for a moment Meg thinks she really can see the gleam of his smile, but—
‘What is he wearing?’
‘I don’t know,’ Than says. ‘This is new.’
Asterius emerges next, done up in equally blinding gold armour but thankfully missing a face mask to match Theseus’. He drags something large and hulking.
‘And what is that?’ Than sounds appalled. ‘This can’t be in line with regulations!’
‘Macedonian Tau-Lambda,’ Meg says. At the lack of enlightenment on Thanatos’ face, she adds, ‘War chariot. Someone tried to smuggle one in, couple centuries ago. Didn’t end well. This one must have a permit behind it.’
Down below, Theseus takes his place atop the war chariot and begins a stately circumnavigation of the arena. The crowd swells in his wake.
‘I can’t believe you’re making me witness this,’ Meg says.
‘It’ll be worth it.’ Than’s sallow cheeks shade the tiniest bit pink. ‘When Zag turns up.’
As if summoned by his words, the opposite gate begins to open. Theseus, still basking in adulation, starts comically and races the chariot to the centre of the arena, mask askew, just in time to greet his opponent.
‘He looks so small from up here.’
Than spares her a glare, then turns his attention back to Zagreus, tiny and confident below.
‘Then again, I suppose he’s always small.’
‘Meg,’ Than says in the voice of someone regretting their life choices. ‘We are here to be supportive.’
‘Of course we are.’ Meg cups her hands in front of her mouth. ‘Go tiny prince!’
The fight begins. Than chooses to show her how it’s done. She has to admit he’s impressive: if any of the spectators are visible from the arena floor it must be him, gesticulating and yelling, one voice against the tide supporting Theseus. She’s proud of him. Stuffy, uptight Thanatos, letting go, publicly supporting the man he’s in love with.
As for the fight itself? Well. Zagreus’ presence so high among the tiers of the Underworld is built on her defeat, and Meg isn’t the forgiving type. She’s the first to say so. All she wishes on those that best her is a crushing loss at the hands of someone else. Her sisters are normally all too happy to oblige, but there’s no reason the Champion of Elysium can’t perform the same role.
Which is why she’d never admit to the wave of elation she feels when Zagreus brings down first Asterius and then, teetering on the brink of exhaustion, Theseus himself.
‘It’s nice of you to do this,’ Meg says, to distract herself from the pounding of her heart and, worse, the affection she feels towards both the man in the arena below and the one sitting next to her. ‘Imagine being Zag. The entire Underworld against you, time after time after time… It must be nice to know your best friend is in your corner.’
Than coughs into his sleeve. ‘Yes. Of course. He knows that. I help him sometimes.’
‘I meant this.’ Meg waves a hand, taking in Than’s banner, the flush of exertion on his face brought about by cheering. ‘You know how Zag is. This sort of thing probably means more than if you’d cleared all of Elysium ahead of him.’
‘Yes, well, I mean—’
Zagreus’ voices carries up to the stands: ‘Thank you, my good shade! And—oh! You’ve brought a friend.’ Meg can picture him perfectly, pleased and a little surprised. ‘I won’t lie, I was a little worried when I saw that chariot, but I should never have doubted your support!’
And then he’s off, sauntering towards the middle of the arena where a shade is proffering his reward—yet another bottle of ambrosia. Meg turns to Than and smirks.
‘Really?’
‘I—it would just be distracting if he knew it was me, I didn’t want to—'
‘Really, Than?’
‘I think,’ Than says stiffly, ‘that he knows. Subconsciously. Why else would he give me those three bottles?’
Meg barely refrains from slapping him. Instead, she cups his chin with one hand, thumb tracing his lower lip.
‘You know,’ Meg says, ‘I slept with him after four.’ She bares her teeth. ‘Sand’s running, Than.’