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Zagreus looked at his bed, with its crimson sheets trimmed with gold, and he told himself he wasn't tired.
He wasn't tired. Was he? He didn't need to sleep. Nobody slept in the underworld, and even if the mortals did, he was— he was different. He was stronger. He had wielded the power of the gods. He hadn’t come this far only to be felled by the pathetic trappings of sleep.
He told himself this, and he almost believed it.
Yet he stood there, blood dripping from his body from his latest emergence from the River Styx, his muscles sore from the recent defeat, his heart still hammering madly in his chest from adrenaline that hadn't dissipated, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. He felt sick with himself for it.
He was rooted to the spot, staring at the damned bed with a powerful, reckless desire to run it through with his sword. He sighed, and the breath caught in his chest as if he were suffocating. As if the fire that burned inside of him had finally been snuffed out, leaving nothing but smoldering ash in its ruin.
He grit his teeth as the headache behind his eyes grew tenfold. He tried to sigh again. It brought him no relief.
Zagreus sat down on the bed, the soft mattress giving way beneath his weight, and was surprised to find that it actually was, in fact, comfortable. The fabric was gentle and smooth under his touch, and it soothed the roughness of his hot skin. He lay back—and, for good measure, since if he was going to act a fool today he might as well commit to the part—tucked his lower body underneath the blankets.
Inside his bedchambers, Zagreus found a moment of stillness he had rarely before allowed himself. He could still make out, distantly, the ambient sounds of the House—the shades whispering outside his doorway, his father’s booming commands, the gentle clinking of glass and cutlery in the lounge. It all felt far away from him, underneath the covers as he was. He adjusted himself, the mattress molding to his body as he shifted its weight. It was soft and plush underneath him, yet as he tossed from one side to another he found that it supported him quite firmly. The tightness in his back loosened slightly as he sank into the softness of it.
Zagreus blinked, his eyes wide as he appraised the situation. By the gods. Had he really denied himself such a simple comfort for so long?
And yet, even in the face of the genuine niceness of the situation, Zagreus could not ignore the blood roaring in his ears, the relentless fidget in his limbs. He knew he should not be here. He should be outside, striking down shades and weaving his way endlessly from one chamber to the next. Not here, like some pathetic Royal who lay in bed while the world happened around him and slipped past his hands. He should be out in Tartarus, tearing his way through his father's domain to find his—
The pain in his head throbbed. Zagreus gasped, his hands on his cranium as if he were being attacked. He tasted blood in his mouth. Suddenly the experience of being in bed was not pleasant at all.
Okay, he thought to himself. That's more than enough time wasted.
So. He should get out of bed, right?
Right.
Zagreus, still pathetically, deplorably under the godsforsaken blankets, imagined himself running, fighting through the dungeons, willing himself to feel excited by the destruction, to be overcome with determination to escape—
and he found nothing in himself but exhaustion.
It was like death as he had never experienced it before. Zagreus closed his eyes, hating himself as he did so.
Well, Zagreus thought, as the darkness threatened to pull him to unconsciousness. Perhaps I will finally understand what Hypnos loves about this so much.