Chapter Text
There was a beauty to life that Zagreus grew unaware of.
His days were spent beneath the green hue of the Ixion. His boyhood and manhood melted together in a whirlwind of spears and arrows and a grey courtyard. Growing up, Zagreus was surrounded by the deities of Death, by the lifeless Shades, and a Father who did not care to sate his curiosities.
The Prince of the Underworld was unaware of what life was like.
Of what it meant to be alive.
Of what it entailed.
He had asked, of course. He mused with Thanatos about the short lives of mortals. He’s asked Achilles and Patroclus more than once about their lives on the surface. He’s asked Orpheus and Eurydice to regale him with their stories of woodland nymphs and the adventures they once had in the mortal realm. He’s pressed Mother about the mortal world, like a restless child, urging her to repeat stories about the sun. The great, blue sky. The many-colored flowers and the towering green trees. Hell, he’s even asked Megaera—of all people and shades and gods—about what she thinks of mortal life.
Their answers were more or less the same.
Mortal lives were short. And perhaps that gave life its ultimate meaning.
But how was Zagreus supposed to know that, to understand what they meant by that? He grew up surrounded by the Dead, and the only beating hearts Zagreus grew accustomed to were filled with ichor and not blood.
It was too easy for him to dismiss his curiosities of life. In a world filled with nothing but blood and darkness, life was a mystery.
What was life to a mortal? Everything.
What was life to a god?
It was a musing.
Zagreus often wondered, what would it be like to live, knowing it was the only life they had?
He doesn’t know.
But he supposes that it must be sad. If not sad, then incredibly anxiety-inducing at the very least.
Zagreus stands up.
He stares into the bright, cloudy sky. He extends his injured hand, and a snowflake drops onto his palm.
He smiles. A drop of his own blood drips to the carpet of snow on the forest ground.
Hypnos has made it a game between them to see how creative his surface deaths could be. Being slain by REDACTED was getting quite dull, so Hypnos chided Zagreus with a few bottles of Nectar and an illegal Ambrosia to get out there and entertain me, Zagreus!
So, instead of looking for the next best way to die, Zagreus moves deeper into the forest of tall, snow-covered trees and forgotten paths. He leaves nothing in his wake except footprints and damp land, for the snow on the ground melts beneath his feet. A soothing touch. A giddy feeling.
He just wants to see more of the woods. The trees. The animals! He hears chirping birds, buzzing insects, and he pauses when he hears a strange, little sound.
Ribbit. Ribbit.
Zagreus crouches beside a pond. He raises his eyebrows because perched on a rock is a curious little creature with wide, black eyes and an imposing demeanor.
They stare at each other.
The green creature jumps. Startled, Zagreus sits back on his flame-licked heels. He huffs out a laugh.
“What are you?” Zagreus muses.
The creature begins its odd song again, ribbit, ribbit, and its throat bubbles like a lung.
“Ribbit?” Zagreus repeats. “What does that mean?”
In answer, ribbit ribbit.
Zagreus nods approvingly. “Indeed, Mister Ribbit.” He reaches to pet the creature and winces when his hands come back slimy. Eugh.
The creature darts out its tongue. Amused, Zagreus pokes it, prompting Mister Ribbit to darts its tongue out again before jumping a great distance away from Zagreus with surprisingly strength and speed.
“Well, see you!” Zagreus called, his eyes following Mister Ribbit before he disappears behind a bush. “And take care!”
Before Zagreus can stand up, though…
He pauses.
At the edge of the lake is a white, dead bird.
Zagreus’ chest clenches.
It’s… It might be a stupid instinct inside of him to feel this way for mere roadkill. He’s killed vermin and satyrs in the Temple of Styx, but Zagreus always felt terrible about it, no matter Achilles’ reassurance or Mother’s comfort. And Zagreus cannot help but feel bad now, seeing the flattened form of the beautiful bird, with its torn wing and beaten down chest.
Zagreus scoots closer to the white bird before considering things like dead creature stench or the awful texture of a dead creature.
He doesn’t care about that right now.
Zagreus extends his injured hand towards the bird. With a start, Zagreus realizes that he’s never seen a death this close before. He’s never had the time to really think about the vermin or the satyrs. He just… pushed past them, always, not stopping to think until Achilles noticed the wariness on his face—the ridiculous grief that should not have been there.
Death was a part of the mortal world, right? This happened. It was natural. There was nothing amiss here.
But…
Zagreus touches the creature with his injured hand. A drop of red blood falls onto its beautiful white feathers.
There were no other words to be said other than, “I’m sorry.”
And then—
Zagreus felt a tugging sensation deep in his gut, somewhere behind his navel, and somewhere beyond that, too, like a piece of his soul was being hooked and pulled forth. Gasping, Zagreus lurches forward, pressing his uninjured hand to his gut. Gods, what the fuck, did the bird just glow—
The dead creature rises.
Zagreus watches, wide-eyed, as the bird’s limbs begin to mend themselves. Then, it turns a healthier, more wonderful shade of white that stands out against the icy snow. The bird stretches for a moment, taking a luxurious amount of time to unfurl its wings as if they weren’t bent in unnatural angles mere moments ago.
“Holy gods,” Zagreus whispers. The white bird’s chest was stained with the red of Zagreus’ blood. “Holy gods. Oh, oh gods—”
The bird chirps.
It nips Zagreus’ hand with its beak. Affectionate, almost.
It flaps its wings twice.
And without looking back, the (assumingly) grateful white bird flies away to join the rustle of wind and leaves. As the bird flew away to seek its freedom, Zagreus finds himself sitting there, encapsulating the very meaning of dumbfounded.
For a long, long moment—or as long as his Chthonic body will let him—he hugs his knees and stays beside the pond. The snow creates a blanket across his shivering arms, his feet melt the ice, and his thoughts are eerily quiet.
Except for one, singular mantea.
He was the god of blood.
The god of life.
Zagreus kept thinking until he felt a sickly, unnatural chill.
And the Styx took him home.