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He is a good deal of many things, this son of Hades, prince of the Underworld. Willful rebel, stubborn brat, halfblooded menace, lonely, aching, restless. A marriage of contraries. His misbegotten divinity swirls within him in roiling chaos, latent still, yet already pervasive enough to rip through the stifling air of the House of the Dead. His father's abode, sprawling and vast as it is, can barely contain him, whispers of trouble following in Zagreus' wake. The lad knows, of course, and he bares his teeth at ashen halls the way a cornered beast does. Today, he rages at these unyielding walls, indifferent as they are to his claims. Tomorrow, the halls and passageways will quake as he goes. He will learn to wield his powers. He will make himself heard.
This, Achilles knows out of instinct.
He can sense the lad rumbling about from the opposite side of the House. The resonance grows ever stronger, plucking at his own golden tether to divinity — the part of him his mother tried to tease out with ambrosia and fire. He wonders if Zagreus can feel it too, godhood calling to godhood; if he mills around Achilles, even when they are not due for training, hoping for recognition, hoping for Achilles to mould him into the right shape. Zagreus demands it, even, tugging at Achilles’ chlamys, reaching for his bracers, his spear, his temper. Fight, I want to fight. Bruise me up. Beat me into what I should be. Achilles can’t blame him, really. With a father like Hades, all Zagreus is familiar with is pain. Still, he has to breathe deep and remind himself that he no longer accepts challenges. Nothing good can come from granting a fifteen-ish-years-old immortal what he wants, not even out of kindness.
This, he knows out of experience.
It’s hard not to relent to Zagreus’ incessant need to prove himself. Harder still, when Achilles tastes the potential in him. The prince may be all coltish limbs and eagerness now, but he holds such promise. Give him time, and the boy will take to his godhood like kindle to dry grass. Give him the chance to prove himself against Achilles’ unbridled strength, and Zagreus will grow to rage like a forest fire.
That is exactly the problem. Whenever Zagreus picks himself up and asks to go again, harder this time, Achilles feels his heart swells with pride. He would sing to the scab of the prince’s knees if he could; would let Zagreus’ suckle his fill of violence like Zeus did at Amalthea’s bosom. But he won’t. He won’t. Not even to make Zagreus feel better about himself. Not even to help him make sense of his furious, incongruous nature.
Because Zagreus is alone; he doesn’t have a helpful shadow at his side, kind eyes and stern voice pointing him towards reason. Zagreus won’t have anyone to lean on, no matter how desperately he longs for companionship. He needs to stand on his own. He needs to be better than Achilles ever was, lest he falls further and quicker than Achilles did.
So, for a long time, Achilles chides and corrects the princes’ forms, and stomps out Zagreus’ attempts to pick fights with patience. He provides advices. He learns how to offer encouragement. He keeps pride under lock and key. After all, it is for the living, those who still have something to achieve, and for the exalted of blessed Elysium. Not for a young demigod quaking under the weight of expectations. Nor for a shade cast to Tartarus, holding tightly onto his memories.
One day Zagreus will burn bright. Until then, Achilles holds out his hands, weathered and blood-stained as they are, and lets Zagreus’ mellow warmth seep in his heart.
He shields the spark.
He keeps the flame.