Archive of Our Own

It is Zagreus’ idea, of course. 

“Remind me again,” says Thanatos, looking up at the ever-imposing slopes of Mount Pelion, his heart pounding in his chest, “why I let you talk me into this?”

A chill breeze gusts through the valley, a reminder of the fast-approaching autumn. Despite it, Thanatos feels beads of sweat forming at his temples and moisture slicking his palms. He rubs his hands hastily on his cloak. 

“Because you have nothing to lose,” Zagreus says immediately and assuredly, turning to face him. He grabs Thanatos’ hands in his own, kindly not mentioning how sweaty they are, and smiles. “We’ve talked about this before, yeah?”

Thanatos hums noncommittally, his gaze continuing to stray nervously up towards the peak of the mountain despite his best efforts. Just the thought of facing Chiron after so many years . . . well. Thanatos knows that, if Zagreus weren’t holding his hands right now—steadying him, grounding him—he would have run already.

“Than,” comes Zagreus’ voice, cutting through the rising wave of panic threatening to sweep Thanatos under. His hand grasps Thanatos’ chin, forcing him to meet his eyes, before he crushes their lips together in a sudden, messy kiss that leaves Thanatos lightheaded.

“Are you listening to me now?” says Zagreus when he finally pulls away, his grip on Thanatos’ chin loosening slightly. His stern words are belied by the mischief dancing in his eyes and smile.

Thanatos swallows. He doesn’t think he could look away from Zagreus now, even if he wanted to. “Yes.”

“Good.” Zagreus nods. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, hardly above a whisper. A gentle reassurance, only for Thanatos to hear. “Than, it’s going to be fine. Look, I did some pretty stupid things when Achilles was training me—”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” mumbles Thanatos, which Zagreus appears not to hear, for he continues on as though Thanatos hadn’t interrupted him.

“—and he always, always forgave me. I’m sure Chiron will do the same.”

Thanatos shifts his weight from foot to foot, though he does not release his hands from Zagreus’ hold.

“And if he doesn’t?” Thanatos’ voice comes out small, trembling slightly with the barely restrained fear he holds in regards to the uncertain answer to that question.

Zagreus squeezes Thanatos’ hands. “If he doesn’t, then we’ll walk back down this mountain, and we’ll be right back where we started.” He shrugs. “There’s no harm in trying, right?”

Thanatos sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

At this, Zagreus grins and bestows another kiss upon Thanatos. Thanatos tries to deepen it, but Zagreus pulls back quickly, a smile dancing on his lips.

“I’m always right, Than.”

Thanatos rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Zagreus.”

Zagreus laughs at that, and Thanatos feels a sudden, intense rush of gratitude that he somehow, somehow gets to have this: Zagreus, bright as the sunrise, steady as the earth, by his side as he stares down a task he has not had the courage to face in years.

Thanatos isn’t sure when Chiron first told him the story of how people were first created as pairs—two halves, put together to make a whole. Then Zeus, in fear of their power, had split them in two, leaving the split-people to wander the Earth in search of the other piece of their soul.

“But do people ever find their other halves?” Thanatos remembers asking Chiron. “It’s a big world.”

Chiron’s eyes had twinkled. “Sometimes they do,” he had said, “if they are very, very lucky.”

Thanatos’ eyes turn towards the peak of Mount Pelion once more, the memory of Chiron’s voice echoing in his head.

“Are you ready?” Zagreus asks.

Thanatos is not sure he ever will be, but with Zagreus next to him—beautiful and bright and smiling—he thinks he is willing to try. 

“Yes,” Thanatos answers. He has the sudden, wild notion that he might, impossibly, be one of the lucky ones. 

*

Despite not having climbed it for many years, Thanatos’ feet find the winding path up the slopes of Mount Pelion with familiar ease. 

At first, the path is wide and clear-cut, strewn with the occasional rock or plant. They walk side by side, Thanatos leading Mort by the reins behind them. Zagreus chatters about anything and everything that catches his eye—this tree here; this squirrel there—and Thanatos is grateful for it. The steady cadence of Zagreus’ voice soothes his ragged nerves, as it always does.

As they continue to climb, the trail narrows until they are forced to walk single file: first Zagreus, then Thanatos, with Mort at the back. 

“How much farther do we have to go?” asks Zagreus. The sun is entirely overhead by now, and they’ve paused in their climb to drink from the waterskin.

Thanatos hums and looks up, shading his eyes from the sun. 

“We’re about halfway there,” Thanatos says. Even just saying that out loud makes his heart race in his chest.

Zagreus, of course, catches the hitch in Thanatos’ breath. He turns to smile at him, and the sight eases some of Thanatos’ rising tension. 

“Hey,” Zagreus murmurs. “It’s going to be alright.”

They continue on. The air grows colder the higher they climb, despite the sun overhead. Eventually, the trail splits in two, and Thanatos halts.

He knows from experience that it will be much easier to climb the rest of the way on horse instead of their tired feet, so he and Zagreus mount Mort and continue, taking the path that leads to the right.

Up, up, up they go. The sun falls towards the west behind them. Zagreus begins to hum something to the steady fall of Mort’s hooves on the dirt beneath them, a tune Thanatos hasn’t heard before.

“New song of yours?” asks Thanatos. 

“Oh, no,” replies Zagreus. “It’s just one of Orpheus’ songs that I’ve picked up.”

Thanatos’ mouth falls open. Orpheus—his voice, specifically—is legend. Most people would have given their right arms to have seen one of his performances when he was alive.

“You’ve heard him play?”

“Sure!” Zagreus says brightly. “He’s our court musician.”

“He’s your . . .” Thanatos shakes his head, then he laughs. “Of course he is.”

“He didn’t always play for us,” Zagreus continues. “For a long time, he just sat in the throne room and refused to sing, no matter how much nectar and ambrosia I plied him with.”

Thanatus hums. “Why?”

“He was separated from his muse, Eurydice. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Their tale is very popular with the bards up here.”

Thanatos nods. Their story is famous across Greece, though it was Chiron, however, who first told him the tale: how Orpheus, in his grief over Eurydice’s death, had entered the Underworld and sung a song so beautiful that even the Furies had wept. Being so moved, Lord Hades had allowed him one chance to return Eurydice to the mortal world, but there had been a catch. As Orpheus walked out of the Underworld, he was not allowed to look back at Eurydice—not until they had both left the Underworld. 

Thanatos can still hear Chiron’s rumbling, melancholy voice as he had told Thanatos, “Orpheus looked back, and Eurydice fell back into the Underworld.”

Thanatos had been outraged. “But, Chiron—I don’t understand why. That was the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do! How could he be so selfish?”

Chiron had raised a steady eyebrow. Not a reprimand, but a silent demand for Thanatos to think a little bit harder, a little bit deeper. Thanatos had been young, then, and impulsive in his thinking. 

“You think it was selfish?” asked Chiron. 

Thanatos had frowned. “I—I think so. By doing so, she died. Again. His whole purpose in going to the Underworld was rendered pointless.”

Chiron had hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said, “and perhaps not. Perhaps Orpheus had considered that returning her to the mortal world would be the greater punishment. Perhaps Eurydice asked him to leave her behind. Tell me, Thanatos, do you think what’s dead should stay dead?”

It had been a big question for one as young as Thanatos. He hadn’t answered; he simply looked at Chiron in expectation of one. It hadn’t come. Chiron had been looking into the fire instead, and Thanatos had gotten the strange feeling that he was miles and years away from him, despite his close physical proximity—that he was thinking of all the dead he had once known in life, and how they had forever stayed that way.

Thanatos remembers wondering whether, if Chiron were given the choice, he would bring them all back to life or leave them to rest. He had not asked.

Beneath him, Mort’s body jolts over a particularly rocky stretch of path, and Thanatos blinks himself out of the haze of memory.

Thanatos asks, “Why does Orpheus sing now?”

“What?”

“You said that you learned that song from Orpheus. So he must be singing again. Why?”

“Oh! Well, he and Eurydice were reunited.” Zagreus clears his throat. “I might have . . . um . . . gone behind my father’s back to change his contract so that they could visit each other.”

It’s funny, Thanatos thinks. Every time he is convinced he cannot love Zagreus any more than he already does, Zagreus says or does something that leaves him breathless, causes his love to swell in his chest like the tide, and he realizes he loves him even more than he did the minute before. 

“That was very kind of you,” Thanatos manages to say, though it barely scratches the surface of what he actually means. 

Zagreus hums nonchalantly, though Thanatos can hear the smile in it. He thinks it likely that Zagreus is blushing, and dearly wishes he were facing him so that he could see it.

“It was the right thing to do,” says Zagreus with a shrug. “And really, you should have seen Orpheus before. He was so gloomy, even by Underworld standards. I think my father would have done it himself, if I hadn’t stepped in.”

Thanatos squeezes Zagreus’ side. “Stop deflecting the compliment. You did a great thing. You changed their lives for the better.”

“Hmph,” says Zagreus, though Thanatos can tell that he is smiling.

They lapse into silence, broken only by the steady clop of Mort’s hooves or the whistling of a bird overhead. Thanatos thinks about love and dying and about how every single time Zagreus has died before his eyes, Thanatos has either wanted to pull him back up to life or follow him under into death. 

“Are they happy?” asks Thanatos into the silence. “Are they happy, together in death? Now that they’re reunited?”

Zagreus is quiet for a moment. Then he says, serious as Thanatos has ever heard him, “Orpheus has not stopped singing since.”

*

It does not take long for Chiron to find them once they reach the highest peaks of the mountain. Thanatos remembers this, remembers how hardly a squirrel flicked its tail or a berry grew on a bush without Chiron being aware of it. 

“Halt,” says a voice. Thanatos’ chest fills with a sudden, icy rush of panic, but he manages to pull on Mort’s reins and bring them to a stop. 

Chiron emerges from the trees, the bow in his hands tightly drawn. Thanatos sees the moment his eyes flash with recognition, and Thanatos’ breath catches in his chest. 

“Thanatos,” says Chiron. His voice is the same as Thanatos remembers—deep, melancholy, and unreadably even. Thankfully, he lowers his bow.

“Chiron,” Thanatos greets, in a voice that almost doesn’t shake. He bows as low as he can, situated as he is on Mort’s back with Zagreus in front of him.

When he looks up, Chiron is simply staring at him, his gaze as penetrating as it was when Thanatos was a child. It had always made him feel pried open, like Chiron could read everything in Thanatos’ heart and mind with only his eyes, and it feels the same now. Thanatos wonders what Chiron is seeing.

“And who have you brought with you?”

In front of him, Zagreus dips his body forwards and says, “I am called Zag, Lord Chiron.”

“Please, I am no lord.” Chiron smiles. “In fact, it is I who should be bowing to you, Lord Zagreus of the Underworld, son of Lord Hades and Lady Persephone.”

Chiron inclines his head towards Zagreus, much to Zagreus’ clear surprise.

“I am . . . also no lord,” Zagreus finally says, sounding a little flustered. “Or if I am, I don’t need to be called one.” 

Chiron nods gravely. “Then we shall both do away with the title for each other and call it even. Come.”

Chiron turns and begins leading the way through the thick forest. Zagreus twists around to give Thanatos a wide grin and a thumbs up. Thanatos rolls his eyes, but finds himself encouraged by it nonetheless. At least Chiron hadn’t immediately turned him away. That’s a good first sign, Thanatos tells himself. He takes a deep, steadying breath before grabbing Mort’s reins and following Chiron deeper into the forest.

Chiron’s home looks the same as Thanatos remembers, the rose quartz cave glittering in light of the falling sun. He hears Zagreus’ small intake of breath as they approach, awed and reverent. Thanatos is strongly reminded of the first time he himself saw this place and beheld the beauty of it. 

“Dinner is nearly ready,” says Chiron. He gestures to the small fire burning in front of the cave. “Take a seat. I will bring you bowls.”

Thanatos and Zagreus dismount Mort, and Thanatos makes quick work of unbridling him so that he can wander and graze as he pleases. Zagreus has already taken a seat near the fire. He lifts his hand, and Thanatos takes it immediately. Once seated, Zagreus squeezes his fingers gently; Thanatos squeezes back, grateful to have an anchor in this sea of uncertainty. 

Chiron returns promptly with a tray carrying three bowls, each laden with thick stew. He gives them each a bowl, before setting the tray down and folding himself onto his haunches.

The silence that settles over them as they eat is incredibly stilted. Chiron sits across the fire, staring into the flames and not talking. Thanatos’ mind churns, running itself in circles around what he should say—or if he should say anything at all. Zagreus sits next to him, politely eating his dinner, though his eyes keep darting uncertainly between Chiron and Thanatos.

“Well,” says Zagreus, after several uncomfortable minutes of this, “the stew is delicious—”

“It has been a long time, Thanatos,” says Chiron, interrupting Zagreus. He gazes intently at Thanatos from across the flames, and Thanatos feels his face burn with shame. His heart feels like it’s crawling its way up his throat, but he knows that he must face Chiron.

“Zag,” Thanatos says gently, and Zagreus immediately turns to him. “Would you mind taking our dishes inside?”

Zagreus looks once more between Chiron and Thanatos before smiling softly. 

“Sure, Than,” he says, with a parting squeeze to Thanatos’ hand that comforts him right down to his bones. He gathers up his and Thanatos’ empty bowls and makes his way into the cave.

“There is a washbin on the right side of the cave,” says Chiron.

“Yes, sir,” comes Zagreus’ voice.

And then—he and Chiron are alone. Thanatos forces himself to swallow his shame and look directly into Chiron’s eyes.

“Chiron,” he begins, and damn it, his voice is already unsteady, “I’m sorry.”

Chiron tilts his head. “What are you sorry for?”

Thanatos swallows. “Surely you . . . you’ve heard about Sisyphus?”

“Yes.” Chiron sighs. A small noise, but one that Thanatos feels acutely. “I heard.”

“I—I know I let you down,” says Thanatos quickly, his voice suddenly choked. “And I’m sorry for that.”

“You believe you have let me down?”

Thanatos blinks at him, startled at the genuine confusion he hears in Chiron’s voice.

“I—yes, sir. I do.” Thanatos takes a shaky breath. “I killed a lot of people. I—”

But Chiron only shakes his head gently, effectively cutting off Thanatos’ words. 

“Thanatos, you have not let me down.”

The words are so unexpected, Thanatos physically reels back with the shock of them.  

“I—haven’t?”

Chiron’s expression becomes troubled. “Alas. Perhaps I should have told you . . .”

Thanatos blinks rapidly. “Told me? Told me what?”

“No. I cannot.” Chiron mutters something else, but over the crackling of the fire Thanatos only manages to catch one word: “prophecy”. A slow tingle works its way down his spine, though he isn’t quite sure why.

Thanatos wants to know more, but he can tell by Chiron’s expression that he will not receive any more information if he pushes the matter. He focuses instead on the unexpected relief of Chiron’s earlier words.

“You aren’t . . . you aren’t disappointed in me?” Thanatos asks slowly, hardly daring to believe it, needing to hear it again.

Chiron smiles and breathes out, seemingly relieved that Thanatos has changed the subject.

“No, Thanatos, I am not,” says Chiron, and Thanatos feels the words like the first ray of sunlight that breaks though the clouds after a long winter, bright and golden and welcome. Thanatos takes a breath—deep,  slightly shaky—and it feels like the first full breath of air he’s taken since he escaped from Sisyphus’ dungeons. 

Chiron smiles at him, gentle and warm. “I have trained you since you were a child, Thanatos. I know you deeply and well. Whatever you do, wherever you go—you could never disappoint me.”

Thanatos forces himself to nod. His throat feels too tight to speak.

“And,” continues Chiron, “I believe you have paid your penance for it, over and over again. It is time, I think, to let your suffering over the past go.” 

Thanatos nods again. He breathes, and his breaths slowly become easier and easier, fuller and fuller. His eyes flick towards the cave where Zagreus is humming loudly to himself as he scrubs at their bowls. He can’t help but smile. 

“Dwelling on the past will take you nowhere. Your destiny still lies ahead of you,” continues Chiron. “Certain things have . . . ah, come to light.”

Something rolls over in Thanatos’ stomach. “Would this have anything to do with the prophecy that you were muttering about earlier?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

Chiron fixes him with a stare: not menacing, not cold, but melancholy, and so very, very old, that Thanatos immediately feels guilty for pushing the subject. 

“I am sorry, Thanatos,” says Chiron, his voice heavy with resignation. “I cannot tell you. But trust me when I say—hiding in the shadows will not bring you far.”

Thanatos swallows. “People do not make that easy.”

Chiron glances significantly towards the cave, where Zagreus has begun to sing, much to Thanatos’ abject horror, “Toss a Drachma to Your Demigod.”

“I have heard that your . . . ah . . . bard has made some headway on that front,” says Chiron with a twinkle in his eye. “In fact, I believe we’re getting a rendition of one of his most popular songs right now.”

Despite Thanatos’ embarrassment, he knows that Chiron is right. In the year that Zagreus and Thanatos have traveled together, Zagreus’ repertoire of songs about Thanatos has grown, and several have become quite popular. In more progressive cities and towns, Thanatos is now actively sought after to slay various monsters when he passes through. It is a kindness Thanatos cannot even begin to thank Zagreus for. He glances over at Zagreus again, who is now doing a little dance to the tune of the song, and Thanatos can’t help but grin. 

Gods, how he loves Zagreus.

“Zagreus has certainly made things easier for me,” acknowledges Thanatos, turning back to Chiron, who’s looking at him with a smile. “I honestly don’t know how I could ever repay him. But his influence does not extend everywhere, nor with everyone. In fact, I think my growing reputation in some places has made the people even more resentful of me.”

“Then do not travel to those places,” says Chiron simply. “Your Zagreus has handed you an incredible gift. Do not take it lightly. You say you do not know how to repay that kindness—the only way you can is to make use of its results. That is the only way you will find your destiny.”

Thanatos remains silent, staring at the flickering flames in front of him as his mind churns and churns. 

Finally, he decides to ask the one question he has spent his life trying to figure out. 

“What is my destiny?” 

When Chiron finally responds, it is with all of the gravitas in the world. 

“It is something that will not happen to you if you stay hidden in your shadows and underneath your cloak hoods. You must choose to come out of the darkness, Thanatos.” The reflection of the fire between them dances in Chiron’s eyes, his gaze burning into him. “It is time, I think. Step into the light.”

What does the light look like? Thanatos almost asks, but at that moment, Zagreus returns, and Thanatos’ question is answered for him. 

“All right out here?” asks Zagreus, taking his seat once more. Thanatos takes his hands and squeezes his assurance.

“It is growing late,” says Chiron, “but I think one tale before bed would do us all good. Zagreus, have you heard of the tale of Eros and Psyche?”

“Yes, sir,” says Zagreus, looking slightly startled at being addressed so directly. 

“Psyche?” Thanatos looks between Chiron and Zagreus, casting about in his memory to try and recollect any myth Chiron has told him about someone with that name. He comes up empty. 

Zagreus looks at Thanatos strangely. “Don’t tell me you don’t know her story, Than. Even I—”

“Alas, that is not Thanatos’ fault,” says Chiron with a sigh. “By the god’s orders, I was not allowed to tell the true story of Psyche and Eros to any of my charges, but I think . . . well, I think it may be a useful tale for you to hear, Thanatos. May the gods forgive me.”

Thanatos finds himself sitting up perfectly straight, a burning sort of curiosity in his mind. He listens carefully as Chiron begins:

“A very long time ago, there once lived a princess by the name of Psyche. She was renowned far and wide for her beauty. People from all reaches of the country came to visit her, though she was never pursued by any suitor. All were content simply to gaze upon her.

Finally, in desperation, her family prayed to the gods, asking them to bring Psyche a suitor. The gods instructed her to walk to the top of a large hill and wait with her eyes closed. There, Eros caught sight of her, and fell immediately in love.

He spirited her away to his enchanted castle, where all of Psyche’s needs and wants were attended to. But Eros kept himself out of sight, and warned Psyche to never gaze upon his true form. Psyche did not know who her suitor was, only knew what he told her: that he loved her, that he would attend to her every wish for the rest of his days, but that she must never look at him.”

Thanatos can’t help but ask, “Why?”

“I do not pretend to understand the gods’ motivations,” says Chiron thoughtfully. “Perhaps it was a sort of test, to see how trustworthy Psyche was.” 

Zagreus wrinkles his nose at this.

“Or, perhaps, it was simply a case of Eros’ nervousness in the face of someone he held so dearly.”

“Surely, gods can’t feel nervous,” says Thanatos, slightly incredulous.

It is Zagreus who answers, smiling slightly at Thanatos as he speaks. “Gods can feel nervous.”

Chiron looks between the two of them for a moment, a contemplative expression on his face, before continuing.

“Alas, eventually Psyche was overcome with curiosity over who her gracious suitor was. One night she lit a lamp, stole away into the bedroom where Eros slept, and looked upon him. In her surprise to learn that her suitor was no less than a god, she spilled the hot lamp oil and woke him. Eros, feeling betrayed, immediately fled.

Psyche, believing her love to forever be lost to her, wandered in despair. Eventually, she prayed to Aphrodite for help. Aphrodite gave her three impossible tasks to complete, with the promise that, should she accomplish all three, Eros would be returned to her.

Psyche, clever and kind, managed to complete two, but, alas . . . she was killed by the third.”

Chiron pauses. Thanatos says with a resigned sigh, “Well, that is certainly an unhappy fate.”

But to his surprise, Chiron smiles. “It is a good thing, then, that her tale is not finished yet.”

Thanatos raises his eyebrows, and Chiron continues, “Eros, who was still very much in love with Psyche, found her body. In his grief, he prayed desperately to Zeus to make Psyche a goddess so that she may live forever with Eros at her side. Zeus agreed, and allowed Eros to give Psyche ambrosia, thus restoring her to life as a goddess. She and Eros were married, and they still live together in their enchanted castle to this day.”

There is silence as Thanatos processes this. Finally, with disbelief coloring his tone, he says, “Zeus—what? Never . . . I have never heard of the gods making someone immortal simply for . . . simply for love.”

“That is because this is the only time it has happened, thus why the gods are keen to keep it quiet,” explains Chiron patiently. “And love is not a simple matter, Thanatos.”

At this, the three of them all fall into a contemplative quiet, filled only with the soft chirping of insects and the crackle of the fire. Thanatos thinks about Psyche’s tale, and about love—about a love worth dying for, then worth living forever for.

“Do you think she ever regrets it?” asks Thanatos, several minutes later.

Chiron hums. “Regrets what?”

“Becoming immortal.”

At this, Chiron’s thousand-year-old eyes lock on his, his gaze steady yet gently demanding, asking Thanatos to think. A little bit harder, a little bit deeper. As though the next words out of his mouth are going to be words he believes Thanatos needs to hear.

“There is no way for me to know,” says Chiron. “That is only for her to decide.”

*

The same bed Thanatos once slept on still sits in the back of Chiron’s cave, with its mattress of fluffy straw and piles of heavy, warm furs. It is a welcome sight after the day’s events, and, after being dismissed from the fireside by Chiron, Thanatos crawls in gratefully. Zagreus climbs in right after him and snuggles close. 

Chiron has followed them into the cave to prepare supplies for the following morning’s breakfast. The gentle rustling and clanking sounds as Chiron pulls various items from the shelves are familiar to Thanatos; it seems Chiron’s daily habits don’t change much, even over the span of several years. Something about that makes Thanatos ache, and he peeks up over the furs to look at Chiron. 

To his surprise, he finds Chiron already peering down at him. Chiron surveys the two of them—he and Zagreus, pressed close beneath the furs—with a melancholy so deep that Thanatos’ skin prickles with it. 

“You both remind me of two boys I once mentored,” says Chiron at last. His voice is gentle, yet weighted with memory. 

Besides Thanatos, Zagreus sucks in a breath. “Do you mean . . . are you talking about Achilles and Patroclus, sir?” 

“I am,” answers Chiron, his eyebrows lifting.

“I . . . I know them,” says Zagreus uncertainly, as though unsure if he should continue speaking.

When Chiron doesn’t say anything more, Zagreus continues, “Achilles mentored me when I was a child. He lives with us in my father’s palace. And I met Patroclus in Elysium.”

Chiron breathes out, long and low. “So they are separated.” It doesn’t sound like a question; it sounds like a confirmation. 

“Well, they were,” says Zagreus, “but I . . . well, I reunited them. Kind of . . . went behind my father’s back to change Achilles’ contract. I couldn’t bear to see them both so miserable.”

Thanatos bites his lip to keep down the inappropriate laugh that wants to escape his throat. Of course Zagreus did that. Thanatos loves him so much he thinks he might die of it. 

“And they are happy?” says Chiron, as earnest as Thanatos has ever heard him.  “Together, in death?”

“I—,” begins Zagreus, then immediately pauses. He looks thoughtful for a moment, before saying quietly, “They both smile so much, now.”

At this, Chiron bends down and presses a gentle kiss to Zagreus’ forehead. 

“I thank you, Lord Zagreus,” says Chiron. “They are meant to be together. Two halves of the same soul. So rare, I never thought I would see the likes of it again.” 

Chiron straightens, and his gaze sweeps over the two of them once more. Thanatos wonders what he sees—Thanatos’ heart, mended and whole, held carefully, as it always is, in Zagreus’ hands?

“Alas,” continues Chiron with a small smile, still looking down at them, “a rare plant may be found twice, if one looks for it. I bid you both a good night.”

With that, Chiron snuffs out the remaining candles and walks out of the cave, into the night. 

*

The next morning, Thanatos surprises everyone, including himself, when he responds to Chiron’s inquiry of whether they will be staying longer with, “Actually, I think . . . I would like to get to Athens before winter. That is, if you’d like to go, Zagreus.”

Zagreus nudges him playfully in the side. “Of course I’d love to go. I’ve been asking to go back for months now.”

Thanatos knows this, and also knows that he has avoided agreeing to it out of his general, low-level fear of existing in public spaces—but Chiron’s words about coming out from the shadows had rattled around in his head all night. He thinks he would quite like to feel the sun on his face again.

Chiron gives him a long, searching look, before his face finally relaxes into a knowing smile.

“Very well,” says Chiron. “Then you had best get going, while the new day is still young and bright.”

Together, he and Zagreus make quick work of packing their things and saddling Mort. Chiron leads them out of the clearing where his rose quartz cave resides and to the base of the trail that will take them down the mountain, then to the countryside of eastern Greece, then to Athens, and then to . . . well, wherever they would like to go after that.

It’s an exciting thought, Thanatos finds. Without his guilt surrounding Chiron constantly gnawing at his insides, the world suddenly feels wide open and new, flooded with light.

“Here,” says Chiron, handing Zagreus a cloth sack. “Provisions for you both. May they see you through your travels.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Zagreus, before turning around and whistling for Mort, supposedly to pack the sack carefully away into their saddlebags.

“So,” says Chiron, once Zagreus has ambled several feet away to where Mort is chewing contentedly at a patch of grass. He gestures at the expansive countryside below them. “I see you have taken my advice to heart.”

Thanatos steps forwards and wraps his arms around Chiron’s middle. 

“Thank you, Chiron,” he says, his voice slightly muffled but sure that Chiron will be able to hear him. “For everything.”

The words are not nearly enough, but when Chiron places a large, warm hand on the top of Thanatos’ head and says, “My dear Thanatos, you are most welcome,” Thanatos thinks that he understands anyways.

The trip down the mountain takes the entire morning. When they finally reach the bottom, the sun has begun its descent towards the horizon, casting the slopes of the mountain in cool shadows.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says, as they come around one of the last bends of the path, “thank you.”

Zagreus looks over at him, his eyes bright despite the shadows around them. He is so beautiful, Thanatos thinks, not for the first time. 

“What for?”

“For forcing me to see Chiron. And for writing all of your songs about me.” Thanatos presses a gentle kiss to Zagreus’ lips—because he can, and because he wants to. “For making my life better.”

The smile Zagreus gives him could put a thousand burning suns to shame.

“You know, Than,” says Zagreus, that sun-bright smile still on his face as he takes Thanatos’ hand in his own, “I think we are very lucky to have found each other in this great big world. Don’t you?”

And Thanatos thinks, then—about halves and wholes, about being lucky, about light.

“Yes,” Thanatos answers, easily.

Then he takes a deep breath, and, with Zagreus at his side—always, forever—he takes a step forward. 

It brings him out from beneath the shadows of the mountain’s slopes, into the light of the new day.