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The snow crackles beneath his burning feet. The snow of Greece.
He thinks of that as he exited the gates of Hades times ago, he looked back at the blood he had left behind, tiny puddles of blood nestled deep within the snow, accompanied by wisps of white smoke. It was his first time leaving home. And he was really unsure of what was waiting for him. It was then that he seemingly experienced the solid existence of heat and cold: his blood, his body, was as hot as mortal. But Tartarus had only an ashy coldness, while Asphodel Meadows were plagued by a bizarre, dream-like heat, and the sunny days in Elysium were just like a sound of mock. All these things only made him feel that he had never really lived. When he observed the vapor of the warmth of his own red blood rising from the snow, he did not know if he would ever return (well, he did return in the end, for ever and ever). So, driven by a certain longing to bid farewell, he thought of many people, many of those people he knew who had ichor in their veins instead of blood. He thought of Hypnos. Perhaps he should have thought of someone else, but here, thought about him, he stopped. Heat and cold... Oh, once when he handed the nectar to Hypnos, he pretended to accidentally touch the sleep god's hand. And it feels good. Orpheus had said that the Muses often told mortal poets to use the word "sweet" to describe Sleep, but Zagreus thought that his skin was cooler than "sweet."
Just like the autumn of Greece.
Well, just like now.
Zagreus strolls out. It's probably the best walk he'd taken in a couple of times, he does not fall off the cliff, or gets attacked by animals or poisoned by plants he'd never seen before, and he doesn't do too many stupid things to get himself back home as quickly as possible. The autumn sea is blue as mourning. As far as his sight could reach, the frost and snow slowly recede, leaving trees and fields golden. He sees some trees that he had seen in his mother's garden, the fruits of which have all been picked.
No, but, wait. What is that? Maybe there's one at the top of the tree, the one and only. The sun blazes on the fruit: an apple. Red as fire, as blood, as pomegranate. But not that plump. He steps back and looks at it. It's growing at such a height, such a height that no one can reach. It is too beautiful, almost eternal, he thinks, even more beautiful than the Golden Apple at the wedding of Achilles' mother, for immortal gold is nothing but beauty, but this red red apple, in the green leaves, laughing, scoffing at the eternity with its sweet blood and lifeness.
Red. Sweet. Scoffing.
He smiles at himself. He's gonna bring this to Hypnos.
He starts climbing the tree, through the layers and layers of leaves, the birds flush from the branches. Broken leaves and little sticks fall on his shoulder. Through the gap of the vault he could see the apple, heavy and light at the same time, hanging heavy on its branch and light high in the air. He stands on his tiptoe at the branch, holding the trunk with one hand and reaching for the apple with the other. The warmth of the sun on the apple skin dissipates in no time, and when he touches it, he feels only a faint coolness of the west wind. It's just like Hypnos' fingertip on the glass of nectar. Without hesitation, he grabs hold of it.
The apple falls gently from the branch into his hand. He looked at it. In the luxuriant shadows of the tree canopy, it is ardent and silent and sweet. The distant birds are singing, which are heard over the tiny crack sound of the branches beneath his feet. Prince does not understand yet, that this is a big, noisy world.
At a twelve to eight, he climbs out of the pool again. Styx cannot let go of his grip on the apple, even for a moment. He gasps, shaking the beads of blood-red water from his hair, pleased to know that his broken spine was completely healed in the whirlpool of the river.
The shades hurriedly walk past him, never surprised by the scene before them. As soon as he recovers from "death" (or, to him, a kōma ), he runs to the couch of the sleep god. He's always like this, cannot wait for a moment, his footsteps are echoing through the hall and the soft snoring stops abruptly.
Hypnos sits up sleepily, looks up at him, and smiles. A strand of silver hair hangs in front of the shining golden eyes. Those golden-apple-like eyes. He can't help but reach out his free hand and brush the strand away. Hypnos is startled, but pleased, closing his eyes and obeying his actions. The smoke-like silver hair drifts to one side.
This time he doesn't wait for Hypnos to greet him first. "Lord Hypnos," he says, "I have something for you."
"Oh, wow, but, wait, don't call me that way! Aren't we best friends?" Hypnos says, his pale cheeks flush with a light purple. Seeing Hypnos' shyness makes him feel dizzy, as if the sleep god himself has hallucinogenicity. "So, what does my best friend bring me?"
"I picked this for you." He stretches out his right hand and opens it under Hypnos' eyes. Their eyes focuse on his open palms. That apple.
But the apple is already dead.
It is often said that in the underworld, everything is nothing but ashes. Everything is darkness and everything is rotten.
That's exactly what happened to the apple.
Together they watch it in his hands languish, yellow and wither, no longer sweet, never again. Death caught up with it. It had survived the Styx, not been carried away by the red, oath-filled waters, but in the air of underworld, under their gaze, finally, it succumbs to the gray eternity.
Hypnos fingers the wrinkles on the fruit's peel. It’s as if the apple is connected to the body of Zagreus. The caress seemed to fall on his skin. Trembling, his whole body trembles. Hypnos smiles and takes it away, which is like all the other perished things here.
"So, does it means that we killed it?" Hypnos says, setting the roster aside and holding the apple in both hands. The shades lining up to register stare at the prince impatiently. Zagreus feels a twinge of unease, even though the sleep god is smiling. Hypnos grabs his wrist: this is the first time Hypnos had touched him. His bones grow cold, like nightfall, and suddenly, he feels sleepy and drowsy. "Hey, what is that look on your face? I love what you get me...it's interesting!"
He shakes the sleepiness off his head like water. After regaining consciousness, Hypnos appears even more beautiful in his eyes, like a cloud on the water of the river Lethe. Twilight-colored fingers wrap around the apple.
"You like it? Great!" He says with relief. Before, he didn't know if a god, especially Chthonic, would appreciate such beauty that passes so easily like a mortal. Because they were already born at The End, isn’t it? In the final destination of all beauty, among those rotten things. He didn't know if Hypnos could glimpse the joy of life through death.
Now, he knows, because Hypnos looks obviously happier than when got the ambrosia. He knows that the taste of apple, of blood and lifeness, is as sweet as sleep. A real apple. An unattainable apple. An apple that never was obtained even though it was picked. An apple of eternal freedom. Hypnos understands it all as well as he does.
It makes him want to kiss Hypnos very much. Like, very, very much.