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Zagreus drops from the courtyard window and draws a deep, steadying breath.
The dirt sears beneath his feet. He gives a passing glance to the Styx, glowing beneath Ixion’s ever-burning wheel, and rounds the familiar corner to his first Olympian boon.
He startles to find that the boon bears a sigil he doesn’t immediately recognize. It glows a gamut of warm amber hues, like the gentle sunrises he had seen in his earliest escapes; as he comes close, it hums with life: the trill of insects and small creatures, the stirring of the wind in leaves, the rushing of water. Zagreus has not seen life like this since his visits to the coastal cottage.
He inhales sharply. There is only one goddess this could be.
“Is she really…? Well, one way to find out!” He clears his throat and invokes, “In the name of Hades! Olympus, I accept this message!”
“Oh, Zagreus, you still accept these in your father’s name!” Persephone laughs. “You might use mine next time—or your own. I’m sure your relatives up here wouldn’t mind.”
The prince catches sight of her through the fog of the message. She wears the light, flowing robes of the spring maiden Kore, the same garments she had donned at the cottage, impossibly white with a dark green himation trimmed gold. But he is relieved to see she still wears her hair pinned up like dread Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, with smoldering laurels and the skull of some being long since slain by her grim husband pinning her chiton to her shoulder.
“Mother! I’d no idea you could send word from the surface. It’s so good to see you.” Zagreus beams at his mother, who smiles brightly in response.
“Oh, you know me. Much like you, I can’t stay away!” She squints past Zagreus at the dark columns behind him. “I can see a bit more of your surroundings than our family, though Nyx obscures it well. Your father’s gate is as gloomy as ever. You don’t mind if I accompany you about your work, do you? I’ve power of my own to lend you.”
“Oh, no no, of course not!” Zagreus insists. “Please, your blessing means everything, Mother. It’s just, Father and I—well, if I reach the surface—”
“There is no need to worry about that, son,” she soothes, too quickly. “I’ll help you all the way...well, as much as I’m able! I’ve got to get going, these aren’t supposed to last this long. But here, take this!”
Would she truly take up arms against her lord husband? Zagreus has little time to ponder, and reaches to accept the blessing before it vanishes.
The heavy richness of night and earth gives way to a caressing breeze, fresh and clean and bracing, blessed with the warmth and grace of sunshine, which kisses his skin and buffets his hair. His blood races, and vitality flows from the tips of his fingers all the way to his fire-touched soles. Perhaps most startling of all, blossoming vines of hardy flowers bloom at his feet and curl around Stygius’ blade. The sword hums in response.
When he leaps at the lout that bars his entry from the next chamber of Tartarus, the vines lash out and grab it first, pulling the poor soul to Zagreus to meet its end by Stygius’ edge. It vanishes in a flurry of petals, which trail in Zagreus’ wake as he heads further into the Underworld.
Alecto stands between Zagreus and the fields of Asphodel, wearing her nasty grin. She sniffs the air pointedly.
“Redblood, you stink!” she calls, wrinkling her nose. Megaera furrows her brow behind her sister, lowering her whip. “More than usual, I mean. What, did you come straight from rolling in filth?”
“As a matter of fact, I did, Alecto,” Zagreus says evenly. “Just for you, I stepped into the worst of Tartarus’ pits and had a bath.”
“No, it’s not a fire smell. It’s…” She grimaces, then reaches up to pinch her nose shut. “Raw. Human. There’s no place for mortals here.”
“Alecto. Look closer.” Meg puts a hand on Alecto’s shoulder, but she looks at Zagreus. Rather than her customary glower, she wears an expression of...curiosity? Concern? “That’s the Queen’s blessing.”
“I don’t care! It’s not going to stop me!”
“Nor should it,” Zagreus agrees. “I’ve places to be and queenly blessed or not, you’re not going to let me pass, are you Meg?”
Meg narrows her eyes and snaps her whip taut between her hands. “No,” she says.
“No!” Alecto echoes. “Let’s go, redblood!”
When Zagreus knocks Alecto into the Styx, he does so with a flourish of petals. Meg gives him that same curious look as her sister goes down the river, but she flies away before he can say anything. They will speak of this later in the lounge, he is sure.
Zagreus wipes the ichor of the Erinyes on his chiton, and smiles to himself when a cotton flower blooms immediately where he touches the blade to the fabric.
“Next stop,” he says aloud to no one, “Asphodel.”
The climate of Asphodel is tempered only by Demeter’s chill, her boon a defiant stone of coldness in the sweltering, smothering rapids of heat that roll off the flooding Phlegethon.
“In the name of Hades, I gratefully and eagerly accept this message, which truly could not have come at a better moment,” he says, Stygius falling slack in his sweat-slick hands.
The sentence is barely out of his mouth before the boon erupts. Demeter greets him with a booming voice: “Young Zagreus, is that your mother I sense? Finally acting an Olympian—now where has she run off to—?” and the message ends as Demeter, presumably, skips down the heights of Olympus to find her daughter.
“Grandmother was never easy to predict, aside from the frozen wrath and all that,” Zagreus murmurs to himself. “Did I just…did I get Mother in trouble?”
His answer comes later, after a meal with Eurydice (“A visit from two Your Royal Majesties! Well I hope this will do; it’s good right?”) (The food is always beyond good, he reassured Eurydice, and felt the warmth of his mother’s approval as well.) and a trip across a branch of the Phlegethon on the Death Barge. The boon that waits for him on the opposite shore brims with so much life, it makes his fingertips tingly, then numb. Zagreus nearly flinches back from the power contained within.
“Oh, she’s definitely in trouble,” he breathes. “Well—get it over with, that’s what she’d say. Olympus, I accept this—”
“Blossom!” Demeter greets—though she does not greet Zagreus. “I thought you were in the fields today with the mortals. You are always disappearing from Olympus’ sight; Hades’ influence, no doubt?” Despite the accusation, she is calmer than earlier, though there is a live edge to her tone.
“Oh, Mother! Not in front of Zagreus,” Persephone sighs. “I am, I’ll have you know, just…taking a break to check on my son! The olive trees in particular are splendid this year—I will have to bring some saplings down below when next I return.”
The boon’s magic is not so vague that Zagreus cannot see Persephone blushing. The reflexive sympathy he feels for his mother fights with his relief that he is not the only god with a publicly embarrassing parent.
“For now,” Demeter insists, with a ferocious grin, “let us show your Underworld the power of the harvest.” The edge to her voice is excitement, Zagreus realizes, as the boon begins to expire.
“Oh yes,” Persephone agrees. “Here, my son: the other half of your birthright.”
The vines on Stygius’ blade glitter with frost. As they latch onto enemies, the flowers grow fruits, which flash-freeze and burst into shards, obliterating the hapless brimstones and numbskulls. Lernie is certainly not expecting it, either, and Zagreus blitzes through his many skulls with ease.
“Sorry, Lernie,” he says. “We’ll share a pom some other day.”
Zagreus steps onto the boat up to Elysium. He rests Stygius across his shoulders as he ascends, relishing the cold bite of the blessed metal.
In the sighing green coolness of Elysium:
“Dread Persephone, marching to war?” Ares muses, an elbow on his knee, a hand on his blood-soaked sword. His lips curl. “There was always a temper on her. May the shades fear you, my kin.”
“Oh, her!” Aphrodite scoffs. She flips her hair over her shoulder; Zagreus blushes. “Hades certainly has a type, does he not? That one will fight for what is hers.”
“Persy, baby!” Dionysus purrs. “Really, we must talk more. Your fields, my vibes? Oh, we could make something beautiful!”
“The Queen,” Achilles notes, with raised eyebrows. “I’d not thought her powers to be violent—but, ah, trust the gods to continue to surprise me. You bear her authority well, lad.”
“May you live as she does,” Patroclus murmurs, “ever persevering.”
“Hrrnnnnnahhhhh,” Charon drones.
“This does feel a bit odd, Zagreus,” Persephone says in the boon, smiling. “It is early for me to go with Charon, of course, but he so gratefully offered to take a blessing to you, dear! Charon, if he can’t afford it, can you—”
The boon bestows its power upon him before she can say exactly what concession should be made. Charon’s patient annoyance indicates it was nothing profitable. Zagreus smiles awkwardly at him and flits on through to the next chamber.
The spectators of the arena roar their bloodlust as Zagreus enters. The champions wait in their gleaming gold armor, the chariot swallowing their silhouettes. He waves at the crowds of shades instead, turning in a slow circle, pointedly leaving his back to the champions for as long as he possibly can.
When Zagreus finally faces the king and the bull, he finds Theseus’ face is distorted in fury.
“You dare to wear the Queen’s blessing here? In front of all these shades? In front of me?” Spittle flies with the force of Theseus’ anger.
“Well, of course I do—she’s my mother, and I’ve said so before. Though I wonder if thoughts can penetrate that thick skull of yours through the helmet,” Zagreus adds, cocking his head, “since it seems I must repeat myself often with you.”
“Blackguard! You would steal the Queen’s favor, and mock me when I seek to defend her honor?”
“King,” Asterius says, low, “this is not a fight you want to pick.”
“Not this again, Asterius!” Theseus cries. “Thief—villain—prepare to relinquish your ill-gotten power!”
The once-king of Athens scrambles gracelessly into his chariot. Zagreus lashes out, and vines erupt from the sand beneath its wheels and pin it in place. Theseus gasps (all too dramatically, in Zagreus’ humble opinion) and slashes at them with his spear, only for the spear to be caught in the brambles as well. In his distraction, Zagreus dashes forward to deal with Asterius first.
“Give the Queen my regards,” Asterius manages to gasp, as he falls to one knee.
“I will! Of course I will.”
Theseus frees his chariot, only for Zagreus to freeze it, shatter it, and send Theseus sprawling into the sand. The brawl that ensues is bloodier than usual as they both struggle to dodge the detritus that lingers in the area. A fruit from Stygius’ blade bursts in Theseus’ face, blinding him with its juice; he holds up his shield, crying foul, as Zagreus slips behind him and finishes the fight.
“Lord Hades…will hear…about this!” Theseus wails.
Zagreus looks up at the towering ceiling of the arena, panting. “He will.”
The Styx takes him, and the crowd erupts. Za-gre-us! Za-gre-us!
“All for you, my good shade,” he says, as he passes that particular figure in the front row decked in Chthonic red. He raises Stygius in salute—and winces as the ice-cold thorns along the blade stick to his forehead. It rips at the skin and pulls away a line of blood.
“Ah! Not doing that again. You didn’t see anything,” he adds to the good shade, as he makes his quick escape. “Onward and upward, then.”
The rodents and satyrs and serpentstones are less impressed; the Queen’s authority is no authority they recognize. The unmentionable sack drags across the ornate flooring underfoot, streaking red blood and green bile across the white bone tiles. Even the flower petals left trailing in Zagreus’ wake cannot cast this particular deed in a romantic light.
“Here, boy!” Zagreus announces, plopping it in front of the fearsome guardian of the Underworld. “Your wretched snack to consume in your wretched ways. Now, if you’ll just let me squeeze on by…”
Cerberus’ middle head eagerly picks up and tosses the sack triumphantly into the air (sending fluids spraying, eugh; Zagreus throws up an arm to cover his face). The left and right heads lower to nudge at Zagreus, bowling him about between their damp noses.
“Hey, hey now! What’s this about?” Zagreus demands, with mock ire.
The head that enjoys pets worries at his shoulder, his arm, but the other brushes at Stygius, whining.
“Oh! You smell her, don’t you?”
The great tail gives a devastating wag.
“Mother will be home soon, boy,” Zagreus says. He scratches the pettable head under the chin. “She gives you her love—"
He licks Zagreus in return, cleaning him of the sack’s juices in one nasty stroke. “—as you’re sure to give her in return,” Zagreus concludes with a sigh. “Thank you, boy.”
Cerberus trots off at last with his sack snack, and Zagreus rolls back his shoulders. He braces his hands on the doors of the temple and exits the Underworld.
The snow sizzles beneath his feet, and the air is sharp and crisp.
Summer settles upon Greece beyond the temple’s eternal chill. Lady Demeter has blessed them with an evening less bitterly cold than usual, and Zagreus feels the resonating heat intensify now that he stands in Olympus’ domain. It pulses in his veins and thrums down Stygius’ eager blade. The moon hangs silver and clear in the sky. Zagreus inhales deeply, then exhales.
His father stands at his customary spot by the pond, thawed for the season. His cape ruffles artfully in the breeze, and steam billows in clouds around his feet where they melt the snow. The Helm of Darkness is tucked under his arm. It is quite scenic, really, even after all this time.
“Looking stately as ever, Father,” Zagreus calls. “I trust I didn’t keep you waiting?”
“I must find Arachne among my shades, I think,” he says. “Perhaps she who would challenge Olympus can weave a cloak warm enough to keep me from freezing, as I wait once again to teach you your lesson.”
“Well, Arachne could teach me to weave while she’s here,” Zagreus snaps back. “Shades have always been more patient with my lessons than my lordly father.”
The words are in jest, as they have been for many days (nights?). Hades snorts, though from laughter or derision, Zagreus has never been able to tell. He turns, the weight of his red gaze falling upon Zagreus like the cleave of a blade. “I taught you more than you know, Z—“
Hades stops, and not for the usual reasons he hesitates to use his son’s name. His eyes fade to a calmer, more earnest silver as he spots the vines around Stygius, the petals floating in Zagreus’ wake. “That power,” he says quietly. “She...she didn’t—”
“She did!” Zagreus hoists Stygius up and spins it, resting the blade on his shoulder. “Seems Mother is as skilled as sneaking into the Underworld as I am breaking out. Speaking of which…”
Hades blinks once, then twice, and after the third blink, the silver flickers to red. He puts the Helm of Darkness on slowly. “Very well, boy. Zagreus. Business as usual?”
“Business as usual.”
Zagreus readies himself as his father burns away his cloak and pulls his fearsome bident Gigaros from the earth itself. He prepares to lunge, and Zagreus prepares to dodge, when a voice calls, “Wait!”
Father and son turn to the archway that marks the exit to the surface world. Breathless, the mother leans against the column, looking just as Zagreus saw her in the missives—as bright as Kore, and every bit as regal as Persephone. At her feet, the grass springs through the thin layer of snow, and a warm breeze smelling of pomegranate blossoms blows in from behind her.
Zagreus calls, “Mother!” just as Hades stammers, “Persephone!”
“Oh, I know for a fact you two show no mercy up here. You’ve nothing to hide,” she scolds lightly. But her verdant eyes are gleaming as she approaches her husband and son, both of whom dismiss their weapons with haste. “I knew through Zagreus when you were going to be on the surface, and, well...I had to see your little clearing for myself.”
She puts her hands on Zagreus’ arms, beaming up at him, and he sweeps her up into a hug. “I meant it when I said it earlier, Mother,” he says, as he gently sets her back down on her feet. “It is good to see you.”
“My son, you endure so much,” she says in return. “This was enlightening! Truly, the lengths to which your father goes to appease and contain the dead is impressive.”
Hades stands awkwardly with the Helm of Darkness in his arms. He shuffles his feet. “It is the duty of their lord,” he says, neutral as ever, but Persephone laughs.
“There is no life without death, Hades. The mortals...they respect you. And if they won’t be proud of you, we will.” She tugs on his chiton fondly, and to Zagreus’ surprise, his father leans down for Persephone to bestow a kiss upon his cheek.
“Persephone,” he says, a warning. “Your mother…”
Persephone takes his hands in hers. “I know,” she says warmly. “And she knows already, too; I don’t have long.”
They both glance sidelong at Zagreus, bearing both Demeter and Persephone’s blessings, and he waves.
“But she must learn that while I am her daughter on the surface—I am a mother and a wife, too.”
“And a queen,” Zagreus adds, helpfully.
“And, unfortunately, a resident of Mount Olympus for six months of the year,” Persephone sighs. She looks up at Hades, then to Zagreus. “I’ll be home soon, you two. Don’t hit each other too hard, will you? For my sake.”
Zagreus offers a fond, “Be well, Mother!” and Hades looks at her, simply and wordlessly. She squeezes his hands, then steps away.
“Until we meet again!” Kore-who-is-Persephone calls. “Give Cerberus my love,” and she steps out the doorway. Zagreus cranes his neck, but sees only grassy footprints and a swirl of petals where his mother would have been. Can everyone teleport in this Underworld but him?
“Well, Zagreus,” Hades says, sounding nothing like himself, “draw your flimsy blade and let us be done with this.” He pulls Gigaros from the earth once more.
Zagreus scoffs, baffled. “Really? You really want to fight after that?”
His ever-stoic father thinks for a short moment, then says, “Just this once...I would be willing to seek a compromise. Your mother said to...hit lightly.”
Zagreus draws Stygius and wields it with both hands. With the power of life and blood coursing through the gleaming edge, Zagreus raises the blade over his head—and gently brings it down, to poke at his father’s shoulder. “Bonk.”
Uncertainly, haltingly, Hades touches the prongs of Gigaros to Zagreus’ forehead. Zagreus bops his sword again to his father’s rib cage and, with all the grace of the lord of the Underworld who oversees all its dark denizens, Hades shuffles to the side.
“You’re strong, boy,” he says. “I’ll...see you at home.” Hades turns back to the pond and watches the olive leaves perch delicately on its glassy surface.
Zagreus could have laughed at his father’s reaction if he were not taken by the oddity of their situation too. That is Persephone’s power, he supposes—life, living, and compromise. Six months underground, six months on the surface. For what is life if not for the bonds forged, the sacrifices made for loved ones?
Or, perhaps, his mother’s power also happened to include consistently surprising her family, both above and below.
Zagreus can already feel the pull of the Styx as he steps into the summer evening, but he smiles even as it takes him. It washes his blessings away, and he surfaces again in his father’s house. The grand hall is absent both its master and canine guardian. Zagreus skirts Hypnos’ glib comment and darts for the gardens.
He looks at the pomegranate trees where they hang just above his customary exit in the courtyard, and feels the familiar itch of blood and life under his skin. Mother will be back soon; it cannot be long.