as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

precipitating in an anterograde cycle

[Author's note]

This will most likely be a 10 to 13 part story, so please stay tuned for more! I am writing as I play through the game.

Some pertinent themes that can be taken from the game will be explored along with Zag/Than's dynamic, especially those of Life vs Death, the nature of existence, identity, the hero's journey, and the natural cycle of being.

The idea for this, of course, is taken from the bed in Zagreus' room - when you interact with it, you always get the line "can't sleep" or something similar. Running amok in the Underworld must be impossibly exhausting, and it seemed so fitting that Zagreus would seek Thanatos to help him to rest. Naturally, I took this idea and ran with it.

Rated Mature for future parts, which will contain sexual content.

- x -

Thanatos tells himself he gleans a great fulfillment in being Death—fulfilling the natural cycle of being, embodying arcane intrigue, duality both real and allegoric, a fixture in this realm and the one beyond—but it is not quite true.  Personal gratification is second to the strings that bind him, a predestined fidelity to the role bestowed to him by those estranged sisters, the Fates. Thanatos has never questioned his station, in any plane of existence; but he has, over the vast-stretching breadths of time, lost interest in such mundanities as pride for a job well done (and so has his Master lost interest in holding Thanatos in any regard of esteem—for there need be no special bearing for a charge who so meticulously performs his duty, in absence of praise or complaint). 

(In truth, he fancies himself a reaper, a chaser—and yes, the god of silent, merciful death always reaps those whom he chases. Except, except—)

The bottles collect like so many lost souls. Thanatos doesn't touch a drop, would rather face the fate of his wards than be caught imbibing off-duty, let alone something so precious. The heaven-sweet smell of nectar taints him where he goes—picking and processing and protecting lost souls, keeping an ever-discerning eye. Zagreus gives them impossibly freely, waving away each time his offers of reciprocation, asking only for one thing in return:

"Thanatos. Please... help me sleep."

(This domain is yours), thundered Lord Hades' voice, autarchic when Thanatos had woken into existence; as though the nascent deity could hear anything more than the all-touching silence, as though he was merely one more shade in this colossal underground kingdom, one more Fated voice to tell him that he was a blessed god, with a sacred charge—the one to bring death swiftly, sweetly, favored among all men.

Thanatos thinks about this every time that he is greeted by the same scarred-and-savage face emerging from the death-blood river to the House's splendid shore, one red eye probing like a soul in search, swatting Hypnos' flitting concerns away—as insolent as ever. Their conversations flow just as they did on that first occasion after he left, cordial but always with that disapproving undercurrent, Thanatos biting back his bruising tongue and Zagreus biting back his sense of shame and each of them pushing the other further, until the sweet-scented bottle is inevitably brandished and with it, the request. It is Zagreus' imploring face that does him in each time.

(Thanatos fulfills his duty, and blesses Zagreus with rest.)

- x -

Zagreus is ever-persistent. That's the most infuriating thing. He is eternally motivated, and so he is never far away. Thanatos hates it when he disappears, when he knows that he'll have to follow like a haunting. Keeping a close guard as he ferries the dead, fields their ceaseless calls and clamors, because if Zagreus insists on being foolish, at least Thanatos can save his hide. (He knows to expect his call now, as well.)