Zagreus begins to rely on Thanatos.
It's not all that unexpected. He'd imagined that relinquishing his keepsake would have exactly this effect. Sometimes, being called annoys him—after all, it tends to interrupt the work he's doing—and he responds with a snide remark to accompany his attack. Other times, he's thrilled; the sound of his name beckoned on Zagreus' lips lights his nerves and sets an excited pulse in his chest, a prelude of victory to come. But always, there's an undercurrent of something being stolen, a facetiousness that is hard to describe in words. The encounters don't last long, can't, and so they don't feel altogether real. As if every answered call is a whim, or some sort of dream.
(Of course, this isn't to say Death doesn't put up a fight. He does, and a ferocious one at that, taking chunks of Zagreus' foes down with him. Sometimes it's the primary factor dividing triumph from loss; but others, he'll discover that the outcome wasn't so close as to require his aid.)
Thanatos is aiding Charon on the Surface when he next senses that tense pull on his chest, hears his name relayed in the Styx's boiling waters, echoed in the sky. Soon, it will rain; lightning splits the Earth, and the clouds loom heavy with the promise of storm. It feels prophetic, somehow, like a dripping of dread. Charon tilts his curious head as Thanatos questions him with a look, then just slightly nods it.
(He is thankful, not for the first time, that at least one among his brothers has some amount of foresight.)
Thanatos arrives to a grisly, grim scene. Elysium's prized arena is shrieking with an incorrigible mass of shades, creeping about their makeshift seats. The area is heavily stained with ash and blood from where sharp points have sunk into flesh. Zagreus is engaged, spear to glistening spear, in a match against Theseus, that king of gnats. He's laughing, buzzing like one, chanting garish epithets. The bull lies slain, but the Prince is badly injured. His blood churns in his veins and streams out through a network of holes. He whips about so rapidly that he is sure the air must burns in his throat. It looks as if like any motion will set him aflame, as if his legs are dry tinder, his torn ligaments fuel. Thanatos can see them straining as Zagreus forces himself to take bigger strides, faster steps.
With Death's aid, the disgraced king is bested. Zagreus deploys the final blow without mercy, impaling through to the innards of that flamboyant fool who calls himself Champion, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until he (at last) lies silent and still.
(Thanatos knows that he won't be so for long. The king's ability to boast, even in the aftermath of abject, cyclical defeat, is impressive.)
Even wrecked as he is, Zagreus manages to revel in the win. He greets his lone supportive shade with outstretched arms, more flailing than cheering, the flesh marred by deep gashes, dust in the wounds. Then he turns and waves back to where Death still stands. Mort, looking just worse for wear, smiles sweetly.
Thanatos averts his eyes, and returns to the boatman. When he gets there, spirits are quickly filing under Charon's watch, urged now by a rupturing sky. One by one they slouch past him, moving in shuddering steps like living puppets, all in a row. They gape at Death with fearful faces, and their mouths form wide, wordless shapes as they mime the same dark prayers over and over.
- x -
Thanatos returns to the arena swiftly when he is done, going off little more than a base premonition. Which turns out to be an intuitive one, as Zagreus has slumped splay-legged against its curving, fractured wall.
When Death approaches, he supplies a pained smile, and a "hey, Than."
The prognosis looks dismal. Zagreus' back hardly touches the half-crumbled stone; most of his mass falls upon Varatha, an extension of himself—driving the spear-tip into sand to steady himself, and using the shaft for a brace. He is dizzy, shaky, clearly in pain. His body rocks back and forth, anchored to an unsteady point. Still, there is that damned resolution in his swagger, even in the tilt of his head—
YOU ARE READING
as an arrow needs a pulsing heart
FanfictionZagreus grows ever stronger as he cycles the Underworld, but his body refuses to let him sleep. For this, he seeks a begrudging Thanatos, who becomes his only respite. {Art belongs to siriusdraws}
