as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

on the premonition of acceptance

The next time, they do not meet until Zagreus has reached the hallowed heights of Elysium (though Thanatos has been keeping track of Zagreus' progress through nearly the entire journey, where he can). He finds himself again transfixed by the Prince's effortless display of power, the way he commands mastery over the power he wields, technicolored and thriving and vibrant with life. How he brings death to whatever he touches. Almost paradoxical, a dissonance between what Life is and what Zagreus brings, even as his foes seek to siphon the lifeblood from his skin. The beauty of Life's destruction, the horror of it, always seem to strip Death to the bone.

Watching Zagreus like this always provokes shame, that imp, to tap its hollow-pointed fingers to the back of Thanatos' skull; but it will not be given entrance. The will to protect is deeply engraved there, and the space that it has gouged inside him is so vast that every other upheaval now seems negligible, barely a scratch on the skin, numbed from too long being loyalty's prisoner.

Thanatos understands that for there to be progress, he must aid from the shadows and trust in the process. He must trust Zagreus, that this process will be worth the gamble. He must not protest.

Except at this point, with everything such as it is, Thanatos realizes that he wants to protest—or at least, to talk about it all. He wants to talk about Zagreus' journey, his goals, his plans. He wants to talk about how he be a greater benefit, where he can fit into Zagreus' scheme so that his actions can truly have weight. He wants to talk about fairness, and reciprocity, and place. How much this all affects him, and how if Zagreus is going to accept his help, he deserves to be a part of it in earnest.

(He wants to talk about more than just these things, if he's honest. Like how much all of this hurts, in a true, literal sense—precisely the feeling of drowning on the Surface, like when Zagreus had called for him last. How it feels like that every time—just as if he's being submerged again in that violent water, sparing his breath until all consciousness collapses. How even though it's always been a tough job to personify death, he'd had no concept at all for understanding just how it would feel when his opposing equal, the embodiment of Life, defies that of Death over and over, in new and inventive ways. Ceaselessly.

But. That can wait, perhaps. A little while longer.)

Zagreus clears this chamber, and the one that follows. Thanatos has waited with patience; he now readies his hand. The Prince's options going forward are Charon versus pom, and Death knows from his monitoring that Zagreus has no need to visit his brother. Of course, there's always the chance that the Prince will just barge in to say hello, and force Thanatos to recalculate. It would hardly be out of character for him. Still, Death lets himself become a shadow, and drifts to where he expects (hopes) Zagreus will go.

In the pom room, the fire-and-grass floor breathes deeply with anticipation, white flowers gently swaying on a nonexistent breeze. Remnants of flames spark and disrupt the scented air, causing the flowers to send up their pollen in protest. The fragrant fuzz itches Thanatos' nostrils, lingering and refusing to set. The entire place has the feel of an empty stage, in the quiet moment just before the thespians are set to enter: a kind of hushed expectation.

Then—

Movement. Sound. Life, breaching. Death, approaching.

"Zagreus."

"Than!"

The challenge imparts with a series of loud crashes, as exalted ex-warriors and their cursed chariots appear from the ether. Disposing of the rabble is swift work between them; The Lethe gurgles and sings their demise, so their souls might forget. At the end, as was at the beginning, there is untouched silence.

Zagreus, face thrilled and eyes wild, rushes up to Thanatos when it is over, looking as pleased to greet him as with the final score (sixteen versus twelve, in his favor). He takes hold of the proffered centaur heart with a flourish, and cracks a mad, energized grin. "Came to see me before I pay a visit to Asterius, eh, mate?"

"Indeed," he affirms, and then pauses. It's the vaguest seed of anxiety, but it is there, already sprouting its feeble root, gripping soil, ready to infect. "I thought we might talk."