as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

on the premonition of acceptance

Zagreus begins to rely on Thanatos.

It is not so terribly unexpected. In fact, Thanatos had imagined (hoped? No.) that relinquishing his keepsake would have precisely this effect. Sometimes, being called vexes him—after all, it tends to interrupt his work—yet though he might respond with a snide remark or a disapproving scowl, he responds nonetheless. Sometimes, he even finds himself thrilled; the sound of his name beckoned on the Prince's lips stirs in him some deep-buried thing he'd thought long since dead. Like an impulse—another duty that needs doing. But always, there's an undercurrent of something being stolen, an omission that fails to be captured in words. The encounters never 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 does not put up a fight in Life's name. He does, and a ferocious one at that, taking chunks of Zagreus' foes down with him. Sometimes this is the primary factor that distinguishes triumph from loss; but others, Death discovers that the circumstances aren't nearly so dire as to require his aid.)

Thanatos is aiding Charon on the Surface when he next senses that strain, taut pull of threads to his chest, stretching over his heart. He hears his name (Thanatos!) reverberated in the Styx's boiling waters, like a skipping stone. The rains will come soon; Lord Zeus' bolts threaten to split the Earth, and dark clouds loom heavy with the promise of storms. It feels prophetic, somehow, a slow-drip of dread. Charon inclines his curious head as Thanatos petitions him with a look, then just slightly nods.

(He is thankful, not for the first time, that at least one among his brothers has some amount of decorum.)

Back in Hell, Thanatos arrives to a grisly, grim scene. Elysium's prized arena shrieks with an incorrigible mass of shades, creeping about their makeshift spectator seats. The area is stained heavy with ash and blood from where sharp points have sunk into flesh and spilled. Zagreus is still engaged, spear to glistening spear, in a match against Theseus, that king of gnats. He's tittering, buzzing like one, chanting garish epithets. The bull lies slain, but the Prince sways, badly injured. His blood churns in his veins and streams out, red and weeping, 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 once he is done, going off little more than a base premonition. Which turns out to be an intuitive one, as he finds Zagreus slouching slumped and splay-legged against its curving, fractured wall.