as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

hail the rose, our lady queen

At the end of his journey, in the last Fateful fight against Lord Hades, Zagreus calls upon Death Incarnate.

His fists punch empty air when he calls. Malphon's Fists whirl around him like a cage, beating and sweeping in every direction, only to wing back toward their master at the last possible moment, whistling on air. The snow breathes its anticipation; the wind, stolen from the mortal edge, moans low.

With a scant glance to Mort, and a flicker of eyes to Life himself, Death draws his scythe and leaps in an arc toward the Lord Master, faster than he can feel, faster than a blink. The wind obliges him, transporting him precisely where he needs to be. And Death doesn't need to be told, nor given any specific instruction, just as the Prince needs none to command the forces of Olympus. As fire bursts and light bleeds forth, Thanatos is reminded that Zagreus is no emissary. Not for Lord Hades; not for the gods; not for death. He is his own sort of danger, imminent.

The little space between them shivers, immolating, a presence. (Their way of dealing has little to do with words; not at this stage.)

At the moment of scythe's impact, he can see on Zagreus' lips the barest quirk of lips; he doesn't even turn before the mighty fists wing toward him in a ruthless phalanx, points-down, swift as the wind. So swift that Death might be struck, too, if he knew no better just what to do, or just how to move; if he didn't know to grab a fist-full of space and leverage it to launch himself across the snow, orthogonal to Zagreus, before the Lord of the Underworld himself.

The wind shrieks in Death's ears. The wind bends to his will and carries his strike. Lord Hades falls rolling, cursing; Death's scythe and the Master's own bident scream as they torque and scrape and lance into the powdered snow. As the blade swings forth in a vicious arc, Zagreus' hand grazes his forearm; he must refrain from streaking swift fingers across that hand, instead committing to completion of the blow—

(—and it's the way that it instantly transforms from fighting to not, copper blood on the air, in the snow, the galeforce of ice wind and the crush of Surface gravity—)

(—and it's the way that it impacts, like wrenching a hard arrow from his own pulsing heart—)

Even as he's transporting himself up and off, even then, Death senses Life's wink on the edge of his vision, slicing through veil of space and time as he flies, and drawing a slight smile in return.

Thanks, Than, says the wind, as they part.

On the Surface proper, the sun greets Death with a sleek band of light, warm like a hand awaiting a grasp. Death enters the human world with a gust of wind that shakes the Earth and sets the mortals to scatter, but he dusts off his clothing and reaches out in offering. He glides toward them on nothing, bowing his head and gesturing, telling them it's all right; you're going home, now. And he thinks to himself, so are you, Prince; and perhaps, this time, Fates permitting: your Lady Mother, as well.

He believes this, as the sun shines down on him, on all of the mortals with him—all of those new and sacred souls of mortal Greece, fertile and verdant around him. Encircling him, basking in the sun's gentle light, flowers bloom; he has, (though not consciously), transported himself to the edge of the lady Queen's green domain. In this fertile triangle, this place which is all at once wonderous and disastrous both, Death takes the hands of each new soul and walks with them arms outstretched to Charon's boat; not daring to promise or to whisper anything of future events, but instead providing them with sacred peace, a hand, a soothing and inviting presence. On the Styx's edge, the Boatman nods to them in greeting; all as always was, and all as it should be. And yet, the very air here is charged; Death passes the new dead over with a gentle touch and an awaiting hitch of breath—someplace in between fearing and hoping and knowing, a taut-pulled string.