as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

an apparition of the mind

The next many days and nights pass in relative peace.

So long has the darkness reigned in Hades' domain that its inhabitants felt rather at a loss when the realm's rightful Queen deigned to return Underground. All in the House, whether low shade or high charge, now find themselves scrambling: circling the foyer to kiss the Lady's hand, so that they might hang off her every word. Chatter, color, and light, in those fast-coming days and faster-coming nights, fill up every crevice like the Prince's plunders. From her post—and yes, it is unmistakably hers, perhaps even more now as before her departure—Persephone smiles in her regal way. Wherever she walked, one would smell roses.

In the mortal world, there is turbulence. The sky itself seems unable to cope with Persephone's absence, in turns shrieking and hushing, shuffling souls casting off adrift (but still forming quick and grateful lines into Charon's humble boat, perhaps wondering what it was that had come to pass, and whether it was truly worth the icy sermon of tears).

Death roams. In the Queen's gardens, the verdures blur and blend together into vibrant swaths in all colors; the sight would put Elysium to shame. Wherever one looked, flowers would grow—even Earthly specimens that should have long since died. Through the days and nights, Lady Persephone would walk among them, humming, infusing them with magic. In her greenspaces, all things could grow.

Death roams the two realms, as he always has, but now finds himself stunned by the difference between them. The unrepentant joy afforded by Queen Persephone's presence alone; the liveliness of every shade; the way that time makes to flow faster, rather than waste in the routine of stupor. Even the long-reticent Lord Hades—he perhaps signifies the most significant change, with his pacified and palliated demeanor. In all, the House has become more of a wonder than it had been in Thanatos' long-distilled memories, those long-ancient visions of this place before Zagreus was born. It is nothing short of a miracle, heaven-sent. An act of the divine.

When the Queen smiles, Thanatos thinks of roses—silken petals, vestigial thorns. Something beautiful and strong, but only for the perfect purpose. She builds and restores, proliferates and protects. But when Zagreus smiles, Thanatos thinks of something other—new life, fire and blood, the changing of seasons, the rising of the sun and moon. Intense heat and an undercurrent of static. A beginning only just unfurling.

The Prince, for his part, has been given new purpose. And he takes to his new position with a flair for brilliance. Given the freedom to keep running rogue, but having the good fortune to make fighting and thievery a full-fledged career. Somehow, it all ended up so inspired. How odd, Thanatos might muse, is this thing called existence. (But they are each of them pleased.)

The future is ripe on his lips when he smiles, after the announcement, and says: "good to be working with you in a more official capacity, Zag," and receives a rakish, eager grin in return. "Shall we get started?"

-   x   -

With this menagerie of changes, Thanatos expects a grander shift than what actually comes to pass. But when it comes to it, nothing of his and Zagreus' dynamic really changes. At least, not in the short-term.

He can't pinpoint the reason; but it is disquieting.

They meet now once again in the swarming greenlit chambers of Tartarus, where the ever-shifting walls inhale deeply with anticipation. All around, the air hums, charged with the violent buzzings of the damned; they linger, refusing to set. The room breathes to let Thanatos in, accommodating his silent entry.

And ah; Zagreus in his new-forged seat of power is ruthless. He stands this time, upon Death's entrance, an ominous silhouette framed in the cold gold glare of Athena's light: supple-limbed and hard-bodied, a beacon. Portrait-like; statuesque, a deity constructed in sunlight and jewels. The demon-souls around him snap their venom mouths and snarl, wailing banshee cries and leaping for what will be a fruitless impact. Death laughs out loud as he approaches, and Zagreus looks back, delighted.