as an arrow needs a pulsing heart

the undone and the divine

*AUTHOR'S NOTE*

Please bear in mind that this chapter contains explicit material, meant for mature adults only. 

Enjoy!

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It's not so long at all after this that he finally breaks.

If his sisters could see it—or, indeed, had foretold it—they might call it poetic, that all of this would circle back to just the place where it began: Zagreus' bedchambers. Back to that cluttered and claustrophobic space where Death would come to bury, deep and deeper, that growing bolus of conflicting emotions and choke down his pride—all to grant the wayward Prince a few hours more of rest. If he allowed it, the more vindictive side of him might belabor those feelings—resentment, fear, shame, anger, want. He might recall how they had wounded. How it had hurt, had pierced like an arrow, to restore Zagreus to health, knowing the dangers and the grisly outcomes that would soon follow. He might abandon this path altogether.

(But, or course, he cannot. He never truly could; not when it came to this.)

The door to the Prince's bedchambers is cracked just ajar. Inside, his many trinkets twinkle, spinning their small lights in all directions. The night-mirror refracts them back warmly in welcome. And Zagreus is there, as Death had known he would be, posted by the far wall, near the bed. His body cuts a hard line against the multitudinous glints and glows, his face set strong in profile, broad shoulders posed, statuesque. This is the portrait that greets Death Incarnate.

Thanatos pauses just short of advancing over the threshold, choosing instead to lean against the door frame. With furled arms, he clears his throat to announce his arrival. And in a way, he is thankful for the perpetual low-light, because this veil softens what he knows for certain: that the Prince's eyes are now riveted on him. He suffers a sense of being stripped, and with this, stirred shame. Shame that even after an eternity of pining (known not even to himself) and an explicit confession (returned), Thanatos still finds it difficult to look Zagreus straight in the face. It is the fear of a mortal facing the sun, beholding that which will always be beyond his reach.

It's already very nearly too much, and Death nearly turns back. His tongue hangs thick in his mouth. But as he strides slowly up to where the object of his folly stands, the noted lack of vexation on the Prince's face signifies to him that not all might be lost.

"Say, Than," Zagreus greets him on a breath, half in-out, one eyebrow climbing. Bemused, but pleased; a foundation. "I'd ask you to come in, but...you're already here." His face lapses to produce a genuine smile, and the baneful thread coiled around Death's heart slightly eases. "It's good to see you."

The Prince's skin refracts color like a jewel's facets, brilliant slivers of gold-and-purple light. If Thanatos knew no better, he might suspect it is Aphrodite's doing, that it is her favor which so gilds him. But the true source is easily deduced from a wink, come from where it fastidiously watches them both. To look back on the night-mirror for strength is tempting, but Death refrains, looking where he can elsewhere. The room smells faintly fragrant, as though imbued with Zagreus' scent—darkness, decidedly humanlike skin and and warm life-blood. And he has only just noticed the near-full bottle standing on the bedside table; but Death is still not so unabashed as to reach out and drink. What he can muster is to brace his body rigid, and bid himself to finally, finally ask for what he wants, for the very first time in all of his existence.

"I'd like a word, Zag." The sleek curtain of silver hair obfuscates his face, burnished from beneath the cowl, concealing those shamed eyes. "Did you mean it, what you said before? That we ought to take our time?"