Chapter Text
Away.
The god of Death cares not for his destination; he simply picks a direction and goes. There is no plan, no schedule, no task to be done. He drifts through Asphodel and into Elysium, and barrels past any inquisitive shades before they can make heads or tails of his intentions. Even as the distance between Thanatos and the House of Hades grows, the agitating buzz of unspoken grievances follows Death indefinitely. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip around his scythe.
Thanatos loves his mother fiercely, and respects her even more. Throughout his childhood, he was one of her most well-behaved offspring; he never spoke out of turn, always did what he was told, trusted that she knew well what needed to be done. Even when the time came for Thanatos to take on his godly duties as one of the many psychopomps of the Underworld, as his gut twisted and his knees wobbled in the face of his first corpse, he did not falter or question her wisdom. He accepts his station, his reality, because Mother Nyx gave it to him along with her everlasting love.
In turn, Nyx respects her children’s knowledge of their domains. She keeps the peace between them where needed, and is endlessly understanding of the idiosyncrasies that come with an eternity of specialization. No one is to argue revenge with Nemesis, doom with Moros, or strife with Eris. Yet, when Thanatos built up the courage to ask why the House of Hades was always in a state of mourning – a state he knew quite intimately – he was flatly and entirely rebuffed. Not cryptically, either, as Mother Nyx was oft to do. There was no gentleness in her obfuscation. There was simply ‘no grief to speak about.’ No further questions.
At first, Than thought it may have been an issue of setting. Lord Hades and Persephone were not in earshot, but perhaps he was more omniscient in his home than Thanatos gave him credit for. He bargained, suggested that they continue the conversation in his own home hidden in the groves of Elysium.
But again, Nyx insisted. There was no mourning. No grief. Whatever Thanatos believed he was picking up on was merely an inaccurate projection, and she would thank him to process it as such - abandon the topic entirely.
It was typical for Hypnos to be shut down in this way, but not Thanatos. Never Thanatos.
What’s more, he knew – he knows – that there is a void in the heart of the House of Hades. He has felt it since childhood. The lethargy behind the Queen’s eyes, the way even Lord Hades, in all his fearsome and regimented strictness, would occasionally stare off into nothingness like he hoped to find something - someone - within it. Thanatos recognized long ago that his mother never showed her children any strong affection when there was a chance the Lord and Lady of the Underworld could witness, and how a flash of apology came over her expression when she was caught.
These were not the actions of contented beings who wanted for nothing and yearned for no one. Their flagrant denial was an insult to Thanatos’ expertise. At least when mortals lose someone, they have the decency to honor their memory.
Hence Death indignantly goes, and goes, and goes.
The further out into Elysium he travels, the more sporadic and sparse the shades and structures become. The winding river Lethe doesn’t stretch in this direction, and the rolling fields of wheat become dizzyingly vast. That false sun that shines through the overcast mist upon the worthy souls of the dead feels hotter somehow. The scent of pollen carries on the wind, and something about how it sticks to the inside of his nostrils compels Thanatos to lower from his typical levitation and let his bare feet touch the welcoming grass below. At this height, the wheat comes up to his shoulders, and occasionally obscures his vision.
He continues on foot and swears he can feel bugs pass over his toes or buzz past his ears. Distance compounds, makes him feel his legs working hard to carry him, and sweat beads on his brow. The normally false overcast daylight that falls upon the fields feels eerily real, especially as it beats down on Thanatos’ pallor and kisses it softly. His hair sticks to his forehead. The air gets thicker.
“How…?” he touches his forehead and looks down at the sweat on his hand. He squints up at the sky suspiciously.
There were plenty of odd corners to the Underworld; the backdoor through Oceanus, where Hades’ realm reluctantly met Poseidon’s in a clash of elements; the primordial roiling gates of Erebus that called to those who craved the abyss; but no one ever spoke of a place where one could stumble haphazardly back into the world of the living. Hades (both the realm and the man) would be in disarray.
A strong gust of wind pushes through the rustling fields and cools the perspiration against Death’s skin. He inhales deeply and with purpose. Freshness fills his lungs, and as he exhales, the taunting weight of anger he’d carried here is lifted. The fresh air travels through him. He unclenches his jaw and cracks his knuckles. The muscles in his back loosen.
Thanatos is seconds away from falling backwards to let the grass take him, and perhaps even indulge in a nap, when a sweet voice whispers to him on the wind. Rigidity returns with a vengeance as Thanatos grips his scythe close. He takes slow, careful steps toward the sound.
The idea that he could simply levitate once more and look beyond all the grasses, or even teleport away from this place entirely, does not occur to him even once. The thrill of going in blind as the voice grows closer compels him. There is very little in the realm of the dead that can hurt Death himself. His blood runs hotter and his fingers itch with potential. Precious anticipation pools in his gut.
He continues his creep forward, and suddenly there is the gentle drop of a hill, which allows Thanatos a chance to look into the fields beyond. At the bottom of the drop, a crudely made fence of stones separates the wild grasses from what appears to be a large expanse of farmland. In the far distance, he sees a vineyard, and blurred humanoid figures with baskets and tools tilling the land and tending to existing crop.
The voice rings out again, much clearer, and Thanatos whips his focus back towards its origin near the fence. His breath catches in his throat.
“For the life of a man it is but a span
And he flourishes like a flower
For he’s here today, tomorrow he is gone
And dead all in an hour.”
A young man weaves lazily through the trellises as he sings to no one in particular, switching aimlessly between lyrics and humming the melody as he inspects the harvest and pulls down bundles of grapes that pass his appraisal. His jet black hair sticks to his neck just as Than’s does, hot and sticky with sweat. The chiton he wears is pooled around his waist to leave his chest and shoulders bare against the unrelenting sun. Apollo smiles down at him and Zeus’ winds carry his song on their current.
Thanatos doesn’t realize he’s been treading closer until the young farmer turns around and sees him. Their eyes lock. Death freezes, silently bracing for the moment to break, to collapse beneath the weight of the fear all mortals are overcome with when they see him. He feels the faint green glow flickering in his soul, reminding him that he can simply leave, and then nothing would need to break at all.
But nothing is breaking. The gentle whooshing rustle of the fields punctuates the wholeness. The farmer appraises him for a moment, just as he had the grapes, and his already serene expression spreads into a welcoming smile. A calloused hand waves at Thanatos.
Death sheepishly waves back.
In the absence of the oft expected horror, he feels painfully exposed, especially as the farm boy doesn’t avert his gaze and return to his work. His smile remains, its radiance amplified by the day, and Thanatos’ mouth goes dry as he watches the way perspiration slips down his chest, abdomen, and thighs as he walks towards the stone fence to close more of the distance between them.
Thanatos’ soul crackles in his chest once more like a warning. This is too much, it cries as its vessel, pulled by forces he doesn’t understand, descends the remainder of the hill; the slope of it builds his momentum, pulling him like a magnet until his feet are planted firmly on the other side of the cruel stone partition.
He looms nearly a head above the farmer, who stares up at him expectantly. One of the young man’s eyes is the green of summer trees. The other is a burning red like the blood that pumps through his veins. He is raven-haired vitality incarnate.
Thanatos is utterly awestruck.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” the farmer holds his gaze with trickster-like curiosity. His voice is as sweet as pom flowers. Death could weep.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words escape. Just stumbling and weak attempts at language. The farmer, in all his brilliance, is undeterred. His smile is merciless.
“I’m Zagreus,” a hand is extended to Thanatos over the fence. The stacked stones only come up to their waists, but they hold unreasonable power. Thanatos, god of the most final of destinations, knows that reaching over them will be a point of no return.
Is this how sailors felt when they first heard the sirens? When the Trojans looked upon fair Helen? Thanatos rarely yearned for much, but now he’s accosted by images of Achilles looking out beyond the House of Hades with a dreamy, melancholic countenance. Death aches with empathy and desire.
“I… I am-” Zagreus’ patient, undivided attention makes him squirm. “Uh…”
Zagreus smiles wider and presses up against the stone fence with seemingly no regard for how fragile this moment is. He’s blissfully unaware of the enchantment Thanatos has been trapped by. His eyes, like the night and day of summer, drift only momentarily towards the scythe in Thanatos’ hands before boring back into the poor god’s being.
“You’re a shepherd, right?” Zagreus sets the harvest basket on his hip to the ground, then sits upon the fence.
Thanatos cannot tell if there’s a double-meaning; he doesn’t process the mundanity of his scythe’s present form, or the simplicity of the grey linen draped over his own body. The ways this realm has subtly changed his physicality pales in comparison to the tumult in his thoughts.
Better judgment is left to the wayside.
“I-I am,” Thanatos nods. The tips of his ears and his cheeks feel hot. He wants to avert his gaze, but cannot. Zagreus makes looking at the ground difficult when he sits right beneath him. His cheshire smile and gentle voice make the god of death feel so distant from his station.
In this moment, Thanatos is just a young shepherd in a field. He is free from expectation, from responsibility, from pain. Heart hammering in his chest, he thinks he can understand why mortals covet their lives so fiercely. Their hearts have all been branded by this same sweetness.
“My name is Thanatos,” he nearly whispers.
Just as before, there is no transformative recognition to twist the moment into bitter terror. Zagreus’ eyes do not widen with horrible epiphany, nor does he move from his seat upon the stone fence.
Instead, Zag just hums fondly, contemplatively.
“Thanatos,” Zagreus repeats back with a sweetness Than has never heard his name spoken with before. “I like that.”
The only thing that breaks is Death’s heart.
The ache staggers Thanatos and makes him clutch his weapon close to his chest, as if it’ll hide the furious ignition of his soul as it beats against his rib cage from within. The scythe – here, he now realizes, a humble shepherd’s crook – fails to ground him as he stares down at Zagreus in awe and alarm. The sweat dripping down their necks, the succor of the season’s winds, the heat radiating from the sky and through their blood – this could all be written off as a fanciful dream if not for how plainly real it all feels.
“Are you alright?” Concern worries Zagreus’ brow as Thanatos is utterly overcome.
The calloused hand of the gentle farmer reaches out, and snaps something Zagreus doesn’t know he’s strained.
Sorry is what Than would like to say, but his instincts move faster than his lips. There’s a flash of a funeral pyre, the ring of a church bell, and the blinding light of summer is replaced by the cool grasp of Night and Darkness. It carries Thanatos back into the embrace of the chthonic and familiar. It all happens quick. Too quick.
Thanatos stands in the cavernous halls of his lonely, candlelit home. The ethereal green of Elysium filters in through the window, and the light bounces off Death’s skin, still glistening and smelling of labor beneath the blinding sun. A bead of sweat drips off his silvery fringe and down into the center of his palm. It stares up at him with that same mischievous, defiant sweetness. Zagreus speaking his name echoes in his mind.
He brings a hand to his chest, inhales deeply, and tries not to be disappointed by the stillness of the air. Outside the window, spectral butterflies flutter around gently swaying pom blossoms. Whatever curse has been left upon him – this relentless ache – Thanatos wants to submit and let it swallow him entirely.