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It's never been difficult for Thanatos to find Zagreus.
By all accounts, it should be. Mother Nyx herself has him shrouded in a cloak of night, protecting him from the prying eyes and interfering hands of his Olympian relatives, and anything that can block the sight of those on the mountain should by rights have Thanatos blinded as well. But despite the Night-Mother's all-encompassing veil of deepest black, Thanatos needs only to think of Zagreus to know exactly where he is.
He can sense the fire in the Prince's blood, the brilliant warmth that runs red through his veins. Than tells himself, softly and with no real conviction, that it's because he's accustomed to sensing the beat of mortal hearts, counting out the moments until their appointed time arrives. Death Incarnate should always know where blood flows, as that knowledge just makes his job easier in the long run.
It's that heat that draws him, that guides his shift through existence to appear with a crack of light and the sonorous tolling of a bell.
"Thought you could use a hand," he says, expecting mismatched eyes and a wry grin as he steps back into reality, and finding neither.
The chamber of Elysium he finds himself in is wrecked, and that's being charitable. Elysium is remarkably sturdy, designed by a master craftsman to repair itself after even the most destructive force, but this chamber might well be damaged beyond normal repair. Rubble and sharp shards of pink crystal litter the once-green meadow beneath his feet; deep ruts and black cratered imprints in the ground speak of tiny-angry self-propelled chariots, and he counts seventeen exalted weapons mixed in with exploded remnants of everything else.
He's late, he realizes.
There's a lot of blood here, he realizes a moment later. Not the blackened stains of shades temporarily banished, but the dark-red and glistening of mortal blood, spattered in desperate arcs across the grass, staining the water where the River Lethe pools. Across the chamber, it shifts to a trail of blood, the imprint of bare footprints burned into the darkening liquid.
There. There, slumped with his back against a green-glowing infernal trove, an ethereal sword buried in his chest, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him—Zagreus, Prince of the Underworld, his warmth and light so faded that Thanatos didn't even realize he was still in the chamber.
He's there in the space of a thought, and only then does he hesitate.
"Fuck, Zag," Than says, sharper than he means to.
Zagreus cracks his green eye open, only the faintest hint of his usual smile pulling tiredly at his mouth.
"Yes, fuck Zag," he replies, the words soft, ragged. His laugh turns into a blood-wet cough, and he falls still again, one hand resting on the blade protruding from his chest. "That sounds like fun. Can we do that instead of this?"
Thanatos kneels beside him, ignoring the blood that immediately stains his robe. "What happened?"
"Got unlucky." Zag leans into his touch, pressing his face into Than's cool hand, his ordinarily-burning skin now nearly as cold as death himself. "You like my new piercing?"
"That's a sword."
"Yes. Not the sword I wanted to be impaled on, but now that you're here, you can help me with that."
"Is this a thing for you?" Than asks, briefly distracted from the fact that Zagreus is actively dying. "Does getting stabbed and bleeding all over Elysium get you hot and bothered?"
He considers that for a moment more as Zag makes a noise that might be laughter, or might just be a noise of ow I'm currently impaled on a shade sword please don't make me laugh.
"Do you want me to do something about that?" he offers eventually, when Zag slides a hand down the blade, grasping weakly at the hilt that sprouts from his chest, a flower of war grown from a battlefield of death. And Than feels helpless, somehow, despite the fact that he's Death Incarnate, despite the fact that death and dying are his domain and have been since he began.
"No, I thought I'd leave it," Zag says.
Than considers punching him.
And maybe that shows on his face, because the dark-haired prince coughs another laugh and slumps a little more.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. You're the one dying. And if that gets you all aroused, I mean, that explains some things. And raises more questions than I ever thought I'd need to ask."
He can tell from the pained wheezing laughing noise Zag starts making that he's lost him again.
Than rolls his eyes and sits beside him, brushing a few strands of soft-dark hair from his prince's face, wiping blood from his mouth and chin with a gentle thumb. He has duties to tend to, mortal souls to collect—but there are always mortal souls to collect, and right now there's nowhere else in existence he'd rather be than here, at Zagreus's side.
"I can—I can ease you along," Than says as Zag's head lolls, and suddenly Than is supporting his weight, trying to keep him from hitting the ground as whatever remaining strength he had lapses into exhaustion. Honestly, Than's impressed he's held on this long. "Let me do something for you, Zag. Stop being stubborn."
"Stubborn is—hhh—in my blood," Zag manages, a groan escaping even as he tries to muster his usual bravado. "I am the god of stubborn."
"Zagreus."
"Fine."
Silence.
He lets it stretch, lets Zag lean into him, dead weight.
"Than," Zag says, finally, softly, so soft that Than almost doesn't catch it, and he wonders if he imagined it before the prince speaks again. "Could you just... sit with me, until... until it's done? I know you have places to be, so—I mean—I understand if you can't, I just, I never—"
Than reaches for him, takes his too-cold hand, twines their fingers together gently.
"You never have anyone to see you off," he says, the weight of it sinking into his being. "Zag, how many times has it been?"
How many times has he died alone?
"Not sure," Zag says. He rubs a thumb against Than's hand, tilts his head a little to look at him; likely the only movement he has any strength left for, and knowing that hurts Than's heart in ways he wasn't expecting. "It all runs together after a while. Maybe a hundred? Maybe more. Probably more."
And Than thinks about a hundred lonely deaths, thinks about a hundred violent ends and the fact that Zag's smile never falters, his fire never fades despite all he's suffered. He wonders how much of that is raw determination and veiled fury, and how much of it is Zagreus trying to quell an aching emptiness by chasing injury and despair that masquerade as the answers he's after.
"I'm here," he says when just thinking about it gets to be too much, and he tries to hide the tremor in his voice but doesn't entirely manage it. "Zag, I'm—I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"You're here," Zag says, and his hand tightens around Than's, and his expression is soft-exhausted-grateful all at once, and it sets fire to Than's heart, strikes like lightning through his very existence. "Thank you."
There's a desperation in the way Than kisses him, helpless in the vastness of his adoration. He tastes Zag's blood on his lips and wants nothing more than to worship his beloved, to fall at the feet of the ever-burning prince and offer him anything, everything.
"You don't have to do this alone," he whispers instead, a tender reverence in the quiet words. "I'm here. I'll always be here. I swear it."
Zag exhales, tension bleeding from his tired form. Than thinks he looks—relieved, maybe, like no one's ever spoken those words, like no one's ever given him permission to rely on them for anything.
And he thinks about the House, about its inhabitants, and wonders if maybe no one ever has.
"Than," Zag says, and Thanatos pretends he doesn't hear the way his voice cracks, doesn't feel the way his held hand trembles. "Take me home?"
The words he wants desperately to say catch in his throat, so Than nods wordlessly, presses a kiss to Zag's forehead. Let me take care of you, he wants to say; let me stay by your side. Let me destroy that which would harm you.
Instead, as Zagreus yields to his injuries, Than picks him up, cradles him close and takes them both home with a thought.