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“Zagreus?”
His mother’s voice is gentle enough to sting. He doesn’t respond, throwing her what he hopes is a reassuring smile instead before disappearing into his bedroom. He’s been on a bit of a losing streak recently, bad enough that he’d lost to Alecto this last run, and Meg had stopped him in the lounge to tease him about it. Frankly, he’s feeling just a little sensitive, not that anyone in the house has ever cared how he felt, and he’d like to be left alone for a while and failing that, maybe he can work his emotions off in a fight, at least.
He’s crossed halfway through his room when his mother calls out for him again, firmer this time. “Zagreus.” Her voice bears little room for argument, so he stops, on the threshold of the hall that will take him towards the courtyard, but he doesn’t turn around.
He’s not sure he can, not without betraying how very close to breaking he feels. He can still hear his father’s delighted, derogatory chuckle when Hypnos had loudly pointed out that he’d died, once again, to a tiny vermin, but that had been four, five runs ago now? And Zagreus hasn’t even made it up to Elysium since. He pulls a deep breath to judge how steady his voice is, then sighs out, with only the smallest shake, “mother?”
“You’ll run yourself into the ground at this rate,” she states, not unkindly. Zagreus shrugs.
“It’s my job, mother, it’s not as if I have much say in the matter.”
Persephone barks a laugh, though it holds no humor. They both know that Hades has given Zagreus permission to set his own hours, perhaps hoping his son might be better at determining a healthy work-life balance than he has ever been. Loathe as Zagreus is to admit it, however, he is his father’s son. “As your Queen, then,” Persephone says with enough authority in her voice that Zagreus feels he has no choice but to turn around, “you will be put on break, until such a time as I’ve decided you’ve rested enough to continue your duties.”
“Mother-”
“No. I won’t hear it, Zagreus. To bed, now.”
He sucks in a sharp breath at that, but nods. “Right. Of course.” Who was he to imagine that his mother might hear him out at all? No, no, Zagreus knows his place in the house well, and it’s best served in silence.
He turns towards the chaise, unbuckles, and removes his various adornments to lay gently across the low seat. “You-” Persephone starts, as he braces his foot against the lounge to better remove his greaves. She stops though, uncertain, as an uncomfortable silence falls on them both. Zagreus switches legs, works off his other greave, and is about to head for his mattress when Persephone concludes her thought, “you’re aware that you can reach out to me if you need, aren’t you? That I am willing to listen, no matter what it is troubling you.”
Achilles had told him the same, once upon a time. But Achilles was under his father’s employ, and Zagreus was painfully aware that anything he said would reach his father somehow, so he kept quiet.
He feels similarly about opening up to his mother. He offers her a smile. “I’m sure I’m just tired. Some sleep and I’ll be good as new, mother, not to worry.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. “Right. Sleep well, love.”
Zagreus watches her leave, watches the curtains he has in place of doors swing shut behind her. What would he tell her, anyway? What’s troubling him is… there’s too much there, honestly. He’s tired, for one thing, and for another, he’s realizing that in spite of all of his effort, nothing feels resolved . The House is happier and livelier than it’s ever been, his relationships are stronger than they’ve ever been, and he has so much that he didn’t have before-
But his gaze catches on the entertainment table he’d purchased ages ago now, untouched and shoved in a corner, and the loneliness bubbles up so intensely he feels nauseous with it. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him, that he feels so intensely alone. He has a family that cares about him, lovers, plural, and isn’t that amazing that not one but two people had managed to fall for him, he has friends scattered all across the Underworld and still, none of it is enough.
He can’t explain that to his mother. He sounds unbearable even to himself, selfish and needy and desperate, something he thought he’d grown out of, but clearly not.
He glances at the entrance to his chambers, weighs his options, then slides his armor and adornments back on and trudges out into the courtyard.
He hits the floor of Tartarus with a jarring impact, shaking from his knees through the rest of his frame, but he shakes it off easily, collecting a boon from Poseidon without hearing his uncle’s light-hearted encouragement, dashing forward, waves left in his wake. Stygius is a familiar, comfortable weight in his hands, in his aspect, and he lets it guide him forward, loses himself in the swing of his blade through a lout’s rippling abdomen, in a jab through the chest of a large, looming thug, in the shattering smack of the flat of his blade against a numbskull. Alecto’s barbs are mere background noise as he tears through her, rage and shame from his previous loss driving him to be reckless but quick, and vicious, and then the fight is over and he stands, alone, coated in blood and sweat, and gods he’s tired.
His gaze travels to the spike traps built across the floor near the wall, and finds he’s vaguely upset they’ve been deactivated. His father still likes to offer his commentary between the levels of the Underworld and Zagreus doesn’t want to hear his voice. The exit won’t open until he’s splashed himself in the fountain, but if he goes quickly enough, if he dunks his head under the water fast enough, perhaps he’ll block his father out. Then he can stand in the Phlegethon until the Styx rushes up to claim him and he-
Shit. Shit. And then his mother finds out he left against her wishes, and Hypnos might be able to point out that he’d killed himself in Asphodel, or his father might see .
There’s the flap of a wing behind him and he stiffens up, fingers clenching around Stygius. Surely he wouldn’t have to repeat the fight? He hasn’t lingered that long, he thinks, but he’s always been bad at measuring the passage of time and the light in Tartarus is too eternally steady to offer him any clue.
“The door’s unlocked, Zag.”
“I know, Meg,” he responds, turning around with a grin he hopes looks as lazy and confident as it normally would. Meg’s eyes track over him critically, narrowing when she reaches his face, and his grin falters a little.
“Why haven’t you left then?”
“I was just admiring the detail work on this door, is all. It’s really something, I’m surprised how intricate it is, given- Well, Tartarus is all doom and gloom, isn’t it, and Alecto’s never really struck me as someone who cared about all the finer details, so it does beg the question who commissioned the door to be so-”
“Zagreus.” His teeth clack against each other as his jaw snaps shut, and bitterly he notes how easily he shuts up when told to, and how he seems to be the only one to notice. “Do you take me for a fool?”
He shrugs, scowling. “Why are you here, Meg?”
“Tisiphone was… concerned.” Meg pauses, looks him up and down again. “Did she have reason to be? And don’t try to feed me bullshit this time.”
Zagreus shrugs. “Mother ordered me to take a rest,” he admits, staring a hole into the floor. The detailing on the tiles is interesting, too, he’s never really taken a second to admire how pretty Tartarus can be, screams of the eternally damned and crumbling architecture aside.
“And you disobeyed her by going on another run?”
“I-” He sighs, shakes his head. “Well, are you going to send me home the quick way, then?”
“Not before you explain yourself.”
“I’d really rather not. This was a mistake, I realize that.” He glances over his shoulder at the door again, debating internally. He could just… continue his run. He’s made it this far, and it means he can put off seeing his mother for a little longer. He’s definitely too tired to try it, but he’s planning on dying anyway- “If you aren’t going to kill me, I’ll just keep going then.”
“Zagreus…” Meg sounds uncertain, and it makes Zagreus’ throat feel tight.
"Well?" he asks, his voice steadier than he feels. He doesn't mean her eyes, though, and when she doesn't respond, he turns around and leaves.
His father stays quiet as he splashes his face in the fountain, and he continues up.
The Phlegethon is tempting where its flames lick against his feet as he races through the scorched fields and plains, but he doesn't allow himself to stop long enough to succumb to it. He takes hit after hit from mob after mob that meets him, runs into walls and trips onto the stone floor, and he's covered in injuries by the time he trudges up the steps into the gate to Elysium. He can feel his father's presence there, watching, but still no word from him. It sets Zagreus's nerves on edge.
He quietly purges a few boons that had been making it too easy on him, tucks both the trinket he'd had in his pocket and the companion tied to his waist back in their slots, and continues onward.
He feels numb as he charges through Elysium, eternally perfect grass burnt to nothing under his scorching feet as he fells horde after horde of heroes. He avoids Patroclus' glade when the chamber appears, sure he'd be criticized for his poor appearance, especially if Achilles is there beside him, always ready with his unbearable gentleness. He avoids the gods as best he can, says nothing to them when he's forced to collect a boon, but they don't notice; when do they ever? It's not as if he is anything more to them than an entertaining playtoy. At least he can be certain of how they feel about him. He's grateful, as well, that Theseus pays him no mind as he postures to the audience before their fight, and he's grateful, too, that Asterius doesn't try to broach the topic when they're in the midst of it, despite his concerned glances.
When, against all odds, he arrives in the temple, Charon and Cerberus are both conspicuously absent, and he realizes with a vague, distant sinking feeling that it means he only has his father left to face. He checks, half-heartedly, that the door behind him won't open back up, that the satyr passages presented to him are truly empty, cleared out and locked, but it is a hopeless search and so he steels himself to go face his father instead.
The air outside is cold and stinging against his many wounds. He ignores it, snow sizzling under his feet as he approaches, weapon drawn, ready, if unwilling, to die by his father's bident once more.
"Father," he says, voice raspy from disuse and exhaustion.
"Boy," Hades responds, and Zagreus wonders, for a second, why he felt apprehensive at all. This is routine. He knows what his relationship with his father is. He knows he is held in smaller regard than even the lowest ranking of his father's employees. This is nothing but an unfortunate part of both of their jobs, and he knows, as his father burns his cloak up and turns to face him, that this will be the same as it always is: a quick, mostly quiet fight, with little room for words beyond the occasional taunt.
He dodges in and out of his father's range, taking hits when they appear to him, but taking damage in return for how slowly he retreats. He's taken another swing at his father's flank when he realizes he’s slipping, having taken too long to dodge a low sweep of his father’s spear, and then he’s on his back, staring up at the starry sky, waiting for his father to take advantage of his weakness and send him home.
A second passes, then two.
“Get up, boy,” Hades hisses. Zagreus, confused, pushes himself up to stare at him.
“Why haven’t you killed me yet? I should’ve dodged that sweep, I left myself wide open.” Hades has leveled his spear at his son, though it’s just too far away to really be much of a threat. Stygius, on the other hand, has landed on the snow-covered dirt just a few feet too far away for him to reach it.
“Do you think I continue to engage in these fights only to kill you?” Hades asks, scowling.
“No, I think you engage in these fights because losing to me helps you assuage your guilt about being a terrible father,” Zagreus snipes. Hades growls, raising his spear for a moment, but he pauses, face contorting in ways Zagreus doesn’t recognize, as if he’s struggling with himself. “Well?”
“I won’t let you goad me into killing you,” he says, finally, through gritted teeth as he makes a move as if sheathing his weapon, Gigaros disappearing out of his grasp.
Zagreus laughs bitterly, falling back onto the snow. The sky above him is dark and grey, the stars and moon hiding behind the clouds, denying him even that small amount of comfort. “I don’t know why I thought you’d ever do anything for me.”
“Not this, boy. Much as you may like to forget it, you are my son.”
“Much as I might like to forget it? If only I could be so lucky,” he spits, baring his teeth as he pushes himself to his feet, aching all over and exhausted, wanting desperately for his father to run him through already if only for the few moments before he’s made whole in the Styx again, where he feels nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing, just exists without any worries, without any stress. He stumbles to his feet and retrieves his sword before turning to stand in a readied stance, hilt grasped in his right hand, his left twitching for a bloodstone, feet shoulder-width apart, glaring at his father. “Come on then, summon your spear. I’d rather not stall a moment longer.”
“No,” Hades says, brows pinched as he stares down at his son. “I will not allow you to kill yourself on my spear.”
"You’ve killed me hundreds of times by now, father, why is this any different?”
“You’ve never wanted to die, boy!”
“Hah!” Zagreus flicks his hair out of his eyes with a slightly crazed grin. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”
Hades seems to pale at that, taking a step back away from his son, his eyes flicking across him as he does, as if attempting to find some visual clue to validate what Zagreus is insinuating.
Zagreus isn’t sure why he keeps talking, in truth. “Did you think I started running away thinking I wouldn’t die? That was about the only thing you ever taught me, that there was no escape . I knew it would be dangerous and I wanted it to be, because even if I failed at least it might mean I wouldn’t have to see you again.”
“Zagreus.” Hades’ voice is quiet and pained. His son pays him no mind.
“Take your spear out, father, and finish this,” he growls, hands flexing around the hilt of his sword.
The lord of Hell, god of the dead and damned, ruler of the Underworld and all that resides within it, lets out a defeated sigh with a shake of his head and slumps against one of the crumbling stone pillars, sliding down it to sit on the snow-covered ground. It’s a jarring enough sight to give Zagreus pause, his own face contorted in concern and confusion now at the exhaustion lining his father’s face. He’s still angry, his frustration turning cold and hard to see his father react like this. Pitiful. Pathetic. Not once has he been allowed to show weakness, not as a child and certainly not as an adult, for fear that his father would berate him for it, for tarnishing the house’s reputation, and here his father is, rubbing at his temples as he stares blankly at the ground, body stiff and expression contorted in pain.
“If you’re expecting me to feel sorry for you, I won’t,” Zagreus says, and it’s only mostly true. He hates that he still cares about his father, for all the lack of care his father ever showed him. It isn’t fair, and especially not now.
“I expect nothing of the sort,” Hades admits, looking up at his son. “Would you sit with me?”
Zagreus glances over at the archway that’ll lead out to the rest of Greece. He'd never intended to make it out this time anyway. Maybe he could throw himself off a cliff, but he’s not sure he wants to return to the house that way, not sure he’ll be able to laugh off Hypnos’ questions about what happened, not sure he’ll be able to look his mother in the eye with that shame tacked onto the guilt he feels already for having disobeyed her.
And admittedly, he’s exhausted, his anger replaced once more with a dull, aching numbness that feels colder even than the wintery air of the entryway. He drops down beside his father, keeping a small amount of space between them.
“Your mother sent me,” Hades says in a tone he typically reserves for his wife, quiet and soft, gentle-like.
Zagreus cannot look at him, for fear that the pity in his voice will be reflected in his usually cold and steely gaze. "Ah," he mutters, staring at the snow melting beneath his feet. They aren't burning as bright as they usually do, though he isn't sure if that's because of his mood or the weather. "She's unhappy with me, then."
"She is worried about you," Hades corrects, and after a pause, he adds. "As am I."
"I couldn't tell," Zagreus responds airily, glaring at the door back into the temple, wishing it could've borne some warning that this was what was ahead of him. "Why pretend to fight me at all, then?"
"I intended to send you home."
Zagreus makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Then why the change of plans?"
Hades doesn't respond, and the silence stretches between them. Snow begins to fall again, gently drifting down from the clouds above, and it feels inappropriate. Too idyllic for the moment, Zagreus muses, and wishes his uncle would send a storm or something equally violent, to break the tranquility that feels entirely undeserved and out of place.
"When your mother returned… when she asked that we apologize to and forgive each other, you did so easily," Hades says, breaking the silence. Zagreus glances over a moment to see he is watching the river, lips pursed in thought, planning his words. It's unusual to see him consider what he means to say with an expression leaning more towards concern than derision, when his father's usual pauses are only to determine what words might wound him worst. Hades doesn't seem to register he's being watched as he continues, "I had to wonder that you hadn't told her more about our relationship, or lack thereof, and that you so comfortably lied to her to prevent her finding out."
Zagreus wraps his arms around his knees, resting his chin atop them, hands rubbing at his upper arms more from discomfort with the conversation than the cold. "I didn't… I didn't want to spoil her return. Nor did I want to ruin her hopes for us to be a family. I mean, in truth, I wanted that too, and I thought, perhaps…"
"She suspects." Hades sighs, shifting beside him. "It is why she is always glad to see you defeat me."
"Huh. I did wonder." The cold is settling in now, uncomfortable, and though Zagreus is sure they aren't far enough outside of the Underworld for their bonds to the Styx to drag them home, he's not entirely sure he isn't dying, regardless. "Why didn't you tell her the truth?"
"I had also hoped she might be correct to assume it was not entirely…"
"Hopeless?" Zagreus offers.
Hades nods. "I fear that may have been naive of me."
Zagreus snorts, a sarcastic little smile cleaved across his face. "Come now, father, surely you haven't given up? We've had an entire conversation without throwing insults at each other, and all it took was for it to happen was for me to try to kill myself."
Hades gives his son a long look. "Your mother will be waiting for us," he says, voice returned to its usual hard tone as he forces himself to his feet. He extends a hand to Zagreus as he continues, "the sigil can transport us both, if you'd like."
Zagreus allows his father to help him up and allows himself to be transported home. His mother berates him as he exits the administrative chamber alone, his father pretending to be preoccupied with checking on the work of the shades employed there, and he allows it too. The conversation between father and son sits unacknowledged, and soon enough, the prince's luck turns around, and his low mood is brushed off as a blip once more, nothing significant enough to pay any mind to, nothing consequential enough to bare exploring, and Zagreus finds himself grateful for the shame and pity and concern it spares him.