The prince is dying as the world erupts.
His eyes are weary, skin slick
For it is hot in the air of Asphodel—
Ghostly in its hue as death incarnate, the peaceful executioner descends on swift wings.
Thanatos takes in measure the thin spindle of life, the single thread that keeps Zagreus up right.
And the quietus god cannot help but note that even in the painful strain of slaughter, the prince is beautiful.
He will do this job one-hundred
No—one thousand more times today,
It is the smile that undoes him. The grin that spreads Zagreus’ handsome face wide as his eyes roam across death itself, no fear
Only Chthonic joy that strips him bear until he—in the glory of the underworld—is nothing but the query man of slain foes at their feet. Waiting for the reprieve of his hand.
And it occurs to Thanatos, as his scythe pauses in the space between them,
As the very god of death holds his blow,
that there is no other soul that could stave the quickness of his blade.
They are immortal gods here, in the underbelly of the world, but for just a moment,
or perhaps several days—whatever the equivalent to gods—
The little godling conjures butterflies into mother night, the dark of her stars his only company.
Even then the shades knew him by sight, the world above by name.
And the prince and the son of Nyx are something akin to children with their hands stained red from afternoons playing in the riverbed.
It is gentle. He does not know how to be anything less to this prince of redemption.
As he scoops him into his arms, inexorably drawn,
And it is by his bare fingers, not his scythe, that Zagreus falls.
The dark head lulls, his body limp.
And even in death Thanatos can feel the clutch of his grip.
The immortal longing of two souls at rest.
They plunge below worlds, into the shaded Styx,
And they hold against each other.
A waiting pattern of tender flesh
As infinite sleep burst toward the surface of an underworld set alight.
And Thanatos lifts his prince from the bathing of bloodshed.
And as Zagreus awakes in the dichotomous arms of the dark cloud of demise, Thanatos cannot help but remind him that he is
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