Oh, to be Thanatos. You are tied to the House you were born in, title already in your hands, godhood all ready to shape you, with the starry sky of your mother's eyes holding you close. You don't really like the noise of the busy souls that crowd the hall, it's not that you didn't enjoy being a child, but the announcement of the Gentle Death was too big that your little bones had to learn how to carry it for your mother, and for the House.
And then, he is born. He is tiny, so so tiny. And he is bright and he is fire and he burns. He laughs and it echoes all throughout the house, running around with you hand in hand, a complicit smile on your face when he touched things he shouldn't, or toed the rules clumsily, falling headfirst into them. He always got on his feet, brushed the pain off his knees and smiled and giggled for you.
He used to pluck leaves off his laurels and give them to you, hide in obvious places in such a way it had to be on purpose. He always wanted to find you, and to be found. He would stand at every corner of the House of Hades, awaiting the toll of your bells. He liked your hair, and your eyes, and your smile. You don't understand how every strand of his being can radiate warmth.
You are being pulled, always. By him, and by what you must do. Cries and dying breaths, and blood of thousands of men, praying for someone to take them to a good place. Praying for one second more. And then, two seconds, for one hour. You never really understood, life can only last so much. They have to let it go, traverse the waters, so other people can see the sun, the night.
They won't stop existing. Because after the crossing of the river there are other places they can go to. Places where higher forces tell them they belong to. Just like you. Everything born in this house is tied to it. To its walls and ceilings. No one ever goes so far. No one ever leaves forever.
Except her, of course. But it's not for you to presume, whether she left because she belonged too much, or if she didn't. Neither or both, it doesn't really matter right now.
You grow up, and so does he. He is always fluttering around, the House bends at his feet. He stares bored at his papers. Spars and he looks like he is soaring with a sword in his hand. He loves. So much. So much it hurts you. It's written across his face, lettering all around his body.
You however, choke with your own thoughts, too many to ever stop and contemplate, because when you think about him there is always a glowing tangle of things you want to say, but you can never. He looks, like he knows what you want to say, but you feel like you're pushing yourself from him, when you swallow the sentences to the pit of your stomach.
They will always come back though. Acidic and a bad aftertaste of loneliness and regret, you mull their bitter ends and chew them as you wander the upper land, far away so he cannot read you. Because he is an all consuming presence, and even far away, he is around you. The bending flowers at the river. When the clouds embrace the sun, you couldn't help but think of holding him like that, too. Covering him for a moment, draping him with your figure, a breath near his own.
But that's too much. Too much. You can't, you are not there, and the war unfolding just makes you longer for him more. For the House and your mother, and the cold, gold pillars.
And then he leaves. He fucking leaves. You have to pull Hypnos's teeth and stare at your mother until she raises a brow, still shielding him. How can he go? Why would he leave? He was born here, he was here all the time. Your world, the world you love is down here, why would he discard it so easily as well?
The House is in shambles, and the steps close to the river are never fully clean. Blurred footprints that leave a messy trail.
You find him. Because how could you not? Why would you not? You have to shake him awake, remind him that his life is down here, very deeply burrowed in this realm. That upstairs and above there's nothing for them, nothing for you or him. That a search for the silhouette of a mother gone is absurd. That dying and waking, and dying and waking will drive him inside. Making you insane as well. The river Lethe is a few steps ahead, and you feel like drinking all of it so you can forget how it feels having him cut his way out of your chest. Out of your heart.
You just don't get it. Maybe you never did. Maybe you should've told him all those things that you left up there, maybe that's why he is leaving. Or maybe, he was never supposed to be known by you. Maybe he was being lended to you, and now the world wants him back.
Or maybe he just doesn't get it. Swan diving directly to the pits of seething heat, and cooling swords. To the gritty of the plagues, just to be stopped by a spear. A spear all of you know.
And he finds her. And you still don't get it. You say things that freeze his face; and he retorts back with a crackle of a flame. You used to blend so well together. Now you can't even remember how to talk to him.
It comes slowly, in long, suffering waves. He is not leaving. Just searching. Maybe because you never had to, you never understood. Maybe it's not that people are made for places; but they carve their own shapes into them. Maybe he just had to figure out the knife or his shape. But he's not leaving, he would never leave you, he says.
He would always come back and hold his breath for the toll of your bells, so you can both learn how you can blend once again, how it would feel to hold Zagreus with no choked words. Or no scathing heart breaks, left uncompleted all across the Underworld, for no one to find them, or run into them.
You never really liked the sun. But if it means that Zagreus brings back its light everytime it returns, as if he stole it or took a piece of it, to bring alight everything else; then, you wouldn't mind its warmth for a while. Life and Death, one and the same.
Thanatos and Zagreus, forevermore.
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