thanzagmeg. amongst the dead of the underworld, a reprise of a love story blooms.
Your mother-in-law once called you the beating heart of the Underworld.
It was a startling thing to hear from Persephone — she who had forsaken her mother's name to marry the God of the Underworld; she who the Earth weeps frozen tears for in her absence; she who has made a dark spring bloom here with just her presence.
The Underworld already has a heart of its own. It thrums with a steady, distant pulse, like the distant drum of a song for soldiers fallen in battle. It is in the shadows that move with purpose, and the chill of death of once warm bodies wandering the halls of the House of Hades and engaging in idle conversation about how they died as if they are merely discussing the weather.
The quiet hum of eternity.
You wonder if she simply sees a bit of herself in you. You were once a nymph of the grassy plains above before Death. Now you are a bride of the Underworld, who has founded a home in this realm of ink-black rivers and whispering shades, its gilded halls and blood-red roses, its ceaseless churn of souls. You walk these corridors not as a mere visitor, nor as one damned, but as something precious; as Persephone is.
Or maybe she simply thinks too much of you. Places you against the greater portrait of the Underworld and all its hellish circles. You have always seen yourself as something more minor, though no less significant. The portrait of a lover, rather than something belonging to the whole of the Underworld; Prince Zagreus’s consort, chosen and beloved.
And not only his.
The scent of laurel and iron is familiar when Megaera finds you first. She is leaning against a cold obsidian pillar where you turn a corner in the hall, caught in your daily wandering of the House of Hades. Her whip coils lazily around her hand, and you have felt the touch of those fingers too often to worry about what that hand is capable of against your beloved prince. You know Zagreus well enough to understand that even he takes some pleasure from their semi-daily spats.
Her golden eyes are alight with amusement when she catches you.
“Looking for someone?”
Her voice is smoke and steel, the kind of teasing only she can pull off — sharp enough to wound, sweet enough to make you crave more. It's a delicious rasp, one that pulls you in.
"I thought you were working," you say softly, meek even in your approach. Under Megaera's gaze, you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. It's a delicious feeling, like flames licking at your skin.
"Tisiphone is dealing with your fool of a husband, sweetling," she muses, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face. Her fingers drift, pinching your chin playfully. "Had it been me out there, Zag wouldn't be coming home in time for supper."
Before you can answer, a weight settles against your back, a touch cold as the space between stars. A hand, deathly pale yet soft in its tenderness, trails over your wrist before curling around your fingers. Megaera raises a brow as she lifts her gaze to the newcomer.
Thanatos does not need words. He never does. His presence alone speaks volumes — the weight of inevitability, of endings — pressing into you like the certainty of a final breath. And yet, there is warmth in him, one you have come to know intimately—a paradox of comfort in the arms of Death himself.
“Zagreus is coming,” he murmurs, voice quiet as the rustle of the Fields of Asphodel. “He was waylaid.”
“Waylaid,” Megaera echoes, smirking. “That’s one way to put it.”
You tilt your head up as you feel Thanatos shift, his golden eyes gleaming under the torchlight. He is beautiful in his quietude, just as Megaera is beautiful in her storm.
"Were you helping him again, Than?" you inquire.
It has been a long time since aiding the Prince of the Underworld in his escapades was seen as some form of treason by Hades. Even then, Thanatos still averts his gaze, his grey skin flushing with a dark shade like the murky waters.
"Helping is a generous term, dear," he mumbles.
Megaera snorts.
Their bickering is dry, almost entirely deadpan. There is none of that theatrical flair of Zagreus arguing with his father for eternities, but it is no less entertaining for you to watch. You've learned to take delight in the sharpness of their words, the furrow of their brows. In a way, it is strangely domestic.
You cannot help the little grin that tugs at your lips as you watch them in front of you. The laugh that tumbles out of your mouth is entirely accidental, and you squeak as two pairs of golden eyes snap to you.
"What are you laughing about, little flower?" Thanatos muses, his voice soft and utterly smitten.
"Isn't it obvious? They're laughing at you," Megaera scoffs, though it lacks in her usual malice.
Suddenly, the scent of wine and pomegranate blossoms floods your senses.
It comes before you even see him. You close your eyes, basking in the scent of it as if it were the spring that you have not felt in a lifetime. Beside you, Megaera and Thanatos fall silent.
Then, there he is: breathless, grinning, battered from the inevitable chaos that follows him everywhere, the floors of hell burning under his feet. His underworld-forged armor bears fresh scrapes, his knuckles bruised from the skirmish, but his smile—his smile is for you.
For all of you.
"There is your husband," Megaera drawls.
Zagreus is panting when he reaches you, still dripping in the blood from the River Styx. You have learned to disregard the viscera, delighting only in the way his hands reach—finding yours, Megaera's, brushing against Thanatos's in an unspoken promise.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Zagreus breathes. “Got a little distracted.”
"Distracted, he says," Thanatos deadpans.
Megaera rolls her eyes, but she lets him pull her closer. Thanatos sighs but does not resist the touch.
Death, treachery, rebirth; how odd for a maiden of the Earth to surround themself with. But you have learned like the goddess before you that love tends to find creatures like you in the strangest of places, like a stubborn dandelion blooming through the cracks of a cobblestone path.
You beam, lifting yourself up on your toes to press your lips against your husband's cheek, then your two other lovers. Their hands are cold like the touch of Death and unbearably warm like the flames of Asphodel, and you stand at the very center of it—something that was once warm and breathing and now is not; beloved in your death as you were in life.
"Shall we have our supper together now?" the bride of the Underworld asks.
And like any damned creature in love, the Underworld listens.
synopsis: after the 100th failed attempt of Zagreus trying to escape from the Underworld, a divine being from beyond the Greek pantheon caught wind of his suicidal mission. God sent y/n, a trusted soldier from his army of angels, to aid him in his freedom.
genre: zagreus x angel!reader, fluff, angst, suggestive themes
wc: 1k+
an: comment below or send an ask to be added to the taglist!
<previous || masterlist || next>
—
Death was a concept created to mark the end of the living. However, angels knew that it was only the beginning of a soul’s life at the right hand of God in Heaven. The excursion to the paradise with a winged being was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Quite literally.
A millennium of escorting children and adults for them to experience the fruits of their labor in the afterlife should’ve run you ragged. But, the task to carry three dogs in your arms was a more difficult feat — it was completed with cramping wings and a huff of fatigue.
You found the puppies snuggled up next to each other during a frigid winter. The cold air nipped at the end of your feathers as you neared their gentle breaths, slowly quieting.
Perhaps angels with weak hearts, such as yourself, shouldn’t have been assigned to an occupation that exposed them to death. The thought of becoming a messenger to the mortals came across your mind.
But even then, you couldn’t change the fate of mankind.
The only solace you ensured them was the warmth of your hand against their soul during the time of collection.
Your thoughts were still at the forefront as the golden gates of Heaven opened up. The rays of the eternal sun still surprised you at the end of each expedition.
As you hobbled through the entrance with the sleeping pups, the flourishing flowers from around the world swayed in greeting. Even with the lack of rainfall, the blessings of eternity kept them alive.
You crouched down to let the new residents of the afterlife out of your trembling arms. The dogs stretched their limbs before bounding toward the rolling hills of grass.
A booming chuckle tickled your feathers. “It seems our ever-shifting land has already procured a place for them to enjoy.”
You turned towards God with a small smile. He towered above you, yet he was as gentle as the creatures you escorted. “They would’ve relieved themselves in excitement if they were still alive.”
“You’re rather fond of the dogs. I do hope you get to see them again.” He sighed, “Although, your display of resentment is not from having to say goodbye, is it?”
Your cheeks flushed knowing that he read the lingering thoughts in your mind. “I didn’t mean to appear ungrateful for the role you’ve given me.”
God waved his hand in dismal. “My child, it is not my duty to keep you here. There are many eager for your help whenever you’re prepared to lend a hand.”
You nodded and gripped the hem of your tunic.
With a sigh of the wind, he presented you with a woven basket filled to the brim with scrolls of parchment — the tasks of angels — each enclosed by twine, silk, or wax.
There was one bound by a dark crystal emanating an amethyst glow.
God explained, “There is a being from beyond the worlds you’ve traveled in need of great aid.”
You gingerly pried the letter open.
The message you scanned made your chest tighten… In fear? Or perhaps excitement? The Lord’s generosity stretched from those who sinned to creatures on their last breath. But to free a chthonic god from the King of the Dead was between the threshold of luck and a miracle.
God gripped your shoulder. “Say his name when you’re ready to accept the task.”
You whispered, “Zagreus.”
—
You thrashed on blue quilts. Potent forces of the netherworld willed you to leave the wretched place. Groans clawed their way out of your throat. As phantom pains lingered downwards, pulsating thumps resounded through every pore.
The Underworld wasn’t welcoming to holy creatures like you.
You slowly steadied your breath by noting the spread of scrolls and leather-bound books strewn around. If it weren’t for the bed you tumbled out of, you would’ve thought the room was forgotten storage for ancient texts and artifacts.
Behind the closed door, a muffled voice growled, “Your threats won’t deter me from getting away from you, Father.”
The golden handle shook brutally before a familiar fragrance of flame and ashes from the winter season filled the room.
The chthonic god rolled his eyes and muttered an unpleasant word before they landed on you.
Zagreus flinched but quickly recovered. “Who you might be, good shade?”
You attempted to flare out your wings — the familiar weight was missing. You had a look of confusion, more so meant for God than for him.
A bright voice hummed in your mind. “You mustn't reveal your true form, my child. For there are ears everywhere within the House of Hades.”
Who is there to trust within the land of the dead?
Mentally sifting through the gossip, albeit a flaw of yours, it crafted a foundation for the residents of the lair, including the immortal who stood before you.
Humans and angels alike eagerly discussed the Prince’s mission. Even with the Greek pantheon’s boons along with heroes born and bred for battle training him, he eventually reached the one hundredth failed attempt of escaping the Underworld.
However, an angel’s blessing would grace him with renewed vigor.
You clasped your hands behind you. “A pedagogue at your service, my prince. Please call me y/n.”
“I’m grateful for your tutelage, but I’ve already spent many years sharpening my mind.”
“I was not sent by Lord Hades.”
Zagreus closed the distance between the two of you. The scent of fire shifted, it burned your lungs. “I’m rather occupied with Achilles’ sparring sessions throughout the day.”
“And what of the moments when you’re not training or not dying? What do you do then, my prince?” You grit your teeth. Knowing the bone-headed prince’s stubbornness was one thing, but experiencing it was another. “Lady Nyx tasked me to educate you on the realms of this hell.”
Zagreus grinned at the bite of your tongue. He suspected a new prophecy along the lines of talk to a snarky being other than your father was forged and completed.
