Chapter Text
Achilles first met Zagreus when the young god was still that: young.
Gods aged differently to mortals, taking both an eternity and barely any time at all to mature into some semblance of adulthood; though, perhaps ‘mature’ was too strong a word, considering the childish fickleness all gods were seemingly afflicted with. With these entities existing so wholly outside of time, it was always difficult to place an accurate guess on their age, but with Zagreus, it had been easy at a glance.
A young, spritely boy, with embers licking at his soles, his dark hair a bird’s nest and his red tunics rumpled and untucked from its sash. He barely reached Achilles waist, if one ignored the extra inch his autumn-coloured laurels granted him, its leafy points jutting upwards like facsimile horns.
Were it not for the fiery feet and mismatched eyes (one the dark green of young tree’s leaves, the other red as freshly spilled blood), Achilles could have easily mistaken the young lad as a noble’s boy, strutting and confident in place in the world, despite being leagues deep in the Underworld. It had taken him an embarrassingly long moment to remember that his Master had a son, and that this must be him.
Achilles heard that this son, Zagreus he recalled, was embroiled in a complicated situation. Complicated in a way only Gods could make it so, and marvelled that after spending both an eternity and a mere instant in Lord Hades’s House, it was only now he laid eyes on the mysterious and complicated young god.
Perhaps by design. Lord Hades jealously guarded his son’s life; to a fault, Achilles thought uncharitably. The lad was all but imprisoned here, just like the rest of the souls shambling these halls, and god or not, Zagreus must be unbearably bored out of his wits.
“Hello!” The young god greeted him, not at all shy or hesitant as he approached him. From his position in the West Hall, Achilles could see the Master’s desk lay empty. Perhaps this lapse in vigil was why Zagreus was now loose upon the House’s halls, roaming about and chatting to strangers without his father looming heavily over his tiny shoulders.
I should send him back to whence he came, but what’s the harm in entertaining the lad for a moment? Achilles thought to himself.
“Hey there, lad,” Achilles greeted, leaning his non-existent weight on his spear as he peered down at the boy, “Prince Zagreus, I assume?”
Zagreus wrinkled his nose, “Ew, Prince . Just call me Zagreus.”
The young god paused then, a calculative gleam in his eyes. Achilles braced himself for some typical godly trickery, but instead-
“Are you Ak-kil-lease?” Zagreus sounded his name out carefully, yet still mangled the pronunciation, “You have the spear.”
Amused that one of his identifying features was ‘man with a spear’, a trait most Greek soldiers shared during his lifetime, Achilles lifted an eyebrow, “And if I am?”
Zagreus rocked onto the balls of his feet, bouncing excitedly. Little plumes and licks of flames spilled over the floor from where his heels met it, yet didn’t leave a single scorch mark.
“Is it true?” the god asked, leaning in slightly as his voice dropped into a low hush, “Was your heart in your ankle?”
Achilles took a moment to digest what he was just asked, “... what?”
“Your heart! In your ankle!” Zagreus peered down at Achilles’s feet, or, what ghostly remnants remained, “I’m not very good with mortal bodies, but, um, I think that’s a weird place to put it.”
Ah. He was asking about that .
Achilles’s Death! How many variations of his demise had he heard from passing souls? Too many to count, enough so that it coloured his own memories of the incident. Had it been simply an arrow to the heel, severing an artery and leaving him to bleed to death? Was it poisoned? Was it due to the will of one of the fickle Olympians? Achilles honestly couldn’t remember himself.
“No, lad, my heart wasn’t in my ankle,” Achilles said with some morbid humour, “I just had a spot of bad luck.”
“Bad luck…” Zagreus repeated thoughtfully.
“One of the leading causes of mortal deaths,” Achilles admitted, thinking back to those hazy days of life, of soldiers dying or being crippled due to bad luck. It really was a horrible thing, that affliction, “And other unfortunate events.”
“I think I have bad luck,” Zagreus scowled, casting a quick look over his shoulder at where the Master’s desk sat empty, “Being born here .”
Achilles said nothing, sensing they just waded into dangerous waters. The young boy puffed out a short breath, glancing over at him, and, briefly, briefly, despite the youthful face, his eyes seemed older than the seasons that flew by on the surface. A heavy weight and a faint memory flickered to the forefront of Achilles’s mind, of sea salt and grit under the fingernails and a dash of copper in the mouth. Dying and living at once.
But it was very brief. The boy (god ) smiled, dispelling that odd moment.
“So, if your heart wasn’t in your ankle,” the boy said, “does that mean the other stories are untrue?”
Achilles shook off the lingering, strange feeling, resigned to the odd phenomenons that dogged these gods’ steps, and smiled back; “Some are embellished, but are based in truth, lad. Which one do you want to hear about?”
Zagreus’s eyes lit up with happiness at being indulged, and that odd moment drifted by again; a pleasant sort. Of sitting amongst sweet, fresh grass, a peach in hand and resting between hardships.
That moment lingered overly long, but Achilles didn’t mind it at all.