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Zagreus already knows that his father is not called “Lord” for no reason. He enforces his authority with an iron grip. Nothing in the House of Hades goes unseen by the Unseen One, nothing takes place without his explicit permission. No matter how much Zagreus may hate it, the fact of Father’s rule is as immutable as gravity.
So, if Zagreus is going to get what he wants, he figures that he should at least give the diplomatic approach a shot. Maybe this will be one of the rare times his and Father’s goals align, and there won’t even be a fight about it.
Or maybe Zagreus is just kidding himself.
He’s been waiting for a lull in the number of shades vying for a court hearing. Too many requests to deal with, and Father starts to get snappish and deny them all. But now there’s only a slow trickle of shades in line, and Father is even granting a few of their requests. He seems in as…well, good is a strong word, but as not-angry a mood as any. Zagreus dashes toward the back of the line and waits, fighting the urge to fidget. He doesn’t like standing around, shuffling sluggishly forward like this—but any sign of restlessness is sure to detract from his case.
Father looks slightly surprised to see Zagreus in front of his desk, once his turn finally comes around. Slightly surprised, and highly suspicious. “Boy. What are you doing here?”
“Father,” Zagreus says, feigning nonchalance. “I only wanted to make a request, and I thought you’d appreciate it if I did it the formal way.” Father’s eyes narrow at that. Zagreus tries not to falter. “…Do you think you could have a door installed in my chambers?”
“A door?” Father repeats, scornfully. Like everything else that comes out of his mouth. “This is what you’re bothering me for?”
“Yes, well, I’ve just been thinking, it’d be nice to maybe be able to close off my chambers,” Zagreus says, refusing to be discouraged. “It’s just, my room is right outside the lounge, and Mother Nyx spends a lot of her time in the hallway, and I—” he grasps for a real reason, more than just some inarticulable desire to have a door “—the noise makes it hard to sleep?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Father only rolls his eyes and scoffs, “What need have you for sleep? You’re a god, boy—all it is is laziness. You wouldn’t need a door if you didn’t spend so much time lounging about your chambers, and instead put yourself to some use. Unlike you, boy, our House Contractor has quite enough work to do without spending the time, effort, and resources on such a trivial matter.”
Of course. What did Zagreus expect? He tries his best to follow his father’s protocol, and still it doesn’t make a difference. Father is just determined to hate him no matter what he does.
“Well, if it’s so trivial,” Zagreus snaps, “it won’t take that much effort and resources at all! You just can’t stand not having an eye on all your subjects every hour of the day and night!”
Father slams his fist on his desk. “You are not my subject, you are my son. And if you would act like it, you wouldn’t need a door in the first place. You should be grateful you have a bedroom at all!”
“Oh, of course,” Zagreus says derisively, and he feels his feet flare up with his spike of anger. “I should be grateful for the leftover drawing room because your father made you sleep in his stomach, is that right?”
“Yes, boy!” Father glares with all the fury that reduces mortal shades to terrified submission—but Zagreus’ own anger only rises in turn. “You mock and whine from the luxury of our House. Be thankful you will never be forced to live in any such single acidic chamber, crammed in with all your insufferable siblings for years upon years—”
“I am thankful, but that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like—you could stand to act like you—” Zagreus can’t finish the sentence, can’t force out the pathetic words he’s thinking. You could stand to act like you actually love me. Instead he fumbles for some last argument, pivots: “You have a door, you know! Why should you lecture me on not needing such a luxury?”
“I keep sensitive documents in my chambers that need to be secured behind closed doors,” Father says without hesitation. He sneers. “What documents do you keep in your chambers—those juvenile pin-ups?”
Zagreus flushes. “They’re just wall-scrolls, it’s not—”
“You think I care?” Father scowls. “Enough of this. I have more important requests to attend to. Get out of my sight.”
Father can’t make Zagreus discorporate and send him away, not like the other shades making requests, though Zagreus is sure he would like to. But a dismissal is a dismissal; when Father is done listening, there’s nothing Zagreus can do to regain his attention. Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers trying. He clenches his jaw and dashes back through the East Hall and into his bedroom, leaving dark scorch marks across Father’s precious tile floors.
He skids to a stop just inside his doorway, breathing heavily. He doesn’t even know why this anger inside him won’t settle. He doesn’t want to be like Father—raging about just because he didn’t get his way. But it’s just so…so infuriating. He just wants to be listened to for once, but no, his father is allergic to common decency.
Zagreus hears low voices behind him. He turns around, and sees a cluster of shades hovering outside his bedroom doorway, whispering amongst themselves. One of them points into his room, and Zagreus’ stomach drops.
He glares at them, feeling horribly exposed. He regrets it immediately when the shades squeak in fear and discorporate. So much for not being like Father—making everyone around him afraid and miserable.
Slowly, Zagreus turns back around. There, pasted onto his walls, blatantly visible from where he stands in the doorway: Zagreus’ wall-scrolls, starring various celebrity figures throughout history, up to and including a few of his father’s detested Olympians. If he was going to call these chambers his own, a younger Zagreus thought, he should at least customize the decor to his liking. If he was never going to get out of this House and accomplish anything that matters, a younger Zagreus thought, he should at least get to admire people who had.
But now, staring at the haphazardly displayed collection, Zagreus feels only embarrassment for his past self. Father’s words echo in his mind: those juvenile pin-ups. Before he can think about it, Zagreus dashes across the room and starts pulling them down.
He drops the wall-scrolls in a messy pile at his feet, letting them curl up around each other. When at last he’s removed every last one, he steps back and surveys his now-blank wall. The same cold black-purple as the rest of his chambers.
Something in his stomach tightens. He scoops up the pile of wall-scrolls, strides across the room, and dumps them in a corner.
Zagreus stops, then, still buzzing with pent-up energy. Now that he’s not singlemindedly focused on a task, everything rushes back into his sensory awareness.
Light streams into his chambers, both from the East Hall behind him and the courtyard outside. His father’s voice booms from within the House, and the lounge is noisy as ever, packed with all sorts of shades waiting for their audience or having just finished. All of it is funneled into the East Hall and echoes straight into his chambers.
Zagreus is meant to be a god, immune to trivial, mortal discomforts. But his head hurts. As if the red blood wasn’t bad enough.
All of a sudden, Zagreus wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep. He moves for his bed, except—
You’re a god, boy, all it is is laziness.
He’s not lazy. He scowls down at his plush blue bedding. How dare Father call him lazy, how dare Father criticize him for spending too much time in his room, when he hasn’t even given Zagreus any real way to contribute to the House. No way that he’s actually passably decent at, at least. He’s sure that Father’s going to recruit him for the Administrative Chamber any day now. He’s heard the shades on break from administrative duties in the lounge, whispering about Lord Hades’ potential hiring of his son. A pity hire, a guaranteed disaster, a disruption to the regular, competent employees.
Well, until that day comes to pass, Zagreus has nowhere to be, but these very bedchambers. He still can’t bring himself to lie down. Instead, he crosses the room toward his desk.
It’s covered with parchment; he doesn’t even remember what any of it is for. He sweeps all of it aside, uncaring when half of the parchments flutter to the ground. Then he drops into the chair and buries his head in his arms. The wooden desk is cold against his forehead. Or maybe it’s just his red blood again; he runs hotter than any other immortal around here.
Sometimes, Zagreus wonders what exactly it is that makes him different from everyone else in the House of Hades. He’s too mortal, too restless. Nothing that Father wants.
Zagreus has heard it said many, many, many times: the work is never finished for the House of Hades. Mortals will always die, and the Underworld must always remain running steadily to accommodate them. Zagreus knows this as well as anyone, even as the only person without a job.
Because with everyone constantly busy with work, Zagreus has absolutely no one to talk to. For that matter, he has absolutely nothing to do, alone or not, day in and day out.
Which is what all the books in his bedroom are for. Some part of him thinks that he wouldn’t have been much of a reader, in an alternate life. Zagreus doesn’t inherently love sitting still and staring at parchment for hours on end. But this is his life, and Zagreus has shelves and shelves of books throughout his bedroom, and at least reading is something to occupy his mind with.
It’s a pastime that his father even approves of—miracle of miracles. It is commendable that you can appreciate more intellectual pursuits, Father said, and the unlike your uncles was left unspoken. Father has provided most of the books scattered throughout Zagreus’ room, imported from experts in their fields throughout the Underworld. Epic poetry, mathematical guidebooks, historical records—all handpicked for their educational or cultural value, and scanned for any inappropriate content. Some others have been provided by Mother Nyx, through her mysterious methods, on all sorts of bizarre but fascinating topics. And Thanatos has gifted him a precious few tomes from the surface, ones that he knows Zagreus would love but has zero access to on his own: mortal chronicles of adventure and action and romance.
And, on the topic of romance. Unlike Father’s rigorous screening, Zagreus doesn’t think Thanatos ever scanned through those books he collected before giving them to Zagreus—at least not this particular book. Most likely, he only looked at the description, and knowing that mortal heroes are something Zagreus is interested in, somehow procured a copy (Zagreus hopes he didn’t steal his books, come to think of it). It’s far less work, after all. But still, Zagreus can’t help but wonder if Thanatos would have given him the book he’s reading right now, if he’d known what it really contained.
“You needn’t go home just yet, Odysseus,” Calypso said sultrily. She stroked his bicep. “You’ve been at sea for so many years. What’s a few more, spent on my island?”
“My wife…”
“You didn’t care about your wife before, why start now?” Calypso smirked and reached under his chiton. “I bet I can make you forget all about her, once you’re screaming my name.”
Zagreus feels overly warm under his blankets, where he’s lying on his stomach in bed. He’s half self-conscious to be reading this with his own two eyes, but also half intrigued. He’s never read anything like this before. Maybe Thanatos brought it by accident. Or maybe… Something swoops in Zagreus’ stomach, at the thought of Thanatos giving him a book like this on purpose. He doesn’t know exactly what that means. He decides to decipher that feeling some other time, or maybe never, if he can help it.
The quality of this writing isn’t as polished as Zagreus is used to, but he’s not really in the mood to care at the moment. He reads on, absorbed, only aware of the beating of his blood and the events playing out on the pages of his book. They’re…very interesting events. Maybe Zagreus is the pampered, sheltered prince everyone seems to think he is, if just reading about the way people fit together is so surprising to him. But then, how is he supposed to be familiar with these things, how is he supposed to know anything about the world if no one ever lets him out of this House?
At least Thanatos comes back to visit as often as he can. When they were children, they would play games all over the House—run across the halls barreling through whatever poor shades happened to be in their way, climb all over Cerberus where he rested in the Great Hall and annoy Father during his serious court hearings. Nowadays, though, they spend a lot of time just talking, by the balcony in the West Hall, or in Zagreus’ room. Whispering, really, so as not to be overheard by those outside, lying sideways across Zagreus’ bed or sitting across from each other, or, on one memorable occasion, lying beside each other the right way up, sharing the very pillow Zagreus has propped his book against right now.
“I never knew what it was I wanted,” Odysseus said with a deep, masculine voice. He didn’t hammer into her just yet. “Until you. You feel so good.”
“And I’ve been waiting for you all along,” Calypso moaned, clenching her walls on him. “But I’m right here! I’ll always be here. Waiting for you.”
Zagreus reads through the words on the page, but he somehow can’t stop thinking about Thanatos. Odysseus slides his hand up Calypso’s waist; Zagreus’ mind flashes to when Thanatos once wrapped his own arm around Zagreus’ side. Calypso grips Odysseus’ hair; Zagreus remembers Thanatos’ fingers combing through Zagreus’ own messy strands. Zagreus’ breathing feels overly quick. This book is…getting to him, unpolished quality or not.
With one hand, Zagreus keeps turning the pages. With the other…his hand creeps toward the top of his leggings. He only hooks his thumb under the fabric, feeling it press into the hollow of his pelvis. Heat radiates from his skin, he can feel it. He’s not fully—but if he just—
Heavy, stomping footsteps outside. Zagreus startles, a cold shock of awareness poured through his blood. He tears his hand away and rolls onto his back just in time for Father to enter his room.
“Boy,” Father says, commanding, like he didn’t just walk into Zagreus’ chambers entirely unannounced. “I need to speak with you.”
Hurriedly, Zagreus tries to shoot upright. His blanket twists around his waist; he has to yank it flat so he can sit up against the headboard with any sort of dignity.
“Father! I’m—” Zagreus realizes his book still lies open beside him. He slams it closed, face burning. “You could have knocked!”
“What, do I need permission to move freely within my own House?” Father looks down at him, scornfully. “What were you even doing, boy, that you are so desperate to conceal?”
“Reading, if you must know,” says Zagreus, trying to keep his tone cool. He doesn’t think he’s pulled it off; his heart is pounding too quickly in his throat for his voice to be anything but nervous. It doesn’t much matter if Zagreus gets in trouble again, but he can’t have Thanatos be punished for Zagreus’ own inattention. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Father casts a glance at the book’s front cover, where it sits on Zagreus’ pillow. Zagreus follows his gaze, realizes exactly how Odysseus and Calypso are posed on the cover, and then rushes to turn the book over.
Zagreus expects Father to blow up at him. Expects an interrogation as to how exactly Zagreus acquired this sort of book, against the security measures of the House of Hades. Instead, Father only scoffs.
“Well, then,” he says, disdainful. “If that’s the sort of reading material you have chosen to spend your time with, it’s no wonder that you’ve not been able to contribute anything to the House.”
Zagreus flushes, hands tightening into fists beside him. “You think it’s the book’s fault I don’t contribute?” he says. “It’s not like you give me anything else to occupy my time with around this wretched House.”
“There’s always work to be done ‘around this wretched House,’ you just refuse to lift a finger and lend your assistance.” Father shakes his head. “On that note, your days and nights of indolence are over. I’m hiring you for the Administrative Chamber. Get up, and I’ll situate you in your new position.”
“What?” Zagreus can’t process any of this quickly enough. He simply stares at Father, meeting his impassive gaze with sheer bewilderment. “Hiring me? You mean now?”
“Yes, now, you’ve already wasted quite enough of my time,” Father snaps. “Hurry up, boy.”
Father’s tone is losing whatever flimsy tatters of patience he’s been holding onto. Zagreus scrambles to his feet. In his rush to get up, he almost knocks Thanatos’ gift to the floor. He can feel Father’s impatient gaze on his back; he only shoves the book safely under his pillow before following Father out of the chamber.
For all Zagreus’ books about romance, he didn’t expect to be in a real relationship anytime soon. So it’s a shock when Father engages him to one of his best employees: Overseer Megaera, First of the Furies, arbiters of retribution. After all, what gives Father the right to push Zagreus into a relationship with—with someone he only vaguely knows?
Everything, really, Zagreus is acutely aware. He’s the ruler of the entire Underworld, and Zagreus’ father to boot. It still doesn’t seem fair. Zagreus might have even tolerated this relationship, if it was like the arranged marriages in the storybooks: at least meant to serve the kingdom, the benefit of the family. But no, Father would never be that magnanimous. In no uncertain terms, he explained that this would be a relationship for Zagreus’ “benefit,” and Zagreus’ benefit only. That Megaera’s influence was meant to make Zagreus more mature. He’s already working in the Administrative Chamber! What does Father still want from him?
Even before they were formally introduced, Zagreus was immediately determined to despise Megaera. After all, she was only going to be another tool of Father’s control. And from what he already knew, she’s, clearly, everything that Father wants, everything Zagreus cannot be: obedient, responsible, hardworking. Dedicated to her duty, and only her duty.
Except, Zagreus comes to discover, those adjectives are not always strictly true. Which brings him to now, in his bedroom, with Megaera’s muscular body pinning his own to his bed.
Zagreus can feel his blood pulsing furiously through his veins, can feel heat coalescing between his legs. The wounds striped along his back from her whip sting where they press against his bedsheets, just on the right side of pleasure-pain. He swallows as Megaera lifts his chin with the butt of her whip.
“Nnh, Meg—”
“Quiet, Zagreus,” Megaera says in a low, raspy rumble. Her voice is rock-steady where Zagreus’ is breathless; he doesn’t think she even needs to breathe at all, having burst fully-formed from a Titan’s blood. Just another mortal trait for Zagreus to add to the list. “You’re so damn loud all the time.”
“You…you know me,” Zagreus manages, leaning his head back into his pillow. “Incapable of—ah—shutting up…”
“Trust me, I know,” Megaera says, mostly derisive. He’s counting it as a win that she’s not entirely so. “I’m meant to be stamping out those unsavory traits of yours, if you don’t recall.”
Zagreus refuses to flinch at the reminder. “Don’t seem to be doing a lot of that right now,” he says, forcing his tone light. “Shutting me up, I mean. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Megaera draws away from where she was leaning close over Zagreus; his eyes follow her movement desperately. “Count yourself lucky I’m even doing this for you at all. None of this was part of the job description.”
Zagreus wants to retort, Oh, really, Father didn’t give you specific instructions to whip me senseless, I thought his word was the only reason you do anything, but he really doesn’t want to think about his father in the middle of sex, let alone talk about him, to his star employee. Like Zagreus can ever escape his looming shadow.
“I’m well aware,” is what Zagreus says instead. “It’s not part of the job description. But you’re still doing it, despite what you say about spending your scant free time carefully. Deny you like me all you want, but you must be getting something out of this too.”
Zagreus knows she is, in fact. It’s as if he can feel the way her blood rushes, like some kind of sixth sense; and he definitely can see the way her eyes are blown and her grip is too tight around the handle of her whip.
“This isn’t my free time,” Megaera bites out. “Dealing with you is a part of my paycheck. Even if it…wasn’t meant to be like this.”
“Guess I’m just that irresistible,” Zagreus says with a grin. “Suppose this is a two-for-one special for you, Meg—working and lying with me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” says Megaera, with a roll of her eyes. She sets her whip aside. “And put that mouth of yours to better use, why don’t you.”
Zagreus gets distracted by doing just that, for a while. For the cold hard Erinys she presents herself as, he can feel her shivering under his ministrations. Evidently, she notices her own reactions too, because soon, she puts her hands back on him, as if wanting to redirect his attention.
It works. Heat blooms in his core and spreads outward, curling his toes and digging his fingers into the sheets. Zagreus rocks up into her grip and moans.
“I thought I told you to be quiet,” Megaera scolds, pulling away, and Zagreus gasps for breath. “You don’t have a damn door, Zagreus. The louder you are, the higher the risk of getting caught. As you pointed out, we’re not meant to be doing this.”
“You pointed it out first,” says Zagreus, glad that his voice comes out more-or-less steady. And then, coyly: “And doesn’t it reflect well on your talent if I can’t help but—”
“Zagreus, I will leave you here.”
“It’s not like it’s my fault I don’t have a door,” Zagreus says, and it comes out sharper than intended. But it’s difficult to keep up a flirty, positive attitude, faced with Megaera’s…Megaera-ness. “If you really were worried about it, we could’ve gone to your chambers instead. Since you’re so much more trustworthy and deserving of a door.”
“You think I’d let you in my personal chambers?” Megaera scoffs. “Don’t kid yourself. Now, enough of this—I don’t want any of your childish gripes.”
Childish. Kid. Senselessly, the words grate on his nerves. And so does being so carelessly dismissed.
“Look, I can take a little degradation, if that’s your thing—” it seems like it must be Megaera’s thing, if not really Zagreus’, from her…well, her everything “—but I really don’t appreciate all this talking down at me. You know, I technically outrank you.”
“So you’re pulling rank now, is that it,” Megaera says, low and scathing. Her fingers scrape through his disheveled hair, brush up against his fiery crown of laurels. “Well, Prince Zagreus, if you wanted me to treat you like an adult, you should’ve acted like one first.”
His title feels like a mockery in her mouth. Zagreus glares. His blood still burns, but in a heavier way, now. “I was under the impression that it was your job to make me grow up,” he snaps. “Any immaturity of mine is only a reflection on your poor performance.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about my work performance,” Megaera snarls. “I’m Overseer for a reason. I earned that position through my own hard work. And what are you? A willful layabout, ungrateful for his coveted place in this House, granted it only through his parentage and nothing more.”
Silence. Zagreus’ feet flare with a flash of light, white-hot as his anger; praise the gods for fireproof bedding. Megaera would never let him hear the end of it otherwise. And isn’t it lovely that this is where his mind roams, fleeing the words that strike too close to home.
When Zagreus doesn’t respond, Megaera’s mouth twitches in an almost-smirk. “Nothing to say to that, huh,” she says, back to almost cordial now that she’s won. “Told you I’d shut you up, one way or another. Now.” With one hand, she reaches back down, and traces a line down his hip with her fingernail. With the other, she picks up her whip. “Unlike you, little man, I don’t leave a job unfinished. Let’s see how long you can last.”
The answer to that, as it turns out, is not long at all. Zagreus trembles under her hands, and her mouth, and her whip. They’ve done this a number of times now, but he’s still not used to how intense it feels, compared to his own touch. Nonetheless, he tries to hold himself together, wanting to draw this out just a little longer—and, though he would never admit it aloud, wanting to save some scrap of face before Megaera.
“You’re being obstinate,” Megaera murmurs. “Always so damned stubborn. Just come already, Zagreus.”
And, with a moan, he does.
His feet burst into flames that lick up to his calves. His back arches against the bed, mind going deliciously blank. His awareness narrows to where Megaera’s skin meets his own; to where he and Megaera are the only two people in the world.
When he comes back to, Zagreus realizes that Megaera’s hand is pressed over his mouth. Firmly, but not painfully.
“Meg,” Zagreus pants, once he’s recovered his breath enough to speak. Her calloused palm is rough against his lips. “Let go.”
It takes a moment for Megaera to comply. When she removes her hand, she lets it drop to Zagreus’ waist.
“You were nearly shouting,” Megaera says softly, by way of explanation.
“Can’t help it.” Zagreus lets himself sink back into his mattress, feeling pleasantly loose-limbed and aching. “Not with you.”
“Tsch. I don’t want your flattery.” Regardless, Megaera starts moving against him, and the too-soon stimulation makes Zagreus hiss a breath through his teeth. “How about something more pleasurable for the both of us instead.”
She leans down closer to him, until their lips are brushing. Her periwinkle hair falls like a curtain around Zagreus’ face; he can hardly breathe.
“Stay like this,” she orders, the words pressing straight into his throat. He can almost taste her hot pink lipstick. “This way I’ll just swallow all the sounds you make, door or no door.”
Zagreus shivers. How can he refuse?
Zagreus tries not to spend too much time around his father, if he can help it. Keeps everyone’s stress levels low. Reduces the chances of one or the other or both of them snapping, and rehashing that whole messy business with the Titans: sons and fathers going to war.
So it seems like tempting the Fates when Father insists on teaching him the ways of warriors. Personally, at first; it’s a little nerve-wracking, to be sure, having Father watching him with even more a critical gaze than usual, correcting his grip and stance, making strikes in the air with Gigaros and having Zagreus imitate with a wooden training spear. But, in a strange way…it’s nice, working with his father toward a shared goal.
But Father foists him off on another employee of his, as was inevitable. Probably for the best, Zagreus supposes, stamping out any sense of ridiculous disappointment. Again—avoiding a repeat of the Titanomachy business. And Zagreus can hardly complain about whom Father chose as Zagreus’ weapons instructor: swift-footed Achilles, Greatest of the Greeks, hero of the Trojan War.
No wonder that Father thinks Achilles the perfect instructor for Zagreus, the perfect role model for Zagreus to emulate. Achilles has everything Zagreus does not: confident dexterity, a mastery of his weapons and the world at large, a calm patience for teaching. Capability to quietly submit to Father’s authority—which Zagreus will never be taught, though, no matter who intends to impress that lesson upon him.
But it’s fine. Achilles is still a fantastic teacher in other respects. After all their training, Zagreus can actually hold his own for some time in their spars. If he actually pays attention, that is.
“Focus, lad,” Achilles calls out to him, and Zagreus has to dash backward to avoid the—blunted—end of his spear. “Even a moment of distraction can cost you.”
“I know, I know,” says Zagreus, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Let’s go.”
They battle, spear on spear. Zagreus is far better now than when he first started—he blocks each of Achilles’ strikes, if only at the last moment, and he finds many openings to attack Achilles in turn, even if Achilles always dodges. Still, Achilles is the best of the Greeks, and Zagreus hasn’t been training for all that much time in the grand scheme of things. It’s not long before Achilles has him on the back foot, desperately blocking and dodging and dashing, unable to even think of retaliation; it’s only a matter of surviving to the next moment.
Achilles is pressing harder now that he knows he has the advantage. Zagreus is getting dangerously close to the wall of the House behind him—soon he’ll be boxed in entirely, and that will be that. He can hear Achilles’ voice in his head: The main advantage of the spear is its reach, lad; make sure to keep your distance.
On pure survival instinct, Zagreus flings his empty hand outward—and from his outstretched palm, a blood-red crystal spirals straight for Achilles’ head.
Of course, Achilles dodges easily. The crystal embeds itself into the far wall across the courtyard, cracking the stone before dissolving into a splatter of blood.
It’s only then that Zagreus manages to process what just happened. What he just did. He lowers his spear, words tumbling from his mouth:
“Oh my gods, Achilles—I didn’t mean to—”
Clearly unsympathetic to Zagreus’ guilty and mortified apologies, Achilles takes the moment of opportunity, and sweeps Zagreus’ legs out from under him.
Zagreus crashes to the ground, even dropping his spear with a noisy clatter. Not only did he get so distracted, he let go of his weapon; he fakes offense, to hide his embarrassment.
“Not fair, sir,” Zagreus manages, panting. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, fails, and flops back down on his back. “I was really worried I almost hit you with—with my blood thing.”
“Never drop your guard. Your enemies won’t care about being fair,” Achilles tells him, but there’s a small smile on his face. He lowers his spear and reaches out a hand. “But here. I’m curious about this ‘blood thing’ of yours.”
Zagreus takes the proffered hand and levers himself to his feet. He laughs, a little sheepishly, and rubs the back of his head.
“I don’t really know myself,” he says. “Father described it as, erm, flinging my blood. It’s only ever happened in combat, I guess when my body thinks I’m really in danger.”
“Fascinating,” Achilles says, like Zagreus’ blood crystals are really something to be admired, and not disgusted by. “I see it did quite a bit of damage to the wall back there. Perhaps it could be useful in a fight.”
“You think so, sir?” Zagreus says, and even he can tell he sounds horribly enthusiastic.
“Indeed,” says Achilles seriously. “Having a projectile always at hand? I have to say, lad, your godly powers seem quite well-suited to combat. First your dashing, and now these blood stones of yours.”
“Calling them powers gives me a little too much credit, sir,” Zagreus says with a little laugh. “I mean, you know I can’t even teleport the length of a spear, nothing like Thanatos. And my…my bloodstones, you said—I can’t even control them.”
“Still,” Achilles insists. “Thanatos takes more focus and effort to teleport, I think; rather unwieldy, in the midst of battle, whilst you can teleport with just a thought. And if it’s a mere matter of control, why, you could hardly control a weapon when we first started.”
“Sir…” Zagreus knows it’s true, but he hates remembering just how unskilled he used to be. Hates remembering the feeling of being worthless, incompetent—
“I’m afraid that I can’t exactly train you in this like I have with other standard weapons,” Achilles says. “Given that I’ve never had any such powers. But I’ll see if I can help, if you want.”
“I want that very much,” Zagreus says, and he can’t help but beam. “Thank you, sir!”
“Ha—don’t thank me yet.” Achilles sets his spear against the wall, and brushes his hands off against his chiton. “I haven’t taught you anything yet. But on that note, you said you couldn’t control them? So I suppose you couldn’t summon one right now for reference.”
“Afraid not, sir,” Zagreus says. For good measure, he closes his eyes and focuses on his hand—only to feel absolutely nothing happen.
“Well, how did you learn to teleport?” Achilles asks. “Perhaps it might help us with controlling your other power.”
“I—I don’t know, I’ve just always been able to do it. I guess because Father does it too?” Zagreus says hesitantly. He has vague memories of being carried in Father’s arms, perhaps through Tartarus or Asphodel, staring down at the ground to watch Father’s feet light up as they zipped through the realm. Though he’s not even sure if that really happened or not; after all, he can’t imagine Father bothering to carry his infant son on a stroll through the Underworld.
“Well, what does it feel like when you teleport, then? How do you do it?”
“I…” Zagreus hasn’t ever thought about it. It’s just something he does, like walk, or breathe, or bleed. He has to dash toward Achilles and back, just to feel it out. “I guess I…sense the fire in my legs, and…pull on it isn’t exactly the right word, but kind of draw on it? No, I—” he dashes again for good measure, feeling the flames flash up the back of his calves “—I kind of push it out backwards to propel me.”
“That’s good!” Achilles says, and Zagreus feels his chest glow from the praise. And with that glow comes the immediate urge to smack himself for being so…so obvious about it. “That’s what we want with your bloodstones, after all. Can you—your father did say that these are actually made of blood, not just blood-colored, yes? So perhaps if you tried to sense your blood first…”
Zagreus’ first thought is that sensing his blood sounds ridiculous, he may as well attempt to sense the air inside his lungs. But…when he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can feel his blood, flowing through his veins in a web across his whole body, pulsing in steady time with his heartbeat. He focuses on his hand specifically, imagining compressing together all his blood like he does all the heat in his legs, and tries to push it outward.
His palm tingles hotly. When he opens his eyes, a tiny bloodstone sits in his hand.
Zagreus grins, and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I—I did it,” he says. “I really—thank you, Achilles, sir!”
“I hardly did anything,” Achilles says, smiling at him, before his gaze returns to the bloodstone in Zagreus’ hand. “You summoned this on your own, lad—I just provided some words of guidance.”
Zagreus normally would push the point further, but he’s also swept up in watching the bloodstone. There’s a little yellow glow in the crystal’s center, and the translucent material’s red surface seems to churn and coagulate as he watches.
Achilles has said that every god must be the god of something, by definition. Zagreus has never been able to believe it. He doesn’t have any clear calling, nothing he just simply seems to fully represent. He didn’t think he had any powers more specific than teleporting, which basically any god can do. But creating this bloodstone… It feels good, knowing he at least has one unique power. Knowing he might be a real god after all.
Zagreus is startled out of his reverie when he hears heavy footsteps coming from inside. Close enough to be inside his bedroom. He whirls around, and makes eye contact with his father.
His red eyes are already stormy. Zagreus flings his hand out on instinct, a placatory gesture—and the bloodstone flies out from his palm, into his bedroom, and strikes a pot sitting on the ground. It shatters, spilling fragments of clay across the floor.
Zagreus jumps at the sound. Achilles has already stepped forward, head bowed and a fist pressed to his chest. “Master. What brings you here?”
“I intended to see how fares my son’s martial training,” Father says, anger already simmering beneath his words. “I had been hoping to see more discipline from him, at least, if not proficiency. But evidently even that is too much to ask for.” His tone hardens. “Shade, I hired you to ensure Zagreus refrains from chasing his every fanciful whim. Do not forget the terms of your employment.”
Achilles only nods, silent. There’s a real nervousness in his expression; Zagreus feels a pang of guilt for having put him in this position. But he doesn’t have long to ruminate before the attention is on himself.
“And you.” Father turns to Zagreus. “I thought I instructed you to stop flinging your blood about. I don’t appreciate such disgusting behavior within my House.”
“But it wasn’t inside the House,” Zagreus can’t help but retort. Beside him, Achilles stiffens. Sorry, sir, he thinks. “You interrupted.”
“It is well within my right to bear witness to my son’s training,” Father says, glaring. “Not to mention that your blood destroyed a fixture in your chambers. Yet more mess for our cleaning staff to take care of.”
“I wouldn’t have thrown it if you hadn’t just barged in,” Zagreus snaps. “And it’s my room, I don’t see why you’re constantly throwing a fit about its cleanliness.”
“Is that so?” Father’s voice grows suddenly more sharp. “Well, if you’re so unconcerned for the state of your bedchambers, I don’t see why I should waste the cleaning staff’s time and effort. See to the cleaning of your own bedroom, then. Enjoy dealing with your own mess.”
“Is that supposed to be a punishment?” Zagreus scoffs.
“You have no idea what my real punishments look like, and pray that you will never find out,” Father says darkly. “Enough. I expect you to get back to training immediately. I never want to see you fling your blood around again.”
Father turns and re-enters the House through Zagreus’ room, skirting the remains of the pot. Zagreus rolls his eyes.
“He’s so dramatic,” Zagreus mutters, and turns back to Achilles. “So, now he’s gone, can we see if my bloodstones are—”
“Best not to risk it, lad,” Achilles says quietly. “We’d better return to your training.”
Zagreus almost says, But fear is for the weak. Only, he remembers Achilles’ expression. Father’s expression. Instead, he reaches for his spear, and resolves to himself: he’ll practice making bloodstones the moment he’s alone. Whenever that may be.
Zagreus hated that Administration job. He’d started with such high hopes; sure, he didn’t much enjoy parchmentwork, but enjoyment didn’t matter if he could still be good at it. And he’d been determined to be good at it. He’d resolved to himself: he would contribute to the Underworld along with everyone else, he would be important to the House of Hades in more than just an inherited rank. But that resolution hadn’t lasted long.
The problem was that the job was so damned boring. All of the requests and pacts and records and catalogs were so impossibly opaque that every shift inevitably ended in a pounding headache. Father’s initiation training—or rather, lack thereof—did Zagreus no favors. He didn’t understand anything. He fumbled everything he touched. Half the time, the regular employees ended up having to redo all his work.
All in all, it was no surprise when Zagreus got fired. He despised the job anyway, so it should’ve been a relief for everyone. Only…
What is he going to do now? His engagement with Megaera has long since dissolved, on less-than-amicable terms. His weapons training has recently ended as well; Father believes there is no more Achilles can teach him, only in the courtyard with mere training weapons, and unwilling to provide anything further. And now he’s been fired from Administration too.
After the public, explosive argument preceding Zagreus’ termination, he couldn’t bear to face the rest of the House. He’s been in his room for more than a week by now, probably, although he still can’t tell the time around here, no matter what Father says about the light of Ixion’s hue.
There’s nowhere else for him to be, though, so being tardy is no issue. Time doesn’t matter when he’s spending all of it lying in bed, trying to smother himself in his blankets. Maybe he can rot here like a corpse for all eternity, while everyone else serves the realm of the actual dead.
At first, Zagreus worried someone would try to look for him, and he’d be forced to answer uncomfortable, probing questions. He doesn’t exactly have a door to lock everyone out, after all. He felt even worse when the days or nights passed, and no one did. So it’s the last thing Zagreus expects, when he hears a voice from the entrance to his room.
“Boy. A word.”
Father, of all people. Just fantastic.
Zagreus doesn’t respond. Why should he? Father’s just going to yell at him again, probably. There’s nothing else he’s ever needed for. He remains buried under his blankets, unmoving.
“Don’t ignore me, boy. I know you’re awake.” A pause. One Zagreus might dare call hesitant, if only he could see Father’s face. He doesn’t bother lifting the sheets to look at him. “I have noticed that you have…sequestered yourself, here, for…quite some time.”
He’s still not leaving. For a moment, Zagreus entertains the idea of just shutting up, forcing Father to leave empty-handed through sheer obstinacy. But then, silence was never Zagreus’ strong suit. God of talking back, indeed.
“Took you that long to notice?” Zagreus intends the quip to be sarcastic. Instead, his voice comes out rough with disuse, and too exhausted-sounding to contain any bite.
“Certainly not!” Father says, indignant. “Everyone has noticed your absence from the House’s halls. I…don’t appreciate the distraction you are causing within my staff.”
“So it’s just that I’m disrupting your workforce, again.” Zagreus sighs. He still doesn’t move. “Tell them not to get so worked up about it. I just need space, all right?”
“I have given you space.” Father sounds frustrated. He is never anything but, with Zagreus. “I gave you a coveted position among my workforce. I gave you as a weapons instructor the finest warrior Greece has ever produced. I have tried so many different ways to—to instill some sort of purpose into you, and yet here you still are.” Father’s voice rises, grows even more angry. “What will it take to snap you out of this, boy?”
And that, at last, drives Zagreus out from beneath his cocoon of blankets. He disentangles himself from the sheets and sits upright to glare at his father. He can feel his body shaking, despite himself. Beneath the comforter, he’s sure his feet are burning a furious red.
“You think I haven’t been trying?” Zagreus demands. The empty ache in his chest seems to recede all at once, consumed by pure rage. “‘Instill purpose,’ you think I don’t want purpose, you think I don’t want to be good for anything? But you said it yourself, I’m the god of nothing, I’m worthless at every job you try and give me, so what’s even the point?!”
“Cease this temper tantrum, boy!” Father scowls at him. “Believe it or not, I do have your best interests at heart. If—”
Zagreus cuts him off, laughing in disbelief. Only it’s too short and bitter to be a real laugh. “My ‘best interests’? My ‘best interests’?” He gestures wildly, an all-encompassing sweep of his arm. “All of this is your fault!! You just can’t stop interfering with my life! You’re constantly forcing me into things I hate, and then when I still manage to scrape out some semblance of happiness in spite of it, you go back in and ruin everything all over again!!”
Father only stares at him, seemingly stunned speechless. Zagreus feels a wicked vindication from it—turning the tables on his father, getting to be the one shouting at him for once, how does he like that? Zagreus can’t stop the words that are tumbling from his mouth like they’ve been trapped in there for years. They have been. He flings grievances like spears, only these weapons tear something from him just as much as their target.
“You set me up with Megaera,” Zagreus snarls. “How could you possibly have ever thought that would work, when you pitted us against each other from the start? But I tried to make it work, we both did, but you just couldn’t keep from reminding her that caring about me wasn’t part of the job description.” He spits the words, trying to disguise just how much the memories still hurt. “And you made me work in Administration, and I despised that wretched job, but I tried to succeed, I wanted to serve the House, and then I couldn’t keep up with your endless impossible specifications and you fired me! And—and—” Zagreus feels like he’s going to explode if he slows down now “—I don’t even have a door, you won’t even let me have a damn door, you need to control how I spend my every waking moment, and every sleeping one too for good measure, is that it??”
Zagreus finally stops, gasping for breath. He’s horrified to discover that there’s a lump in his throat, that there are hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes. But Father seems as stony and unmoved as ever. Zagreus hates that about him, how he never seems to care, even as Zagreus himself wishes that he didn’t always wear his heart so obviously on his sleeve.
“I haven’t given you a door for fear you would do exactly this, boy,” Father says coldly. “You think I would hand you the tools to isolate yourself, to lock yourself in here and sulk?”
“Well evidently I’m doing it anyway!” Zagreus bursts out. “You just won’t let me out of your sight for even one second because you don’t trust me a single iota!” His voice takes on a choked-up edge. “What does it even matter to you if I spend all eternity lying in bed, it’s not like I contribute anything to this blasted House. You’ve made that perfectly clear. Despite what you may think, I’m not stupid enough to miss the message.”
“It matters because you are the prince of this realm, boy. Like it or not, this House does need you.”
“Well if that were true, you all could stand to maybe act like it!”
“Act like it?” Father scoffs, incredulously. “What would you have everyone do—get on their knees and sing your praises? Worship the scorch marks you leave in your wake? You don’t need reassurances. Everyone knows their place in this House.”
Zagreus doesn’t. He has no true calling, not like every other god in the Underworld. Mother Nyx is Night Incarnate, an integral part of upholding the entire domain. The Underworld could not function, either, without Thanatos, Death itself, to reap the mortal souls, or Charon, Stygian boatman, to ferry them into the realm. The Furies punish the souls of Tartarus, ensuring that mortals fear to act immorally. Even Hypnos, though he may not be the best employee, is perfectly suited to his true role of bringing sleep to mortals’ eyes. Every deity has an irreplaceable role to play in the functioning of the Underworld. But Zagreus…
If he ceased to exist, right here and right now, the Underworld would continue in its inexorable duty without the slightest misstep. It does not matter whether he lives or dies. Sometimes he wonders if he was ever meant to exist at all.
“Do you know what my place in this House is?” Zagreus says tightly. He feels suddenly exhausted. “My bed, in my bedroom. And your place is out of my room. Get out.”
“Boy…”
“Get out!!”
“…Fine. I will leave you for now.” Father takes a step backward, but he does not yet leave. “I expect to see you outside soon.”
“Well, expect to be disappointed,” Zagreus grits out. “I’m sure you’re quite practiced in that.”
At last, Father leaves. Zagreus deflates, somehow feeling even more empty than before. The room seems more still and quiet than ever; he realizes that the standard, constant bustle of the House has gone utterly silent. Everyone must have heard the screaming match between him and his father. It always seems to end in a screaming match, with them.
Although, this time, it was Zagreus doing most of the screaming. The realization makes Zagreus only feel worse. He hates being angry. He doesn’t know how Father can stand it, being so angry all the time. He doesn’t understand anything about his father, really.
Zagreus crumples back down into his bedsheets, pulling them over his head once more, letting everything around him go dark. He presses his face to his pillow, and finally lets the tears escape from his eyes.
“Zagreus,” Father calls out. “Wait a moment.”
Father’s already situated at his desk, by the time Zagreus has resurfaced from the Styx after another official security run. Beating him is still satisfying after all this time, even if Father never shows any reaction back at the House. Half the time, he doesn’t even talk to Zagreus; a lot of their conversation happens on the surface, during their fights.
So Zagreus is already halfway into the lounge by the time Father’s words register. He dashes back out the shortcut, coming to a stop in front of Father’s desk.
“Yes?” Zagreus says, braced for impact despite himself. Even just the fact that Father used his name shows that he’s trying, but old habits die hard. He used to never be summoned to Father’s desk unless he was in trouble—which was all the time, really.
Father grimaces, and averts his eyes. “I…wanted to extend my…well-wishes.”
“Huh?” Zagreus tilts his head and frowns. “For what?”
“It has come to my attention that you…have partnered with Megaera and Thanatos,” Father says, horribly stilted. “They are…good employees. Good people, for you.”
Oh. Zagreus stares, for a long moment.
“Erm. Yes,” he says. “How did you find out?”
“Please!” Father’s voice regains confidence, clearly back in his comfort zone: mocking Zagreus. “You were hardly making any effort to conceal it! Like it or not, Zagreus, I am still your father. I have functioning eyes and ears.”
“Well, then,” says Zagreus, a little stunned. “I mean, I’m perfectly happy to have this all out in the open, but—” He can’t forget why Meg and Than wanted to keep their relationship under wraps in the first place, even if Zagreus would have loved to shout it from the rooftops. “So, you’re saying it’s fine? Are you sure that this—our relationship—won’t affect their careers or anything like that? It’s no…conflict of interest? I know you’re a stickler for professionalism.”
“Their job is to serve the realm,” Father says evenly. “And you are its prince. I see no ‘conflict of interest’ here. Believe me, Zagreus, if I didn’t approve, I would have shut it down long ago. As it is, you are free to…make your relationship public knowledge.” Here, a delicate pause, almost awkward. “Not that you haven’t been doing so already, as I said. Frankly,” Father continues pointedly, “anyone who spends any amount of time in the East Hall is certainly well acquainted with this knowledge—against their will, might I add.”
It takes a moment for Father’s meaning to register. When it does, Zagreus feels his face heat and his feet flash with a burst of flame. He feels…a little embarrassed, for sure. But he’s surprised to note that it’s not the cold, crawling sort of shame from feeling belittled. It’s just his father teasing his son.
“Well, that’s entirely your own fault,” Zagreus says, and finds his grin is genuine. “If you didn’t want to be privy to all that, you should’ve given me a room with worse acoustics. Or for that matter, you should’ve installed a door in my chambers—I asked for one forever ago, do you remember?”
Father’s expression has grown more and more pinched, before that last sentence—then he hesitates for a moment, and Zagreus regrets bringing that argument up, while they’re actually having an amicable conversation for once. But Father only nods.
“I do remember,” he says, and there’s a note of contemplation in his voice. “Perhaps I will have to speak with the House Contractor.”
“Ha, well, if you really can’t stand the noise, go right ahead,” Zagreus says. “I’ll even pay for it for you. But I’m off for another run until then. See you out there?”
“Of course,” says Father, like he’s almost offended Zagreus even needed to ask. Zagreus leaves with a surprising levity in his heart.
His good mood seems to make a positive difference in his security run. He reaches the surface with full Death Defiances and half a dozen Centaur Hearts’ worth of vitality. Varatha practically sings in his hands, empowered not even by his Olympian relatives, but by only Daedalus hammers and Thanatos’ Pierced Butterfly.
“Greetings, Father,” says Zagreus cheerfully. “Ready to get killed again? I have a great feeling about this run.”
“Do you?” Father says dryly, and shakes his head. “I suppose you’ve grown quite adept by now, at ransacking my domain for every drop of wealth you can procure.”
“Come now, Father, you know it’s not about the wealth,” Zagreus responds, laughing. “I just happen to pick it up along the way, but it’s not even like I have anything to spend it all on anymore. I’ve renovated our whole House and cleared out the Contractor’s whole catalog—you’re welcome, by the way.”
“I think you’ll find the Contractor is not quite finished working yet,” Father says. “Let me send you home now to take a look.”
“What does that mean?” Zagreus asks, but Father is already shedding his cloak and turning around to fight.
Zagreus wins, of course. Down two Death Defiances, but, well, they can’t all be perfect runs.
Usually, when Zagreus regenerates back at the House, he pets Cerberus, then moves straight for the lounge to meet with the Head Chef and the Wretched Broker. But true to Father’s word, for the first time in what feels like ages, the House Contractor waves Zagreus over when he passes by, indicating that there’s a new order to be filled.
“What?” says Zagreus, flipping through the Contractor’s ledger. “I thought I already exhausted all the decorative—oh!”
There, under the tab for Zagreus’ bedchambers: Door, Weighty: Provides some extra privacy for those within the bedchamber. And for only one diamond too!
“He really did it,” Zagreus says, faintly. “Well, how can I say no?” He places a diamond on the desk, grinning. “Contractor, work approved!”
He dashes off, through his bedroom to the courtyard for another run, thinking about how this will be his last time barreling straight through the doorways. And in fact, when he comes back, Zagreus goes to dash into his bedroom on instinct, and nearly slams his face into the door. His new, shiny door!
Zagreus takes a step back to appreciate it. Like his parents’ bedchamber, his door is engraved, jewel-encrusted, and gilded—a display of wealth worthy of the prince, he supposes. Only where his parents’ door is decorated with skulls and bones, his door has a blank space, ready for him to customize as he pleases. More wealth for the House Contractor, to be sure.
Gingerly, Zagreus reaches for the door’s handle, and savors the feeling of it in his grip. Then he pulls open the door and walks inside.
There’s a door on the other end of his room, too, closing off the courtyard. He shuts the door behind him, and his bedroom is plunged into a deeper darkness than possible before, with the light from outside cut off. The sounds from outside become immediately more muffled as well; the activity of the lounge is only a low hum in the background, and Father’s and Nyx’s and Orpheus’ voices outside are entirely indistinct. Maybe it’s part of the magic of the House—after all, it’s impossible to hear into the Administrative Chamber or his parents’ bedroom from the outside—but Zagreus decides it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he has a door!
Zagreus is almost shocked by the sense of satisfaction he feels, closing that door. He walks farther into his room, and turns back around just to look at his door again. There’s a lock on the inside, he realizes. In fact, the key sits in it right now, just waiting for Zagreus to turn it, and prevent anyone from entering without his permission.
He stops for a moment. He doesn’t even know what to do with this newfound, unprecedented amount of privacy. Well, he can’t wait to invite Meg and Than in here, now that they don’t need to be quiet, or worry about anyone walking in.
But somehow, the feeling inside him runs deeper than that. He’s never had a door, his entire life. He’s never had anywhere he was free from others’ perception, others’ expectations. Not that it ever stopped him from doing things he wasn’t supposed to, but he always had to be on edge, always listening for signs of anyone passing by, always bracing for the moment he would be walked in on and caught. It feels monumental, now, knowing he can just lock his door and know he’s secure.
For a moment, Zagreus is a little embarrassed by how overwhelmed he feels, just from having a door installed. But—he has a door, why should he be embarrassed when no one can peer in from the hallway and see this? Laughing, he spins in a circle just for the hell of it, and flops to the ground right on his stately rug.
He will invite Meg and Than to his chambers, Zagreus thinks idly to himself, staring up at his ceiling and relishing that there’s no rectangle of light streaming in from the hall. He wants to hear Than really moan, not bitten off from self-aware embarrassment. He wants Meg to make him scream, not having to muffle himself into his pillow. He wants them to stay in bed with him afterward, neither of them worried about being caught cuddling the prince. No—that sort of propriety has no place in Zagreus’ chambers anymore.
But for now, Zagreus simply remains lying where he is, savoring this chamber all his own.