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The gods have their ways, they say. Mortals beg for their favor, only to be consumed by it. This is something most favoured by Ares, god of war, would often find to be their demise, for hunger for battle doesn't exactly coexist with life.
So what does life itself do when overcome with it, but wither? What does blood itself do, thirstily slicing away?
The gods have their ways, they say, and Zagreus is blind and deaf on his .
It had begun as it usually did. Some small strolls around the house, a bit of rest, getting sliced by Megara's sharp tongue, some trade and ready to go die again. He just missed Achilles, who seemed to have gone off duty just a bit before (if Hypnos was to be trusted with anything to do with time, napping as he was already when Zag got back).
This time he took Varatha, the eternal spear, now revealed in the shape it proudly took when it served the hands of his mentor. The golden shine of its metal intricacies caught his eye the second it revealed itself to him, and had been his preferred form since then. The back of his mind kept saying it was silly, to cling to something like this because it felt like it carried some of Achilles' very fighting spirit within, because it made him feel like his dear mentor was lending him his hand to help him fight. It was foolish, that it made him feel closer to the man, when he knew his heart belonged to someone else entirely, as said so by himself. Nevertheless, he carried it, proud and deadly, as he had been taught to.
The way out was once again challenging. After his first success the security was increased, of course; the pact of punishment he got served with made sure of it. Each attempt became a battle once more, rather than the one sided slaughter he had managed to bring into Tartarus and Asphodel once it became a habit to run through their chambers. It was frustrating to, once more, feel the surface far from his reach. And thus came the time when, presented with the choice, he called upon the help of War itself. The deep and slightly raspy voice of Lord Ares resonated in his ears, call after call, praising, encouraging and urging, dripping in the edges of his consciousness like the blood in his spear.
"Go forth, my kin. Together we shall bring your enemies to their knees, and stain the lands in hell with their blood."
He could feel the blood in his veins pumping, hot and wild with adrenaline as he sliced, stabbed and destroyed. It felt like his body was moving forward on its own at times, avoiding attacks and finishing foes without the need of thought. Invisible blades danced like a veil around him as he launched forward, as if a hundred hands of eager battle-hungry soldiers were following his frame, commanded by his form to destroy those seeking him, enveloping them all in a cloud of spilled blood at times.
It was messy.
It was bloody.
It was everything he had been warned about, but he could not hear.
Find her.
At least not now, when his ears were full of screams and his throat dripped with battle cries itself.
Out of my way.
His head felt foggy, thoughts came vague, laced with despair and impatience.
Faster.
Wounds kept crawling in his skin one assault after another, further fuelling his rage. They were trying to stop him, and he would bring them doom for it.
He reached the green pastures of Elysium bloody and eager. His chiton dripped with a mix of himself and his foes, red and heavy. He was close, closer than last time. Not even the legendary bull of Minos stood a chance against him like this, he thought, as he entered the chamber where he waited.
Asterius, ever ready, had squared up at the door opening, but even such a fearsome warrior had to do a double take on the sight in front of him.
Zagreus, prince of the underworld, covered in red, his mismatched eyes wild and unyielding with the look of a predator who just cornered its prey. The spear in his hands glistened in the ever shining blue and green lights of Elysium, making stark contrast with those parts of it that were also stained scarlet.
The god of blood, born from the God of the Dead and Night themselves, taking blood by his hand and staining his father's domain red as he left. Asterius felt small once more, like the fateful day his dear Theseus had taken his life back when they drew breath.
He saw a warrior.
A god.
A death sentence.
Still he thanked the gods for such a fight, for not even many amongst the shades in this realm could have the chance to battle against a god. And fight he did, as always, fierce and strong, feeling the rush of defending one's life even after it was long gone to the Styx. Perhaps, he mused, this was why they all kept fighting here, even when there was no life to defend, and honour had come already in death. Shades still felt the rush, just as in life.
He had to yield in the end, of course. Proud to have made his share of damage at least, and ready to meet his Theseus back again for their rematch against the prince.
Zagreus stood in the chamber after Asterius had left, new wounds making his lungs burn with each breath. It mattered not, though, he was closer.
One step more. Another.
Dripping.
Stepping.
Dripping.
Overflowing.
He had wandered further into Elysium, poorly oriented with his blurry eyes, into a certain familiar chamber that the back of his mind deemed a quicker path. Not far from there Theseus would stand in his way, as always. Not for long shall he stand this battle, for Zagreus was on this day or night not a man but an army.
The river Lethe carried a soft mist along with it as usual, as if carrying small clouds in absence of true ones over their heads here in the underworld. Patroclus sat in his usual spot looking at them, calmly lost in their curls and waves as he used to do with their more tangible counterparts back when he drew breath. It was hard trying to escape from his own thoughts, trying to make his mind go blank while he spent his eternity waiting. It would have been so easy, so simple, to let it all go. Just one good drink of these waters and it would all go.
He couldn't though.
As much as he felt plagued by doubts, memories, and worries, they were of him . And deep down he knew, his Achilles was stubborn, but not stupid. He would one day or night find his way back to him, to Patroclus, not to a husk of the man he loved. As much as it hurt to wait, he had to.
If anything, he had found a whiff of new hope lately, thanks to a weird stranger. Well, perhaps not much of a stranger now, he thought. The lad had wandered into his small corner a few too many times to still be as such. Annoying as he was, the fates had brought Zagreus to him time and time again, with news from his Achilles and a promise of help that he tried not to scoff at in vain.
The young and lively Zagreus, prince of the underworld, son of Hades… his beloved's student, trying to help a shadow forgotten in Elysium while escaping the underworld?
Laughable, if he had it in him to laugh still.
And as if on cue, the door in the far end of the chamber opened. This far into nowhere it would rarely be anyone but the prince. It had been a while since he made his way to Patroclus though. Rumour among passing by shades was he had indeed reached the surface, but he was back down somehow. He braced for the ever pour of words from the young prince, who rarely waited enough for him to say anything before attempting a conversation.
It never came.
Instead he heard heavy steps and pained breathing, slowly getting closer. He rarely felt much of anything lately, aside from frustration perhaps, but what he saw when Zagreus reached the top of the stairs leading to his usual sitting spot he could swear, had he been still alive, his veins would have run frozen.
He had lost himself, the fool.
Student taking after mentor, he thought.
It was uncanny, how the young prince looked like a reflection of his beloved back in the past. Back when youth and pride got the best of him and had him listen to the voice of a god, who guided his spear and himself into a battle frenzy he barely survived. It had been a nightmare back then to see Achilles lose himself like that, and to stop him too.
Gods, why did he have to care for these fools?
"You look like you have seen better days, or nights, stranger." he chanced.
Zagreus didn't hear. Couldn't hear.
He was walking himself to his demise, which wasn't much of a problem for a god, an immortal, but something was pulling at Patroclus to try and stop him nonetheless.
He remembered, clear as day, the look in the eyes of his Achilles, after he got into his senses.
He remembered his beloved, his light, trembling and crumbled by his own actions, regret substituting anger on his blue eyes like a gust of frozen wind extinguishing a candle light.
Something broke.
Now in Elysium he had known what had become of his beloved upon Patroclus' own demise. How he had thrown himself back in that same craze, consumed by remorse and grief, but that time there was no one to stop him.
And Zagreus was walking that path, steps heavy but determined, unaware of how it all would plague him later. Patroclus could almost see his Achilles' face twisting in a pained expression at the image of his student repeating his own mistakes, as if he had failed the lad deeply. For the love of the gods, Zagreus was even carrying his spear through it all.
He snapped.
There was no plan. There couldn't be one.
There was only a shade, standing to a god.
Only he was no shade now. He was a man, a lover, a friend, and with pain, now a mentor perhaps.
He was love and pride, immovable.
And there was Blood. There was a god.
Only he was no god, but an army. He was not himself, but a blur. He was desperation and anger; determined, as life is. But, oh, underneath… smothered by it all, there was a boy. There was youth and joy, dripping scarlet steadily on the floor. Silenced, but ever burning.
He was sorrow and rage, unstoppable.
"Zagreus…" he tried, again, but the lad did not stop.
Forgive me my dearest, for I fear I must hurt your friend. May your words cut me later for all damage I shall do now.
Patroclus the proud Myrmidon, fallen to the merciless currents of war, stood now spear in hand in the way of a storm. But oh was this one like summer rain, strong and steadfast just at first, a downpour that could drown you and bury you in hail, but would go as quick as it came.
Valiantly and ferociously fought the young god against the forgotten shade, but succumbed under its spear.
And then he was in the grass, heavy and overpowered, pinned down by a shade, waiting for the final blow to shine through the red in his eyes and take it all away once more.
But it never came.
Instead there was sound. Over the war drums of his beating heart, over the screams in his soul, there was his name, carried softly yet firmly by a now familiar voice.
There was light, coming through the crimson veil in his gaze. Bright, warm and beckoning.
There was the smell of grass, warmed under the light of Elysium like a blanket of green that couldn't wither.
"Zagreus…"
He heard.
"Patroclus?..." and answered, small and broken, as the air in his chest felt like fire and his mouth tasted like copper.
And he saw him. The eyes he was so used to seeing void of anything but apathy were now intense, piercing through his as if they could see right into his very soul. Patroclus had wrestled him down and was still holding him back, emerald tunic now stained vermilion. He was an anchor, steadying the turmoil in the God's heart with his presence, ushering him back to the shore, to safety.
And Zagreus realised, he had attached him, with fury and no restraint. He had not seen who was standing in his path, just an obstacle to destroy, and the fire in his veins turned into ice.
He looked into his eyes, soul sinking. There were no pleads for forgiveness he could conjure that felt enough to ask from the man over him. He had wronged him deeply, and his mentor along with him. His breath caught in his throat as he tried for words, too overwhelmed and broken to follow his command. In the dark eyes above him though, there was no fire, no rage, no disappointment, only understanding.
"Welcome back, stranger."
And like that he broke, held by strong arms, bloody and heavy, but secure. The ever warm and still air of Elysium carrying small words from Patroclus that felt ever so distant, yet close all the same, as if carried by the misty waters of the Lethe around them.